“Good.” He leans back in his chair and it creaks under his weight. “That’s an eclectic group of men. I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable in any way.”
“Aren’t all artists eclectic?” His tone feels a little off, like he’s issuing a warning. But I’m not here to talk about my housemates. I shift the subject. “Since this is our first meeting, can you tell me a little bit about what I should expect in the program?”
That brings a smile to his face. “As you know, this is a special graduate degree. You’ve been chosen to continue working on a specific project that we’ve seen extraordinary promise in—your novel. The first sections you sent in with your application were phenomenal.”
Pride swells in my chest. “Thank you.”
“Maverick’s search for her true meaning is heartbreaking. And her relationship with the ravens? Impossible—yet we know from science and mythology that ravens are a magnificent species. Smart, cunning, clever. You’ve captured all of those elements in your book while bringing us the true humanity in Maverick’s emotional journey.”
His words hit me in the chest. I’ve never had someone understand my writing—my true intent—without me having to over-explain it in the process. Christensen nailed it on the first chapters. “That means so much to me.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Now, don’t think my compliments mean there’s not a lot of work to be done. The University and my office want to do everything we can to make your novel a success. Resources, research assistants, oh and I have arranged a partnership for you.”
“What kind of partnership?”
“With another author. You’ll bounce ideas off one another, read each other’s work. It can be very beneficial.” He hands me a card with a name, number, and email on it.
“Anita Cross. Is she in this program?”
“No, she didn’t qualify but she’s still an outstanding author. I suspect you’ll learn so much from one another.”
I slip the card into my bag. “I’ll get in touch with her soon.”
“Excellent.” He glances at his watch. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have words to get down.”
“Every day!” I laugh. But it’s true, even sitting here right now I’m itching to get back to work. Maverick has been running through my head all day. It’s like she wants to tell me something and I can’t quite figure it out.
*
That evening, after another quiet dinner, I pass Clinton exiting the dining room. I expect him to ignore me but he stops and grabs my arm. In a quiet voice he asks, “Can we talk?”
My heartbeat kicks up a notch and I nod.
I follow him into a quiet corner just off the kitchen. “I apologize if I crossed a line the other night.”
“You?” I laugh. “I’m the one that basically jumped you. If anyone should apologize, it would be me.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Morgan.” He brushes his hair over his ear. “Expressing yourself sexually is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a healthy reaction to stress.”
I’m not ashamed but I do feel the flush of heat come to my cheeks. “Do I seem stressed?”
He looks me over, eyes sweeping over every inch of my body. “Not as much as you did when you walked in my room.”
With that he walks off, leaving me flustered in the corner. I compose myself and walk through the library, picking out a book to read. I then exit through the back French doors leading to the porch. I’ve spent the whole day working or meeting with Professor Christensen, a break is warranted.
The porch is wide and made of stone. Twinkling fairy lights hang from the ceiling and comfortable furniture crowd around a circular pit with a roaring fire lit in the middle. I take a seat and pull out my book, content to read as the sun drops behind the nearby buildings, casting the whole yard in a fiery glow.
It’s peaceful back here. I’d almost think I was back in suburbia, and my only interruption is Davis coming out and asking if I’d like a drink.
“Some of the wine we had for dinner,” I suggest. Everyone at the table had at least one glass.
“Right away.”
The creak of the door alerts me to his return but when I look up I spot Sam holding two glasses. “Can I join you? Seems like a nice night.”
“Of course,” I reply, scooting over on the cushiony couch. I’ve got my bare feet perched on the fire pit, enjoying the heat on my soles. “Shouldn’t you be out photographing that sunset?”
“There’s more than enough natural beauty right here.” He grabs his phone and takes a quick snap. Before I can react he takes a series of just me.