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Though the subject matter of economics wasn’t something she found interesting, she’d certainly learned a lot. There was one file that looked huge and she’d been saving it for last.
She glanced at the computer clock. She should be able to finish with the files and get the docking station set up before Patrick returned to his office.
She clicked to open the file, “Turned Up Side Down” expecting to see more charts, theories and statistics, but instead she found herself staring at a work of fiction.
A novel. Written by Patrick McClain.
Both curiosity and the desire to make sure the file hadn’t lost all of its formatting urged her to read.
Fascination kept her glued to the words.
Soon she was hooked into the story of a young boy who loses his father and must step into the role of man of the house.
She laughed at the antics of the boy and his siblings and fought tears of empathy for the characters. She reached the last page with a satisfied sigh, yet knew she’d seen some formatting issues but she’d been so engrossed in the story that she hadn’t wanted to stop reading to fix.
She’d have to read through it again. She rubbed at her eyes. It would be easier if she could read the words from a hard copy. She began printing off the book, while her mind raced with thoughts of the story and Patrick.
She realized she knew very little of his private life. Was this book autobiographical or purely fiction? If autobiographical, she was in deep trouble.
Weren’t damaged hearts notorious for falling for their like?
After his meeting with the department chair, Patrick headed to his office, expecting to find Anne waiting for him with his computer ready to go and trusting his files to be intact.
Instead he found his office door wide-open and Anne sitting in his chair, her fingers clicking on the keyboard. Off to the side his printer hummed as it rhythmically spat pages into the tray.
Patrick couldn’t help the little glow of approval in his gut for how hard the woman worked. A very admirable trait. She definitely had surpassed his expectations, her fashion choices notwithstanding.
Tonight, though, she wore another ill-fitting, conservative dress suit, and her spiked hair seemed especially…barbed. Her normally creamy complexion held a hint of makeup and beneath her dark lashes, circles of fatigue marred her delicate skin.
She glanced up. Her wary smile made him feel as if he’d walked in on something he shouldn’t have.
“Hello.” He stepped through the doorway and hovered near the desk.
“Uh—hi. I’m sorry, I had hoped to be done by now. This last file has been sticky.”
“No problem.” He glanced at the printer. “What’s this?”
“Your book.”
Distress grabbed his throat as he reached for the top page. He barely glanced at the words. His agitation increased until shock and rage choked him.
She was printing his book.
“How could you?”
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