Page 864 of One More Kiss

They pulled up to the curb next to the building, theirs only one of three cars parked out front. Lu guessed the staff working the party parked at the service entrance at the rear of the building. The second car belonged to Dean Clark and his wife Julia. As for the third car, it was a flashy silver two-seater convertible Lu had never spotted on campus. Lu guessed to whom it belonged.

New car. New professor. A convertible more suited to always-sunny California than often-snowy Western North Carolina.

They entered the hall, where wood floors gleamed with a high polish, the sweet scent of carnauba wax mingling with the savory smells of cooking foods. A faint buzz swirled in the air from the electric lights, and glasses clinked at the two bars set at either end of the expansive room.

More faculty and staff arrived, and Lu shrank back, watching, waiting, until Dean Clark pulled her from the shadows. “Lucinda, you are looking lovely this evening.”

“Thank you, sir. Excuse me…”

“No, please stay. He’s around here somewhere.”

Lu didn’t need to ask to whom Dean Clark was referring with the cryptic “he.”

“He,” of course, was Max Fischer, and the faculty gathered at the hall seemed as eager to meet the Hollywood insider as Dean Clark was in showing him off. How many other colleges in the whole of the southeast boasted of having an Academy Award nominee on staff?

His credentials did not impress Lu. Her own length of education rivaled his, though she did not have the Ivy League-endorsed degree in literature from Columbia University he boasted, but from what she had discerned, he’d taught one college course, in screenwriting. Hardly qualified to be a professor in English literature. Lu was not afraid to tell everyone her thoughts on Asheville’s latest hire.

“But has he made any friends here? He seems to be a stranger, and not well-liked.”

Dean Clark scoffed, waving off her impertinence. “I like him fine. Is he out of his element here? Yes, no more than we would be in Los Angeles, dear Lucinda. And he has indeed made friends. His own teaching assistant Clyde has spoken so glowingly of Max.”

“Clyde Taylor? Oh but he is a nice boy. He is sure to be dragged down by the Hollywood heathen.”

Betty, Lu’s teaching assistant for the upcoming semester, giggled. “Clyde is wonderful, and smart, and can certainly hold his own with anyone.”

Lu smiled sweetly at Betty, sorry for the girl’s misplaced affections. Clyde had no love, beyond friendship, for Betty—or anyone in heels and a skirt, for that matter. It was a secret Lu discovered one late night at the theater last spring, when the young man and his paramour had believed they were alone. Lu had walked away before revealing herself, and she had never revealed Clyde’s secret, for it surely would get him expelled from the school.

“No doubt you are correct, Betty. Clyde will be fine, as long as he does not fall under Mr. Fischer’s glamorous spell. And here he is, about to cast it over all of you now.”

Lu stood back as Dean Clark fawned over Max, and the other staff—especially women—who’d not yet met him did the same. The shameless smiles and the way they touched him—though he did not reciprocate beyond polite handshakes—made her hate him even more.

As the party of fools broke up, Max continued to answer questions until the last instructor followed Dean Clark from the lobby to the main hall.

“Why are you still talking? There is no one here to listen to you prattle on any longer.”

“Oh, like Beatrice, Lu, my very own lady disdain. You are listening well enough to hear me speak, and you are indeed the only audience I need.”

She flushed, angry at his insinuation she held any interest in his words.

“One cannot help, being in earshot, but to hear your senseless prattling.”

“If my words, nay, my voice, is even too much to bear for you, then perhaps we shall move inside?”

“Indeed. Anything to take me far from your presence. Good evening, sir. Enjoy the party. I’m sure I shan’t be seeing you again but from a distance today.”

Lu’s stomach grumbled, and a broad grin spread over Max’s face. “Are you hungry? I found the kitchen when I got here earlier. I was so famished, I helped myself to a few bites. Was that rude of me? I should have waited till others arrived. But you’re here now, as are others, so it will not be so rude.”

Lu plastered a smile on her face, determined to get through the night in as a pleasant a mood as possible, and to possibly get information on this man that could get him ousted.

Play nicely, Lucinda Rae Danvers.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her brain. Lu had learned to play well with others. A little too well, if you asked her family now. She’d utilize the skillset to her advantage tonight, though. It may have been cruel to use him in this manner, but it was his fault, after all, for coming all this way for a job that didn’t belong to him.

“Mr. Fischer? Dr. Fischer? Professor? What should I call you?”

Did he have his Ph.D.? She hadn’t seen his transcript, only heard rumors of his elite education. If he had completed his doctorate, that would be one qualification she did not possess, and would explain much.

He laughed, a sound reverberating from his chest like the thunder of an impending storm. “No, no ‘doctor.’ Just Max. I’d like if you’d call me Max.”

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