job was the beginning. I also needed grant money, and Elliott had already given me the go-ahead to work on grant applications. Unlike Ms. Angry Hot Librarian, Elliott believed in my work.
I sat at my desk and ran a hand through my hair. I didn’t want to think about Hazel, but since Friday, she’d been a constant distraction, tickling the edge of my consciousness. Now that I was here, it was hard to think about anything else.
Her office was next door, but I hadn’t seen her yet. Maybe that was the problem. I was subconsciously anticipating a confrontation. She didn’t want me here; fine. But Elliott did, and he was the boss. We’d learn to live with each other eventually.
Maybe.
Had she stayed home today to avoid me? Was she in Elliott’s office right now making a case for getting rid of me? I heard footsteps in the hallway outside my office and looked up, expecting to see her. Did she always dress like a hot librarian?
Why did I keep thinking of her as hot?
A pair of students with backpacks slung over their shoulders walked by. Not Hazel.
Good.
Was it good?
I moved the now-empty box off my desk. Maybe I needed to get our first official meeting as co-workers over with. She could purse those lips and glare at me. Put her hands on her hips.
Those hips.
Sexy hips.
Again with the wandering mind. Sexy? No. Not Hazel Kiegen.
Then she did walk by.
Her stride slowed just enough for her to cast me a quick glance. Our eyes met. Hers narrowed and the flickering coal in my gut flared hot. And then she was gone, out of my line of sight.
Sexy? Yeah, she was. Damn it.
But sexy or not, Hazel and I weren’t going to get along. She didn’t like me, and the feeling was mutual. I’d just have to keep my distance. Ignore the fact that she was on the other side of the wall.
I grabbed my lunch and took it down the hall to the staff lounge so I could store it in the fridge until later. There were several cafeterias and restaurants on and around campus, but I hadn’t been sure what to expect on my first day, so I’d brought a sandwich.
A professor I hadn’t met yet sat at one of the round tables with a cup of coffee and an open book in front of her. She glanced up and gave me a friendly nod when I came in. The rest of the tables were empty, as were the cluster of armchairs near one of the windows. There was a half-full coffee pot on the counter and a few mugs sitting in a dish drainer by the sink.
I went to the fridge and found a spot for my brown lunch bag. Another, similar brown bag caught my eye. It was on the top shelf next to a large bottle of coffee creamer. But it wasn’t the fact that someone else had brown-bagged it today that made me pause with the refrigerator door hanging open. It was the name on the bag.
Hazel.
There was that flare again, a spark that made my blood run hot in my veins. Narrowing my eyes, I stared at the lunch bag, as if it were the source of my frustration.
I was struck by the way she’d written her name. If I’d taken the time to think about what sort of handwriting Hazel would have, I’d have assumed neat and tidy. Writing that was as precise and careful as her appearance. But these letters looked hastily scrawled, like she’d whipped her pen across the crinkling brown paper in a rush.
Why was I analyzing the handwriting on her lunch bag?
I was just about to close the refrigerator door when an impulse took hold. I grabbed Hazel’s lunch, took it out of the fridge, and deposited it in the freezer.
Without looking at the professor with her coffee, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and wandered back to my office. Nothing to see here. I hadn’t done anything. Nope, nothing at all.
I hesitated for a moment outside my door. Hers was mostly closed, a gap of six or seven inches between the door and the frame. A nameplate on the wall next to the door read Dr. Hazel Kiegen.
Was putting her lunch in the freezer childish and petty? Yeah. It really was. There was a logical guy somewhere inside of me who knew I was being dumb. Who tried to tell me I should really go back and take