Page 15 of How Freaking Romantic

I refresh my inbox for the ninth time in five minutes. It still says the same thing.

No new messages.

I am screwed.

My head falls into my folded arms. I’m vaguely aware that a few curls may have fallen in my mug and are now steeping in five-hour-old coffee, but I don’t care enough to move. All I really want is to crawl under this desk and sleep for a thousand years.

Then my phone starts ringing. It’s still on silent from class earlier, but I can hear it vibrating somewhere inside my bag.

I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but then I remember that I sent Travis about two dozen text messages asking for an update on whether he’s talked to Josh about the pill or not, and I still haven’t heard back from him.

If he was finally calling me back, I couldn’t ignore it.

But it isn’t Travis’s name on the screen when I pull out my phone. It’s Jillian’s.

“Hi,” I groan, my voice muffled by the sleeves of my sweater.

“Everything okay?” Her voice is already laced with concern.

“Yup. I’m just going to be unemployed for the rest of my life, then die alone, only to be found two weeks later.”

A sympathetic sigh. “I don’t think that’s true.”

I turn my head in my arms so I can see my empty inbox with one eye. “You’re right. I’m sure the Fordham bookstore will hire me back. I was one of their star employees freshman year.”

She laughs.

“Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?” I ask. “We can grab something near my apartment so you can pick up your dishes.”

“That’s actually why I’m calling,” she says, her voice already apologetic.

“Don’t kill me, but I have to cancel. I have another interview for that VP of marketing job in Boston.

The interview is virtual, but if it goes well, they said they want me to come up in the next couple of weeks and meet the team. ”

My heart drops. “To Massachusetts?”

She sighs. “It’s not that far. I would still see you all the time.”

“I barely see you now.”

“Well, once you get a job at some fancy law firm, you won’t have time to see me anyway, so it’s fine.”

I force a dry laugh as I turn my face into my sleeve again to avoid looking at the empty inbox.

“I am really sorry,” she continues. “But I promise we can reschedule soon. I still have to pick up that box of dishes, right?”

It suddenly occurs to me to ask Jillian about the pill.

I haven’t brought it up with her and right now seems like the moment.

But then what? Travis could be right and it’s an ibuprofen or anxiety medication.

And even if it’s Josh’s, there’s no reason to think Jillian has any answers.

They haven’t lived together in months. Telling her will only add to her list of things to worry about. A list that is already too long.

“Right,” I simply mumble, pushing the thought from my mind.

“Okay, enough about me. Tell me about the job search.”

“I’m going to work at the Fordham bookstore. We just went over this.”

She laughs. “Why don’t you ask that new professor for a recommendation?”

My head shoots up so fast that the curl that had been in my mug flies out, sprinkling coffee across my desk. “How do you know about that?”

“Maggie mentioned that Frank is on medical leave so you’re working with some new guy who is kind of an asshole, but not in a bad way. Whatever that means.”

“Jesus,” I murmur to myself. Of course Maggie told her. Maggie was probably dying to spill the beans and said just enough to alleviate the urge while still keeping the secret. She’s as careful as she is diabolical.

“Is it that bad?”

Jillian’s voice is so kind and so patient that for a split second I consider telling her that Nathan is the new professor. But that would require telling her everything else that happened before today, so I pull the words back and just say, “Yes.”

“Is he at least cute?”

I scowl even as my heart kicks in my chest. “Why would that matter?”

“Because working with someone gorgeous could be fun.”

“Well, he’s an asshole, so…” I don’t know what else to say so I scoff, I snort, I make a whole plethora of sounds that I hope equate with jest.

“Well, don’t do anything that puts your job at risk, okay? You worked so hard to get into law school, and—”

“Give me some credit, Jills,” I say, cutting her off. “Believe it or not, I am capable of being professional.”

“Bullshit!”

My voice rings through Frank’s office, and a woman walking by sends a critical glare at me from the hallway.

Nathan doesn’t move from his seat; he just stares at me from under the hard line of his brow. “Why is that bullshit?”

“Because intentional infliction of emotional distress requires intent , Nathan.”

“Exactly.”

I groan as I put an elbow on the side of Frank’s desk, avoiding our empty coffee mugs and crumb-covered napkins from the muffins we finished ages ago.

