Chapter 22

Naomi watched Sebastian as he walked over to a group of students and began chatting with them. The marathon was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes, and though some people had already set up at a particular location and begun writing, many were still milling around. Whether their motivation was purely social or a way of procrastinating, she wasn’t sure. Two other members of their department were also in attendance, and though she’d spoken to both of them, she noticed that Sebastian hadn’t even said hello to them yet. As she thought back to Brian telling her that he never interacted with other members of the department, she wondered if he would even speak to them at all.

She’d been arranging the napkins and plates when she looked up to see Colvin’s mouth moving. So lost in the sound of her own thoughts, it took her a moment to realize that he was probably speaking to her. And who knew how long he’d been talking. “I’m sorry, what? I wasn’t listening.” She knew the admission made her sound like an asshole, but she couldn’t think of any other way to get him to repeat himself.

Colvin laughed awkwardly and then said, “I was asking if you had any plans for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, not really. Nothing interesting anyway. Going to my parents’. How about you?” Naomi snuck another look over at Sebastian, wondering if he’d seen Colvin talking to her again. It flattered her that he’d come over and tried to thwart Colvin’s attempt to speak to her. Not that she needed Sebastian to do so. She’d been taking care of herself for a long time, and a sweet but misguided TA was someone she could handle. All the same, her heart fluttered a little at the thought of Sebastian being…protective. It was endearing.

“Me too. I grew up about two hours away from here. I usually see some of my high school buddies the night before Thanksgiving. Then my sisters and I help my mom cook.”

“That’s sweet,” she said at the image of a bunch of children hovering around their mother, getting in her way as she attempted to cook, but all of them enjoying every second of it. The thought made a sadness undulate through her. But at the same time, she felt a small spark of hope that it was a possibility for her one day. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

For once, she was thankful for Sebastian’s voice, which rose above the quiet conversations. “Before we begin officially, I wanted to thank everyone for coming today. Please stay as long as you like, and help yourself to the food we brought.” He gestured to the table and Naomi, who didn’t miss Sebastian’s use of the word we, though she couldn’t say anything about it because even though his contribution of twenty-four doughnuts wasn’t really worth mentioning, he had contributed something. “I’ll be writing alongside you, and I think Dr. Price will be working on…something over the course of the day.”

She raised her hand to give a small wave hello. He said a few final words and wished everyone good luck before finding a spot of his own at an empty table and taking out his laptop.

Naomi did the same, setting up a small area for herself at a comfy chair and a low table. She always preferred writing in a notebook to a computer, so there was no need for a higher table. She made herself a plate of food before settling down to get to work. Admittedly, the library wasn’t the best place for poetic inspiration, but it would have to do. She couldn’t drop off food and then leave. And she did have writing to do. It would be pointless to waste the time.

She let her eyes wander toward the window, where the wind whipped against the trees in harsh gusts and some snow had begun to fall. It probably hadn’t yet stuck to any surfaces, but she knew that it would soon. Another fifteen minutes passed before it began to pick up, and large crystallized flakes descended from the sky, coating the outside world in a thick white blanket.

The first snowfall of the season in New England had always been a thing of beauty to Naomi. It made everything slow down until the only thing that seemed to be moving at all was each individual flake. She could write about this. She knew she could. But for some reason, she didn’t want to.

Instead, her eyes wandered around the room until they locked on something even more beautiful than the snow outside. She’d never thought of Sebastian as “beautiful” before, but now that she studied him, he really was. His dark hair fell a little more loosely than it normally did, like he hadn’t bothered to style it at all today. His top teeth pressed against his perfectly pink lip as he typed furiously for a few minutes and then stopped abruptly. She watched the way his brow furrowed as he read over what he’d just written, revealing a few pensive wrinkles in his forehead she hadn’t noticed until now.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his hand over his eyes before scrubbing his fingers over the bit of stubble on his jaw. God, those fingers. She desperately needed to stop thinking about them, but now that was all she could think about—how skillfully and gracefully they moved over the keys until his pace would increase rapidly and then stop again. She knew she was extremely sexually frustrated when watching someone type turned her on.

Probably a half hour or so had passed as she thought about what it was like—or what it would be like—for Sebastian to touch her. Her eyelids fluttered before they closed completely so she could picture his bare chest and arms. She wondered if the people surrounding her noticed the change in her breathing or the almost certain flush of her cheeks because, Jesus, it suddenly felt so hot in there. Pressing her thighs together to dull the ache between them only seemed to make her need more intense.

But with that need burst from her a sudden wave of inspiration. This was what she should be writing about: a pair of soft, strong hands, a dusting of hair over defined abs, the coarse brush of stubble over tender skin.

God, she needed to get laid. Or at least figure out how to get herself off. Because right now she felt like she could come if she moved the right way over the chair, though she also realized that wasn’t an option she could explore further. It took her a few minutes to settle down enough to get even a few words on paper. But once she did, they spilled from her more quickly than she could write them. She couldn’t remember the last time she was able to write so freely and with such little conscious thought. It was as if the words had chosen her instead of the other way around. When she was done, she took a few minutes to edit some of what she’d written and then transferred the poem onto a clean sheet of paper.

Reading it was almost as satisfying as writing it had been. It was a release—though unfortunately not a physical one. Her ache for him was stronger than ever, but she had no idea what to do to quell it. Her body puzzled her in a way it never had before, and it was driving her crazy.

But what was even crazier was that one of the poems she loved the most was written about the man she’d thought she hated for so long.