Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,31

glances up. “Letting Dad pick out your boyfriends?”

“It’s not like that.” I fight to keep from flushing.

“Sure it’s not.” She rolls her eyes.

It’s too bad they don’t get stuck at the back of her head so everybody could see that she’s part demon. But I flee down the hall without arguing. I can take the high road.

Connor’s standing just inside the front door. He’s carrying a red computer bag and a tray of coffees from Java Jim. “I brought iced coffee,” he says. “Black with three sugars for you, Professor. Ivy, this one’s just black—figured you could doctor it however you want. Sorry, I—” He looks at me and I am caught like a butterfly pinned to a board. “I didn’t know what you like.”

My mind floods with extremely inappropriate responses.

“Uh, that’s okay. Iced coffee’s great. I… I’ll go get some sugar,” I say, taking the cup he’s holding out. My fingers brush against his and I blush.

Granddad chuckles. “She’s being polite. Ivy hates coffee.”

I shoot him a murderous look. “Well, I was trying to be polite.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Connor frowns. “What do you like? So I’ll know for next time.”

Next time. Like this is going to be a regular thing, him showing him up at my house with beverages.

For work. This is work, Ivy, not a date. I have to get my head together or I am going to make a fool of myself. I force myself to look at Connor like I am not torn between simultaneous urges to either hide or attack him in a fit of lust.

“Iced tea. Earl Grey, if they have it. One sugar. Thank you.”

Connor shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Employee discount.”

Java Jim’s opens at six a.m., so either Connor cut short a busy Monday morning shift to come over here, or else he swung by special to get us coffee. Either way, he’s trying to impress someone.

The question is, is it me or Granddad?

Granddad leads us into the library, pontificating about Dorothea’s journals and her dedication to writing in them every morning. How they’re a mix of personal information—including some fairly salacious details about her crumbling marriage and her affair with Robert Moudowney—and notes on her works in progress. Occasionally there will be a scribbled rough draft of a poem, with lines that don’t work crossed out and new phrases written in the margins. It’s fascinating to be able to trace her thoughts and inspirations clearly.

Granddad used to buy me a journal every Christmas. I’d fill the first five or ten pages, writing diligently every night before bed, until I’d forget about it one night and quit. Last year at an end-of-semester barbecue, Granddad bragged to someone about my dedicated journaling. How I was just like Dorothea. I waited till the car ride home to set him straight, but from the look on his face, he was disappointed. Again.

“What an incredible resource.” Connor runs his hand gently over the spines, and I remember him tracing my spine with the same careful attention. “May I?” he asks, setting the tray of coffee down on the desk.

“Of course. But no food or drinks anywhere near them.” Granddad gives me a pointed look. “These are very valuable documents.”

He talks about them—about everything of Dorothea’s—like they belong in a museum. “It was the teeny, tiniest splotch of iced tea. You can still read everything!” I protest.

Connor selects a journal from the middle of the shelf and opens it, flipping pages reverently, squinting as he tries to decipher Dorothea’s faded, spidery handwriting. “This is so cool.” He looks up at Granddad. “Thank you. Thank you for trusting me with these.”

“I know they’re in good hands with you,” Granddad says, and he does not add unlike with my careless granddaughter, who once had the audacity to splash a drop of iced tea on these hallowed pages, but he might as well have.

I sigh. “I’ll be really careful this time, okay?”

“You better. I know some graduate students who would kill for this opportunity.”

“Yeah, but you’d have to pay them more,” I joke.

“Brat.” Granddad laughs as he claps Connor on the shoulder. “I’m counting on you to keep an eye on her, Connor.”

“I will, sir.” Connor’s face is inscrutable. Like he didn’t have more than his eyes on me Saturday night.

“All right then. I’ll leave the two of you to figure out how you’ll divide the work. Ivy’s very good at reading Dorothea’s handwriting. It can take some getting used to, but I’m sure you’ll manage.” Granddad