John undid his seatbelt and gathered her into his arms. “Of course, honey.” When her arms wrapped around his torso, he knew he’d diffused the bomb for now. “It does get better.”

She sniffed against his shirt. “Okay.”

When John released her, he swiped his palm down her wet face and tweaked her button nose. “I’ll pick you up this evening and we’re going to talk about school.”

A cloud settled over her face. “Okay,” Becca said cautiously.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Check in with the front desk and do your homework in my office.”

She opened the door and hopped out of the cab. “Fine.”

“Do it, Becca.”

She slammed the door. “Fine!”

John would settle for her attitude, for now, if it meant he could take a break from her. He watched her march into the library before starting the engine. His watch showed he was twenty minutes late. He hoped the rushed email he sent Victoria Reese would give him some leeway, but he wasn’t trying to push it.

After his sister directed him to read his email and do some light research, John had focused up and scoured the internet for any traces of the woman who was connected to Pembroke University and found nothing outside of her published articles and university profile page. Immediately, he saw she was an assistant professor in the English department and specialized in African American literature. John had inferred the rest based on her profile photo. Her sharp cheekbones and pointed chin were almost as sharp as her piercing brown eyes. They stared down the camera with a defiance that intrigued him. Her brown skin shined like bronze against photography lights, her full lips painted oxblood red. Power color. Her photo, alone, told him to proceed with caution, but it also stirred something in him that few women had managed in the past couple years. Sure, she was beautiful, but her expressive eyes spoke volumes. John could have been reaching, but he saw wit, fierceness, and stubbornness...

Back on the streets of Farmingdale, he drove carefully around jay-walking college students as they ambled towards the many eateries near the downtown area, or found a loitering spot on the quad. He envied the kids of Pembroke, many living charmed lives inside a private university bubble, blissfully unaware of the real-world challenges waiting for them. As he searched for Stevenson Hall, Victoria’s building, he checked himself over in his rearview mirror and lamented how casually he’d dressed. When he was a teenager, destined for a life of publicly-funded college, he recalled how unobtainable Pembroke Girls had been. They hailed from wealthy families and went home to the Chicago suburbs during summer break. Pembroke Girls never had time for the corn-fed boys of Downstate Illinois. And certainly not one like John, whose father worked at the Illinois Farm Bureau.