Like every Tuesday over the past few weeks, I had come up to Frank’s office with the best intentions—papers graded, case law examples ready.

Nathan and I had started our meeting on the right foot.

But last week the case had been Southland Corp.

v. Keating, which involved a group of 7-Eleven franchisees suing the parent company for breach of contract, which meant Nathan and I spent almost the entire time debating the superior flavor of Slurpee (blue raspberry, obviously).

The week before, when we had to detail how Mitsubishi Motors Corp.

v. Soler Chrysler-Plymouth, Inc. shaped arbitration in antitrust claims, we ended up arguing about whether you actually needed to own a car in the city (you don’t).

And today, we should be preparing for a class about DeMarco v.

Petrou and residential property disclosure agreements.

Instead, I made the mistake of suggesting that the episode of The Real Housewives of New York City where the women almost died while on vacation after their chartered yacht encountered rough seas is a good example of negligence since it’s clear the charter company knew about the possible weather conditions prior to the trip but never disclosed the information.

That’s when Nathan asked if I was using the scripted events from a TV show as case law, and now I don’t even know what’s real anymore.

“It’s a reality show.”

“And?” He leans back in his chair. I ignore how the small motion unsettles the air, how his smell—leather and cedar and soap—seems to surround me.

“Reality means it is unscripted.”

“I think you’re severely discounting the role of a television producer.”

“I’m not saying that certain elements aren’t choreographed,” I say, trying to regain my composure.

Meanwhile, the man across from me sits with his hands clasped like we’re negotiating a multimillion-dollar lawsuit out of court.

“But this was a yacht carrying the show’s entire cast. Do you think a TV producer would purposely risk their lives like that? ”

He shrugs one shoulder.

My eyes widen. This is tantamount to heresy. “These are real people experiencing real events, Nathan. The countess almost died.”

A frown as he looks at me like he’s just noticed I have two heads. “There’s a countess?”

My mouth falls open. “How could you forget the countess? She moved to New York from Connecticut and married into royalty.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he knows what’s coming. Nathan Asher is joy-edging again. “I’ve never seen the show.”

My mouth falls open, but before I can reply with a scathing retort, laughter bubbles up from my chest and bursts out.

It’s so loud and uninhibited that I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m not.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back and laugh.

Arguing with Nathan Asher is the most fun I’ve had in ages.

It’s interrupted when my phone starts vibrating somewhere inside my bag. I don’t need to pull it out to see that it’s the alarm alerting us to the fact that class starts in five minutes.

“That’s our cue,” Nathan says, nodding toward the door.

The sun is shining in the courtyard as we exit the building and start walking down to Furman Hall, but it’s still cold enough that our breath floats in front of us in swirling clouds as we exhale.

I pull my coat tighter around my body, trying to ignore the man looming at my side, but it’s impossible.

Especially when every student we pass seems to notice him, too.

“Any word from Frank?” he asks as we get to the corner.

I nod. “He called yesterday and said they’re keeping him for another few days for observation.”

Frank’s surgery was two weeks ago, and while it went well, an infection developed shortly afterward that required him to return to the hospital until it cleared up.

I had gleaned most of this information from sporadic texts and quick phone calls from him that centered around the current state of medicine in this country and his hospital’s propensity for orange Jell-O.

“How’s he doing?”

“He said if he didn’t get a cannoli from Veniero’s soon, he was going to set the place on fire.”

Nathan smiles and I can tell immediately that this is a rare genuine one. The dimple in his cheek is there. It gives him a boyish look, clear of the harshness that usually tightens his features. “Have you been to see him yet?”

I blink away from his face, pretending the crosswalk needs my attention.

“Not yet. I mean, I will. I just… I hate hospitals so…” I let the words fade and then I shrug.

“But you’re doing healthcare law.”

“And?”

I can feel him turn to raise an eyebrow at me. “And you hate hospitals?”

I lift my chin as we enter Furman Hall. The lobby is crowded with students, and I have to raise my voice so Nathan will hear me over the din of conversation. “Last time I checked, you don’t have to go into a hospital to sue a pharmaceutical company for helping fuel the opioid crisis.”

I stop at the elevators and press the call button before I look up to meet his waiting gaze. There’s a line between his brows as he studies my face, like he caught a glimpse of something real there and is seeking out the rest of it.

A pair of elevator doors open and I quickly enter before he can find it.