Page 109 of Ashes and Lilies
“Thanks,” I muttered, reaching for my beverage as my cheeksheated. I hoped it hadn’t been anything important—like they’d switched my coffee to decaf. However, as the man turned away, returning to work, Damen grabbed my drink.
“I’ll get it,” he told me as he frowned at the cup.
I pulled my hand back. “Okay.”
Was he craving a latte instead of his multi-espresso calamity? Or perhaps there was a fae poisoning epidemic of which I remained unaware.
He placed our cups in a cardboard carrying tray and I followed as we left the library and moved across campus until we arrived at Dr. Stephens’s office.
I paused as Damen pushed his way inside without knocking and hesitated until I saw that the room was otherwise empty.
“Come in and close the door,” Damen told me and set the carrier on the desk. He handed me my drink with a sour expression, and I looked at the cup to see what’d gotten his attention.
My tension faded as I noted the printed name and number that was written in red ink over the stamped recycled paper. Oh.
I turned the cup around and sipped my coffee. Sometimes it was best to move along.
“You’re not going to do something about that?” Damen asked, glaring at my hand.
“Why?” I blinked at him. “Did he say anything important when he gave it to me?”
“No,” he said, smirking. “Does this happen often?”
I paused, lowering my cup, and looked at it once more. “You mean, do people give me their phone numbers?” I asked, and when he inclined his head, I shrugged.
“Sure,” I answered. “But I’m not interested. Besides, it wouldn’t have been right to contact them on a phone I don’t own.”
“I see.” Damen’s joviality slipped, and he sank into Dr.Stephen’s chair while I took one of the seats on the other side of the desk. “But now you own a phone.”
Did I, though?
“This isn’t my phone,” I reminded him. “It belongs to Titus.”
Damen’s displeasure turned into a full-blown scowl. “He gave it to you,” he began, but I cut him off.
“That’s…” I held the cup close to my chin, breathing in the chocolaty spice, and studied the wall of bookshelves across the room. “That’s something else I might need help with,” I admitted with great shame.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, and there was a tense attentiveness to his question.
“I’ve been in your debt,” I told him. “I need to know how much I owe. I promise to find a way to make money so I can repay you.”
“You don’t have to pay me back.” Damen wrinkled his nose, looking as though I’d said the stupidest thing in the world.
“It’s okay,” I told him, lowering my drink and squaring my shoulders. “I’ve begun to make a plan.”
Damen’s eyes narrowed as he asked, “What plan?”
“I’ve been thinking it over,” I said. “And once this case is solved, I will search for different ways that undocumented girls can earn money.”
I had no preconceived expectations for his response, but him touching his forehead to the desk was certainly unexpected.
“Why?” he asked, turning his head and looking at me, and his voice was rife with pain. “Whywould you phrase it like that?”
How could he be so uncreative?
“I am a girl,” I said, watching for further signs of erratic behavior. “I have no documentation. And I need money.”
He didn’t appear to be reassured. “Don’t search for that, it’s dangerous.”
