Page 1 of The Rest is History
CHAPTER 1
Elodie
The guy sitting across the table is confusing the hell out of me.
Historians have a reputation for being… well, crusty.
Harsh, but fair.
The History Department at uni was easily identifiable by the professors who populated its poky offices.
Tweed jackets that had seen better days.
Synthetic trousers that, one suspected, boasted elasticated waistbands.
Too-short trouser legs exposing aggressively patterned socks in muddy colours.
Even the occasional hairstyle inspired by Richard III. (No. I’m not exaggerating.)
Which is why I’ve always made an effort to look bright. Modern. Fashionable.
Un-crusty, if you like.
And which makes this guy a bit of a conundrum.
Because even though he’s wearing a somewhat rumpled linen jacket over a linen shirt, the overall ensemble is more off-duty hedge fund manager than festering academic. Nor does the chunk of metal on his left wrist screamunderpaid teacher.
Nor does his tanned, healthy glow, for that matter.
Although, to give him credit, he does emanate intenseplease fuck off and leave me to my tea and PhD researchvibes. So far, so on-trend for a Head of History.
None of the above is what’s freaking me out the most. Making me shift continuously in my chair, clear my throat unnecessarily and abandon my verbal syntax abilities.
No, sir.
The most uncomfortable part of this little interaction is the way his expression is jumping between outright hostility—like I’m wasting his time interviewing for a job I’m excellently qualified to do—andsomething.
Recognition, maybe?
Fascination?
Not the positive type of fascination. More like I’m a small creature he’s examining under his microscope and is flummoxed by. Can’t quite place.
Like I’m making him rethink his assumptions.
Like there’s anahamoment loitering at the edge of his consciousness, and if he focuses hard enough, it’ll come to him in a flash of inspiration.
Likehe’s met me before, but in a previous life.
Whatever it is, it’s creeping me out a bit.
Or, at least, his manner would creep me out if he was less attractive.
If I’m honest, it’s not so much creepy as… unsettling. I suspect it’s his pissed-off intensity that’s causing the aforementioned dry throat and shifting and underwhelming sentence structure. I re-cross my legs—a move that causes his eyes to dart to my modestly fabric-covered knees in disbelief, like I’ve committed an unforgivable social faux-pas or gone full Sharon Stone inBasic Instinct—and take a careful sip of my water.
Because I wouldn’t be surprised if Intense Hedge Fund Guy’s laser eyes had the power to upend my plastic cup and tip the contents over my lap.
His eyes flick back to the CV in his hand and he shakes the piece of paper out impatiently. He has nice hands (an observation that irritates me). They’re tanned, with a smattering of hair that’s a deep enough shade of gold to suggest that the sun has lightened it from a naturally darker shade. Long, lean fingers.
