Chapter 6

EARLY BIRDS DON'T GET KISSES

6

"Noooooo," I howl in my bed, kicking the covers away in protest.

I rage against my pillows next, punch them and throw them across the room. I've never hated a Monday morning more.

Killian was about to kiss me. It was going to be the kind of worth-dying-for, all-consuming, earth-shattering kiss that only happens in romance novels. I was about to experience that—almost. Dreams count, too.

But no. My stupid alarm had to go off at that precise moment. I'm half tempted to ignore my responsibilities and go back to sleep, but I can't.

I have the meeting at nine with my advisor, and one class to teach at ten. Then I need to hurry to the station to catch the train to Milwaukee.

Real life sucks.

My loathing of reality worsens when, at nine fifteen, I'm still standing outside my advisor's office door, and he's nowhere in sight.

I'm seething. Fifteen extra minutes is all I would've needed to be kissed senseless by Killian. I could've pushed the alarm back and gotten my grand romantic moment.

And I know that I'm being ridiculous. That I'm digging myself deeper and deeper into an impossible situation where I'm falling for a man who doesn't exist, losing myself into a fantasy where I wear crop tops, bake, and drive pickups.

But if all the real world has to offer me are the Tims of Tinder, can anyone really blame me?

Killian aside, my advisor being late is extra annoying today. If I'd known he was going to blow me off, I could've gone home for the weekend on Friday. Spent more time with my parents instead of rushing there today to come straight back tomorrow. And I also would've been spared the rainy debacle of Saturday night. Yeah, I have a class to teach later, but I could've asked one of the other TAs to substitute for me. We do each other favors all the time.

And Dr. Hammond being late is just plain disrespectful in itself. Either he thinks his time is more valuable than mine or he assumes I don't have better things to do than sit and wait for him. He might be an accomplished scientist, having published plenty of papers on artificial intelligence, but he's officially the most inconsiderate human being on the planet.

Maybe he forgot about our meeting entirely, because it's just gone nine thirty, and still no sign of him.

I finally spot him ambling down the corridor at nine thirty-seven—not even hurrying—absorbed in conversation with another student, Trevor Calkin.

Oh, so Dr. Hammond probably decided my time was less valuable than their male bonding. I swear sometimes he still appears surprised there are women in his classes.

And before you ask why I didn't pick someone less of a jerk as an advisor, Dr. Hammond is the authority on AI-driven model languages. He was the best academic choice. Also he didn't come with a misogynistic warning sticker—I had to find out the hard way.

"Ah, Leighton," he says when he spots me. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. Trevor and I got caught up discussing deep neural networks. You don't mind, do you?"

Microaggression number one, implying I should be okay with wasting almost an hour of my time. Why? Because I have a uterus?

"Actually, I have a class to teach at ten." I pointedly stare at my watch. "I can only give you a quick update, as I prefer not to be late for my appointments."

Dr. Hammond and Trevor exchange a look, probably communicating some telepathic anti-female sentiment like "The witch must be on her period."

I do my best to stay chill and not react. There'd be no point. If I called them out, they'd just deny it and probably call me emotional to my face.

When Dr. Hammond finally gets to the door, I squash down my irritation as I follow him into his office and sit across from him at his desk.

I skip the part where I update him on my progress and goals for the year and go straight to asking him if he had any luck having a paper I wrote on evaluating the efficacy of generative language models in natural language processing published.

Dr. Hammond takes his time turning on his computer. I'm not sure if he didn't hear me say I have to leave in ten minutes or if he's simply ignoring the fact.

"That, yes," he says eventually, still half-distractedly looking at his screen. "I've submitted it to a few scientific magazines. We'll just have to wait and see."

Okay, I'm fed up with being ignored and I really have to go, anyway. "Well, thank you, professor." I don't think he'll pick up on the irony in my voice. "But I have to leave now."

"Before you go." He finally looks at me. "I have a group of potential students coming in at eleven thirty. Would you mind giving them a tour of the lab?"

Microaggression number two, always asking one of the two female students in his class to give tours.

"Sorry, but I can't." Technically, I could squeeze in the tour before heading to the train station. But I don't want to. And even if I didn't have a trip planned, my time would be better spent working on my projects rather than chaperoning incomings.

He frowns at me as if my refusal came as a total shocker. "Can you ask Shayla, then?"

Ah, of course.

Since I didn't intend to palm off the tour on her, I deflect. "Maybe I'll ask Trevor."

"Trevor?" Now the shock on Dr. Hammond's face is true and complete.

I flash him my sweetest smile. "Yeah, why not?"

And since he can't very well tell me to my face, because he's a man, I get away with it.

I leave his office feeling victorious, at least until I remember that lab tours come with refreshments and I could've gotten a free lunch out of it.

A few hours later, I hustle through the train station, the heels of my ankle boots clicking on the pavement with each step. The early afternoon sunlight reflects off the waiting train's windows as I make my way to the platform. Just in time, I board the express to Milwaukee and settle into a window seat. I drop my handbag, with the cowboy book tucked safely inside, on the aisle seat while I shove my overnight bag in the overhead compartment. I'm not really reading the book anymore—as per its lack of pages—but it feels like my only connection to Killian, so I brought it along.

"Mind if I sit here, dear?" a sweet old lady asks, gesturing to the seat next to me.

"Of course not," I reply with a smile, sitting down and moving my handbag onto my lap.

As the train chugs along, we engage in light conversation. I tell her I'm headed home to Milwaukee for my parents' anniversary, and she tells me she's en route to Minneapolis to visit a friend.

Eventually, the gentle rocking of the carriage lulls me into a drowsy state. With one last glance at my handbag, I let my eyes close and drift off to sleep.

"Past your bedtime, Sugar?" a deep voice rumbles, waking me up with a start mere seconds later.

Blinking away my confusion, I realize I'm no longer on the train, but in a different vehicle. My pickup truck. I'm in the passenger seat, and Killian is once again behind the wheel, smirking at me with twinkly eyes and tousled hair.