Something in her expression softens, but she lifts her chin, fighting it. “That would be perfect, thanks.”

I head to the counter to grab our drinks, and she stays at her table and pulls out her phone, an action surely meant to put me in my place. Sure, she might have to show me around campus, but she’s not going to pretend to be happy about it.

“What can I get you?” the barista asks me. His tone sounds as disgusted as his facial expression looks.

“Two grande Americanos. One black, one with cream.”

The dude rolls his eyes. “They come black. Cream’s behind you.”

“Right. Perfect, then.”

The library seems like an odd place for a coffee stand, but apparently the kiosk is part of the college’s efforts to turn the library into a comfortable “hangout” space students will want to use rather than a dusty grave for research they can find online.

I turn and see a tall, bearded hipster dude smiling at Shay. He’s older—not so old that he’s given up on the gym, I notice, but definitely old enough that someone should tell him to cut off the manbun. He plops his briefcase on a table and steps close to her. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it’s definitely inside her bubble. When he adjusts her scarf, she flashes him a grin that I haven’t seen in way too many years. It’s a grin of adoration and pure feminine satisfaction.

What in the actual fuck is happening here?

Shay says something and then nods. The hipster dude’s eyes go to me, and I hear him ask her something that sounds like “That’s him?” and Shay nods again.

“Sir?” The cranky barista nudges the drinks toward me on the counter. “Your drinks?”

“Thanks.” Giving him a smile he doesn’t deserve, I grab the drinks, add a splash of cream to Shay’s, and head over to meet the guy who seems to think he can look at Shay like . . . like she’s his. “Your coffee,” I say, handing it to her.

She gives a tight smile and takes it. “Thanks. Easton, this is Dr. George Alby. Dr. Alby is a professor in the English department and the chair of my dissertation committee. His collection of essays on Bradbury’s influence on contemporary literature just won the Reichart Prize of Excellence—one of the highest honors in our field.”

“I’m impressed,” I say with a smile that probably says I’m not. But at least I have something to smile about now. Dissertation chair, not boyfriend.

“Dr. Alby, this is Easton. He’s the old family friend I was telling you about.”