Page 3 of Royal Surrogate 1
“I left you a message to be here at eleven,” he snarls back. “Some idiot pre-law students completely wrecked the reference section. Everything is a mess.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get everything organized again. Did Professor Kingsbury come by and pick up those research materials I gathered for her?”
“How am I supposed to know? Just get in here and do your job!”
“Will you double-check with Rory at the desk? Professor Kingsbury said it was time sensitive. I think she had a meeting with that researcher from Berlin?—”
I’m cut off by Donald hanging up.
Cursing at him under my breath, I drop a twenty on the table to cover my lunch and tip and gather up my tote bag full of textbooks and reference materials. Donald has always mocked me for the reading and research I do—he likes to say our job is to “organize books, not read them,” as if reading is a dirty word—but I know I’m better at my job the more familiar I am with the information we keep. That way if a student comes in with a specific question about botany, or World War II, or the limbic system, I can point them to exactly the books they need. And in the meantime, I consider the chance to learn a fun perk of the position.
At least until Donald comes along and makes me want to stab my eyes out.
Fucking pencil-dick, I think as I rise from my booth. His bullshit is the last thing I needed today. Why can’t I catch a break? Why can’t the universe do one thing in my favor, give me one good thing without tainting it with some asshole boss or a million-dollar price tag? Just one good thing to?—
I slam into someone—hard—as I turn to leave my table. My tote bag falls off my arm, the textbooks flying everywhere.
“Of course,” I grumble under my breath, dropping to my knees to gather my things. To the other person, I say, “I’m sorry. I’m just having the shittiest day…”
To my surprise, my victim crouches down across from me.
It’s a man—and a strikingly handsome one at that. His red-gold hair shines in the sunlight streaming in through the huge windows, and his blue eyes are startlingly sharp and arresting. And that jaw—I swear, I could cut diamonds on that jaw.
For a moment, I forget everything but him.
“I’m the one who should apologize,” he says, his words shaped with an accent I can’t place. “I ran into you.” He grabs a couple of my books and hands them back to me. “And I’m not having the best day myself. But from what I overheard, it sounds like yours might be worse.”
“You were eavesdropping on me?”
“Not on purpose. But you were speaking loud enough for me to hear.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and under different circumstances, on a different day, I would have called him charming.
“Well, thank you,” I say as I take the last of my books from him. “But I need to be going. I’m late.”
I rise, but unfortunately, he starts to rise at the same time. I wobble, trying to avoid bumping into him, but that only sends me careening backwards.
Before I can hit the floor again, though, the man grabs me and pulls me toward him. I collide with his chest, knocking him back to the floor, and somehow, as I’m flailing, my head comes up and my lips accidentally meet his.
I freeze.
For an instant, everything is hot and cold at once, and I’m too stunned to do anything but lie there, half-sprawled on top of him, our mouths pressed together. His lips taste curiously sweet and fresh for someone who was probably just gorging on fried food.
And then I come to my senses.
Scrambling, I push myself from him and practically leap to my feet.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That was a complete and total accident.”
“I’m not complaining,” he says with a charming smile, rising with much more grace than I did. “If that was an accident, then it was a very pleasant one.”
“It was an accident,” I insist, glancing around to make sure no one else saw. Most of the nearby customers are too busy with their meals and phones to even look up, but I spot Joyce watching us from the other end of the booths, her eyes wide.
“I’m sorry for running into you,” I tell him, my cheeks blazing. “Now I really need to be going.”
But he’s standing in my way, and he shows no intention of moving. In fact, his gaze is locked on my face.
“Is that your natural eye color?” he asks.
“What?”