a drink?” the woman asked, trying to act like she wasn’t ruffled. As she came closer, Ronan caught the name Audrey printed neatly on a white badge. “Maybe a croissant or a bagel?”
“A coffee, black, in whatever is your biggest cup.” He tore his eyes away from the barista to scan the bakery display. “And a blueberry muffin.”
Audrey nodded and rang the items up on an iPad that served as the café’s cash register. Kisspresso Café had been one on a list of recommended local businesses that his new boss had provided him when he’d checked into his visiting accommodation late yesterday. At first he’d almost walked straight past the place. Not because he’d missed it—a feat impossible to anyone who could see, thanks to a hot pink front door that looked like something out of a Wes Anderson movie. Rather, Ronan wasn’t sure his long-haul-travel-weary eyes were ready for the visual assault.
But he’d quickly learned that pink and red were town colors and, therefore, were unavoidable. The college that he would call his workplace and home for the next twelve months had gone with the more universally appealing red for their school logo and for the uniform of their much-revered baseball team, the Flames.
“One coffee and a muffin,” Audrey said. “To go?”
Ronan nodded. He could handle all the brightness for the five minutes it would take to get sustenance, but then he wanted to go back to his apartment and face-plant onto the couch.
Thank you, jet lag.
Audrey gave him the total, and Ronan pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ve been told there’s a discount for college staff?”
Audrey’s eyebrow immediately arched. “Yes.”
Hmm, was it a faux pas to ask? The information had been printed alongside the coffee recommendation in his welcome pack. “Great. I’m a professor there.”
“I haven’t seen you before,” she said. “I’ll need to see your faculty card.”
“Uhh…I’m new, so I don’t get my faculty card until the office opens back up next week.”
Audrey cocked her head. “You know, we’ve been warned about people like you.”
“Sex robots?” The words leaped off his tongue before he could stop them. Someone behind him snorted, and Ronan cringed.
Great. His first day on campus, and someone was probably live-Tweeting this whole silly conversation.
“People posing as professors.” She waggled her finger at him and made a teasing, tutting sound.
“Posing?” Ronan literally studied the very things which made people who they are—the very fiber of their motivations and morals. He would never scam someone. But this wasn’t the first time someone had questioned him because he was younger than average. “I’m a professor at Harrison Beech College. I don’t have my faculty card yet, that’s all.”
“You really thought you could get one past me by trying to look the part?” She shook her head. “The elbow patches were a good attempt, but don’t you think they’re a little cliché?”
Now she was insulting his fashion choices? He blinked. “What’s wrong with elbow patches?”
“It’s like you googled ‘what do professors wear?’ and then bought the first thing you saw.” She bit down on her lip as if stifling a laugh.
Everyone was looking at him now, but luckily Ronan was impervious to embarrassment. Maybe it was years of growing up with his Irish grandmother, who was as blunt as a hammer.
Although he had googled that exact question before his first day as a professor in his late twenties. He’d been more insecure back then, feeling the age gap between him and his colleagues and his lack of life experience like a weight around his neck. These days, he’d learned to hold his own, academically and personally.
And he damn well liked his elbow patches.
“And besides,” Audrey continued, gesturing to him. “You’re so…”
He was certain he wasn’t going to like this answer. “What?”
“Young.”
He was thirty-four, to be exact. Clearly, he shouldn’t have shaved his beard off before leaving the UK. The scruff had made him look older, more mature. But he’d wanted to make a good impression, and he could hardly turn up at his new job looking like he didn’t know how to present himself. Still, maybe it was better to look older and a bit rough around the edges than to have a clean-shaven baby face.
He was going to toss his razor in the trash.
“Maybe I have a good skincare routine,” he joked.
“Look,” she said, holding up her hands. “I’m sure a man like you is used to getting what you want—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He laughed at the absurdity