their own weight, but seeing as it was week three of classes, he didn’t know his classmates well enough yet anyway.
His team of four sat clustered together in the lecture hall a few minutes before the end of class. All around him, other groups chatted and laughed, exchanging contact details and project suggestions.
Two of Casey’s project mates had their heads bent together, clearly pleased they’d been assigned the same group. The other hadn’t glanced up from Instagram long enough to introduce herself.
Okay then.
Blowing out a breath, he said, “Does anyone have any burning thoughts about which archeologist we should focus our project on?”
Three sets of eyes blinked at him. Hadn’t any of them paid attention to the assignment instructions?
Casey referred to the sheet that had been passed out. “There are about fifty on this list we can choose from.” One for each group, which meant they had to pick someone of interest fast. Already, students were tromping down the lecture hall stairs to tell the TA which archeologist they’d chosen.
Instagram Girl shrugged. “I don’t care. Just pick one.”
“Why don’t we just pick three at random?” said Kelsey, reading over her own sheet. “And see which one hasn’t already been chosen.” She grabbed a highlighter from her bag and highlighted three names from her assignment sheet before showing it to her friend, who merely shrugged.
Casey didn’t do random, thank you very much, but he grabbed Kelsey’s sheet and rose. “Sounds good. I’ll go give our choice to the TA. Don’t leave before we can exchange contact info.”
He did a quick google search on his phone while he waited in line to talk to the TA, eventually eliminating all three of Kelsey’s choices. Pursing his lips, he perused the list more thoroughly until a name jumped out at him near the bottom: Archibald Wainwright, one of the professors involved with the archeology program’s summer field placement and who was also on the selection committee.
A few minutes later, they walked out of the lecture hall together, armed with each other’s phone numbers and email addresses. Casey had been paired with a Kelsey, a Kristen, and a Kendra. Because that wouldn’t be confusing.
“I’m a little concerned about this ‘manually build your own website’ portion of the assignment.” Kelsey frowned at the sheet. “Anybody know anything about creating a website?”
Instagram Girl—Kendra—shrugged again and wandered off.
“I know someone who can help with that,” Casey said. “Leave it to me.”
“Awesome!” She squeezed his forearm. “Kristen and I are about to grab lunch. Want to join us? We can discuss the project some more.”
Casey took a step back, dislodging her hand. “Thanks, but—” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “—I need to check on something first and then I’m meeting some friends. I’ll send an email tonight to schedule our next group date to talk about the project. See you later.”
Taking the stairs to the third floor two at a time, Casey mentally rehearsed his introduction. Professor Wainwright taught junior- and senior-level classes, but surely he’d be willing to chat with a freshman about his career. Casey was guaranteed an A+ on this project if his information came right from the source.
On the third floor, he headed for the archeology hallway, which was nestled within the Department of Anthropology wing. Shiny brass nameplates were affixed to the wall outside every office. Reaching the end of the hallway, Casey finally found it: Professor Wainwright’s office.
Except, when he poked his head in, the professor wasn’t there. Not unless Professor Wainwright was a slim, bespectacled guy in his mid-twenties with just-got-out-of-bed hair that managed to be both trendy and artfully careless.
Casey knocked on the doorjamb.
The guy’s head popped up from where he’d been reading a thick tome at the desk. “Yes?”
“Hi.” Casey gave him his best smile. “I’m looking for Professor Wainwright.”
An assessing eye raked Casey up and down, and although the guy’s bland expression didn’t change, it nevertheless had a distinct air of impatience. “He’s not here.”
“When—”
“His office hours are taped to the door.”
Spinning, Casey saw that, yes, there was a sheet taped to the door listing the professor’s office hours. Too bad Casey was in class during all of them. He snapped a photo of it anyway. “Can I make an appointment with—”
“Come back during office hours.”
Gaze narrowed on the most unhelpful person he’d met in a long time, Casey leaned against the doorjamb. “Who are you?”
“Parker Sloane. His assistant.”
“Okay.” As an assistant, shouldn’t Parker be taking appointments for the professor? “So can I make an appoint—”
“Come back