Page 29 of False Assumptions

His blue eyes heated as they dragged over her. “No. Torture is the last thing I want to do to you.”

Her mouth opened, but she had no response to that. He gave her that sexy smirk again. They pulled into the parking lot of The Cellar, a local restaurant known for its wine list, good food, and live music on the weekends. As they walked through the parking lot, he moved close to her, his hand running down her arm until his fingers tangled with hers. She looked at him in surprise, but he only smiled, his face the picture of happiness. He held the door open for her, ushering her in with a hand on the small of her back, and those little touches did more to endear him to her than all the flirty banter or hot kisses ever could.

Layla was surprised to discover that Evan had made them reservations, so they were seated right away, the sound of a blues combo drifting over them as they reached their table. They perused the menus and discussed what they wanted to order. Once the waitress had taken their order—a chicken Caesar salad for Layla and steak for Evan—Evan sat back in his chair, taking a sip of his glass of water and studying her.

She squirmed under his scrutiny, pushing her hair behind her ears. It was unnecessary, since she’d put her hair in a little half-updo with soft curls falling around her shoulders. But it was a nervous habit. “What?”

Running his thumb across his lower lip again, he shook his head slowly. “Nothing. I’m just—“ He waved away whatever he’d been about to say. “How are your other classes going?”

She blinked at the random topic change. “Um, good. I have a paper due next week, plus our presentation in World Lit. Some poems due in my poetry workshop. And I have to come up with something to submit to the Falconry Review. Since Dr. Moore is in charge of the school’s literary magazine, submitting to it is part of our grade.”

“You still haven’t let me read any of your poetry.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but a smile pulled on her lips. “Ha. Nice try. Somehow I don’t remember saying I would.”

“No, you didn’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though. Can I sometime?”

“Um, maybe?”

His jaw set and he tilted his head like he might argue more, but instead he said, “Fine. I’ll take it. For now. But don’t think I’m going to just let this go.” He paused, still running his thumb along his lower lip. “What are you going to do with an English degree with a Creative Writing focus?”

She couldn’t help rolling her eyes at him. “Write. I should think that would be obvious.”

He rolled his eyes back, finally dropping his hand away from his mouth. “Ha ha. I mean what are you going to do for money. You’ve already mentioned that you’ll graduate in May, so you’re obviously not going to be a teacher.”

“Wait. Why is that obvious? Are you saying I’d make a bad teacher?” She sat back in a pretend huff, one hand pressed over her heart. “I’m hurt, Evan. You wound me.”

Chuckling, he shook his head at her antics. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. In order to graduate in May with a teaching certificate, you’d have to be student teaching this semester. You’re not, therefore …” He rolled his hand to indicate the obvious conclusion from that statement. “So, do you already have a mega book deal lined up?” He gave a cheeky grin, all white teeth. “Or maybe you’ll recite slam poetry downtown with a bucket for tips.” His hand went back to his mouth, but this time he tapped his lips with his fingers, his eyes narrowed as if in deep thought. “Maybe live in a van down by the river?”

She snorted at the old school SNL reference. “Chris Farley fan?”

He shrugged. “Who isn’t? No, but seriously. I’m curious.”

Taking a drink of water, she gave him a sidelong look. “Not that those ideas aren’t without merit, I figured I’d just get a job and write on the side until I can make a living with it. Maybe in a few years I’ll get a master’s degree.” She shrugged. “We’ll have to see.”

“Wow.”

“What?” That wow didn’t sound entirely complimentary.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I guess I figured you had more of a plan than that. Most of the people I know do. But you’re okay with getting whatever boring job to pay the bills so you can do what you really want in your free time?”

“Sure. I mean, it’d be great if I could make enough money to live from my writing straight out of school, but that’s not the way it works. Especially as a poet.”

“What would you get your master’s in? MFA in Creative Writing?”

“Maybe. Or Library Science.”

His eyes widened. “Library Science?”

The waitress came then and set their food down. Layla waited for her to leave, continuing as she picked up her fork. “Yeah. I work in the library at school part time and like it pretty well. It’d be a nice gig—I’d be around books all day, and it wouldn’t be the kind of job that takes over your whole life, you know? I’d still have all my non-work time for having a life and writing. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

He nodded, chewing and swallowing before responding. “Why not do that next year?”

She dropped her eyes to her plate, carefully spearing chicken and lettuce with her fork. “Money. I’d need to save up for a few years, pay off some of my student loan debt before taking on more.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

Glancing up at him, Layla thought it looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he took another bite.

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