Red-hot jealousy spreads through my veins like wildfire. I did not need to know that.
Alistair enters the classroom, looking as gorgeous as ever. My heart reacts accordingly, lurching forward at the same time the butterflies in my belly turn radioactive. Conversation ceases, but I notice how every single girl in the room is eating him up with their hungry gazes. It wasn’t as bad in writer’s room, or maybe I didn’t pay attention. Now that Valerie mentioned the obvious, I can’t not notice it.
When Alistair’s gaze sweeps the room, I try to keep my expression neutral. Maybe it’s my imagination or wishful thinking, but I swear his eyes shine brighter when he sees me. I hope it was all in my head. Valerie already noticed his peculiar behavior yesterday; if he keeps throwing heated glances in my direction, our little secret won’t stay buried for long.
He starts the lecture, and I force my mind to tune into the knowledge, not the man presenting it to me.
One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life.
I’m relieved when I finally make it home after a gruesome day at school. I was tense the entire time, even after Alistair’s class. I hate how he has so much power over me and we’re not even together.
I take a long shower, hoping the hot jets will relax me, but I can’t get him out of my head. And when my soapy fingers brush my clit, I let out a moan as I imagine Alistair’s tongue there. I’m turned on as hell, but instead of finding release, I finish the shower abruptly and get out. I will not masturbate while thinking about him.
Dressed in comfy clothes, I lounge on my couch and check my emails, determined to forget him. But it seems fate doesn’t want me to extract Alistair from my mind. Sitting at the top of my inbox is an email from him.
For fuck’s sake.
The subject line says “Film Festival,” and I guess he wants to tell me about the archives task I volunteered for. With a deep breath, I click on it. The message is short and to the point. He’s asking me if I can work on my assignment later today. It’s not that hard. All I have to do is sort out a shipment of boxes that arrived for the festival. DuBose’s storage unit is in the school’s basement.
I send a quick message back saying I can be there at the time he specified and then stare at the screen without moving for a good half hour, waiting for a reply that never comes through. With a huff, I close my laptop and force myself off the couch. Glancing at the time on my phone, I realize I’ll be horribly late if I don’t get moving.
If I’m going to be shuffling boxes and dealing with dusty things, I have to dress for it. I grab the oldest pair of boyfriend jeans I own, pairing them with comfy sneakers and an oversized flannel shirt. My hair looks like crap today, so I just pull it back in a messy bun. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone. But before I head out the door, I apply some cherry-flavored lip gloss; Bisnonna always used to say the day she left the house looking like shit, that would be the day she would bump into all her acquaintances.
Not feeling like walking from the residence hall to school, I take the bicycle I bought my first week. The air is cool as I ride my bike as fast as I can, loving the sensation of the wind blowing over my skin, though the trip is short—I’m not even winded or sweaty. I have to do this more often.
At this hour, the atrium in the school building is deserted. It’s past six, and most of the students are long gone. I keep walking down the main hallway until I see the sign to the basement.
The air gets cooler with each step I take downstairs. And here I thought I would be hot wearing the flannel shirt. To my right, there’s a reception desk, but the receptionist is gone for the day too. Alistair only told me to be here at quarter past six. I figured there would be someone to show me what to do.
“Hello?” I call out.
A door opens down the hallway behind me. I turn and find Alistair there. My stomach bottoms out at the same time a fluttering sensation spreads across my chest.
Dio Santo. Am I supposed to work with him?
“Hi,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt, frozen to the spot.
“The school doesn’t allow students in the archives unsupervised.”
His expression is serious. I gather he’s not happy about this situation either.
I finally force my legs to walk in his direction, not looking at him when he moves out of the way to let me inside the room. When the door closes with a resounding click, a shiver runs down my spine. I’m alone with Alistair again, and my body and mind are waging war with one another.
This place looks more like a library than a storage unit. I glance around, noting the black containers pushed against a wall. Alistair walks around me and drags one of them next to a table. My eyes immediately zero in on the bulging of his biceps, on the expanse of his wide back, and the yearning spreads from my chest to between my legs. My core is throbbing, anticipating something that won’t happen.
I close my eyes for a moment. Focus on the work, Chiara. And remember, you’re still mad at him.
“What exactly am I supposed to do?”
“These came from Italy. We need to sort them out and store them properly until the festival.”
I walk over but make sure I’m not standing too close to him. He begins to pull items from the box, laying them on the table. I grab a long cylindrical container, popping the lid open. I’m about to stick my hand inside when Alistair stops me, touching my wrists with the tips of his fingers. The simple contact sends a zing up my limb and turns the low burning in the pit of my stomach into a raging fire. How can his touch be so incendiary?
“Wait, you need to put on these nitrile gloves. You don’t want to leave your fingerprints behind.”
I don’t offer a reply because I’ve lost the ability to speak, too busy trying to control my erratic heartbeat. I set the cylinder back on the table and put on the gloves. Then with care, I remove the poster from inside. I don’t recognize the movie—I’m not a movie buff—but considering the artwork, I’d say it’s from the fifties. The thick paper is bright and crisp though.
“This isn’t an original, is it?” I ask.
“No. As a matter of fact, none of the materials are originals. Even the movie reels they sent are copies. We should consider ourselves lucky we got them.”
I glance at the storage shelves on my left. “What else do we have stored here?”
“Only student work. Most studios don’t keep their archives in California but rather send them out of state to high-tech storage facilities.”
“This place is pretty clean. I don’t know why that idiot was complaining about dust.”
Alistair makes a strange noise in the back of his throat. “He wanted your assignment and thought he was entitled to it. There’s always a student who’s like that.”
“Well, he can suck it.”
I roll the poster again to put it back in its case.
“I tried to find someone else to be here in my place,” he says out of the blue, making my spine go taut.
