Page 3 of Under Pressure

But what if—

No what-ifs. I won’t head down that path. I just need to focus on the positive. I got an interview. Dr. Price thinks my study is worth looking into. And if I keep preparing, I’ll get the internship for sure.

* * *

I walk into the Stress Lab Tuesday afternoon, as prepared as I’ll ever be. Kelsey somehow managed to manipulate my hair into a French twist and my borrowed blazer and dress pants from her lend me added confidence that I desperately need. Thankfully, the soothing blues and grays of the waiting area immediately calm me. That is, until I see him.

Jenkins.

Or rather, Tyler Jenkins.

We had Research Methods together last year and I’m not ashamed to say I had a crush on him. Or rather, the back of his head. Because that’s the only thing I saw of him every week from my seat a few rows behind. That and his broad shoulders.

But it was his voice that really got me… oh God, his voice. Deep and rich, with the most intelligent answers. How anyone could make words likequalitativeandepistemologysound sexy is beyond me, but he somehow managed it. I could listen to him all day long. Kind of like how I started listening to audiobooks narrated by Richard Armitage just for his voice, not even caring what the book was actually about.

I’d managed to get a full glimpse of Tyler as he’d exited the class a few times and I knew he had a body to match those shoulders. He obviously worked out and took care of himself. It had been a pleasant surprise to find the exterior of him as attractive as his voice and answers in class. Better than his body, though, were the most arresting blue eyes, startling in their intensity paired with his tanned face and dark hair. Those eyes meet mine now as the door to the Stress Lab slams behind me. Actually, everyone focuses on me and I immediately scurry over to the front desk to check in.

Oh God, they’re all looking. They’re annoyed you broke the quiet of the room. They all hate you now. They’ll tell Dr. Price you caused a disturbance—

“Are you here for an interview?” the receptionist asks warmly, her friendly smile banishing the thoughts from my head.

I clear my throat, attempting a confident tone. “Yes, at three. I know I’m early.”

She reviews something on her computer screen and glances back up at me. “You must be Mia. If you’d like to have a seat, Dr. Price just has two other interviewees scheduled before you.”

I nod in appreciation and contemplate the row of chairs. There are only five of them, with Tyler sitting near one end and a girl with dark hair I recognize from Social Psych last semester at the other end. Normally, I’d gravitate toward the girl, but seeing Tyler again has me pausing.

I thought a million times about approaching him after class, spent most of the spring semester of my sophomore year imagining what it would be like to actually talk to him, to get up close and personal with that muscled body, to hear his baritone voice whispering my name in my ear…

“Miss, if you could please have a seat,” the receptionist repeats, gesturing to the area behind her.

“Oh, right.” Oh God, how long have I been standing here?

I hightail it over to the chairs, sitting in the first open one, which happens to be right next to… Tyler.

“Hi,” I chuckle nervously. Not sure why I’m chuckling, but it’s already happening, so I have to go along with it now.

He glances over, giving the barest nod before he faces forward again.

Okay, then.

“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Clemons. I mean Mia. Mia Clemons.” I chuckle again, hating how breathy it sounds. “We had Dr. Hanover’s Research Methods class together last year. And he always called us by our last names. You’re Jenkins.” I close my eyes briefly, heat creeping over my cheeks. “Obviously you know that. It’s your last name—”

“I remember your name,” he interrupts.

That has to be a good thing, right? I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “I, um, I was always really impressed with your answers in class. He usually called on you first.”

“And you second.”

I can’t tell from his tone if he means it as a compliment or insult, but I forge on anyway, needing some kind of distraction from the anxious thoughts brewing just below the surface. “What’s your proposal for Dr. Price?”

He finally looks fully at me, shifting his body so he’s angled my way, and rakes me up and down with those magnetic eyes. “I’m not telling the competition my ideas.”

I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of his statement, then sit up straighter, realizing he’s serious. “You think I’ll steal your experiment?”

Before he has a chance to answer, Dr. Price’s door opens and a tall boy exits.

“Sarah, you’re free to go in now,” the receptionist calls out, and the girl at the other end of the row picks up her bag and heads into the open door, closing it gently behind her.

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