Extra Credit: Three Ivy Years Novellas by Sarina Bowen

Author:Sarina Bowen [Bowen, Sarina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781942444770
Amazon: B07PKK7MLR
Publisher: Tuxbury Publishing LLC
Published: 2019-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

November

I’m racing across campus in the rain, almost late for my six-thirty dinner date. Okay, it’s not a dinner date. I’ll be on the clock for the Student Help Center.

But I really don’t want to be late to meet Pepe.

Naturally, I failed to bring an umbrella when I left my dorm room this afternoon, and I’m regretting the oversight. I’m sporting a style we’ll call the Wet Dog as I dash through the gates to Turner House. “Thank you,” I call to the student who’s let me in. Then I get another dousing of rain as I cross the courtyard toward the dining hall entrance.

Once inside, the race is over. But my hair is dripping on the old oak floorboards. I should try to find the ladies’ room and blot the rain water from my hair…

“Oh, noh!” Pepe’s deep voice exclaims behind me. I turn around, and he grabs my bag off my shoulder, giving it a little shake. “Take off your coat, chaton. You’re soaked.”

Face burning, I do as I’m told. He ducks into a shadowy alcove and I see him hang my dripping jacket on a hook.

“Bon,” he says when he returns. “Shall we?” He’s still carrying my bag as well as his. They both look small on his big frame. Also notable—my bag is pink with black polka dots. It’s totally girly. And Pepe carries it without objection.

He is the perfect man. And he belongs to someone else. I’ve been a little depressed since reading his “When I Get Home” essay. She was right there in the first line. Marie. His girlfriend goes to school near their hometown in Canada. Pepe misses her.

He was quite eloquent at describing how much. It was his best writing yet. I hated every word.

Coincidentally, I didn’t force myself to go to that off-campus party he invited us to. Why risk humiliation to impress a guy who’s already taken?

I follow him through the common room, towards the hubbub of dinner hour. We still have our tutoring sessions, at least. And the crazy thing is that I’m better at it now. Since I know I don’t have a chance with Pepe, my tongue doesn’t get so tied anymore. I can string sentences together reliably. It’s much better.

But it’s also worse.

The dining hall is busy, as always. But I love this room. Turner House is built in the Georgian style, with intricate white plasterwork and chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. The tables are long, gleaming oak with tall, carved chairs pulled up to them. We join a short line of students waiting to enter the serving kitchen and I grab a tray off the stand, taking a moment to flick locks of wet hair off my shoulders.

“Thank you for meeting me here, chaton.” Pepe smiles at me. And the way he cups my elbow for a quick squeeze makes me feel a little light-headed.

It still takes me a few minutes to settle down in his presence. I’ve still got it bad. “No big deal,” I stammer.

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