Page 49 of Angel Eyes

I nodded. “Well, there is something you could give me. It’s about the magazine submission. If you would be willing to review my draft, I’ll help you in return.”

He studied me for another beat.

“Well, perhaps we could try it on a trial basis.”

A few minutes later, I followed Benoit up a winding staircase toward the faculty offices and down a long corridor until we reached a door with the nameplate Julien A. Benoit affixed to it. He turned a brass key in the lock, holding the door open for me, and I stepped inside, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the sunlit room. My lips tilted into a grin as I took in the space.

It was so Benoit.

The first thing I noticed was the carved cherry wood desk sitting at the opposite end of the room, nestled between two identical arching windows. The desk looked to be at least a few centuries old, so it was safe to assume it belonged to Benoit. A more modern-looking desk of simple oak sat near a wall of bookshelves, and across from that was a sitting area with two overstuffed chairs, a small circular table, and a copper standing lamp.

All in all, the space was quite cozy.

“This would be your desk.” Benoit crossed to the oak desk, opening the drawers and examining their contents.

I followed, peering around him. There were no personal effects in the drawers—whoever his previous assistant was had made quick work of cleaning out his space—though I noted a pitiful remnant of office supplies left in the bottom drawer.

Okay, we might need to do some shopping.

“This looks perfect,” I said, observing Benoit’s deepening frown as he took in the state of things.

He glanced at me, his expression uncertain. “Are you sure about this, Ms. Chandler?”

“Absolutely.” I gave him an encouraging smile. “Now, unless you intend to fire me less than twenty minutes after giving me the job, I think I’ll get to work.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. After emailing my draft to Benoit, I jotted down a quick list of everything I needed to purchase. File folders, tabs, highlighters, Post-its, and a corkboard with some pushpins.

I did love a well-organized corkboard.

I opened my laptop and found a local store with a colorful selection of supplies and filled my cart with items. I was eyeing a small potted plant to liven up the sitting area when Benoit approached my desk. I glanced up. His tweed jacket was gone, abandoned over the back of his chair, and he had rolled up his shirt sleeves, looking decidedly more relaxed.

“Here.” He handed me a credit card. “Anything you need to buy, you can put on my card. The school will reimburse me.”

“Thank you,” I said, surreptitiously adding the potted plant to my cart.

“No, thank you, Ms. Chandler. I truly appreciate this.” He scrubbed his knuckles across his jaw. “I teach four days a week and prepare the lesson plan for each class the week before. I have examples from past semesters you can review.” I nodded, scribbling down notes in my planner.

“I’ve also checked your class schedule, which conveniently aligns with mine, excluding Fridays. So, it would make the most sense if you work only on your on-campus days. That way, you won’t have to come in when you don’t have class.”

I started to tell him I didn’t mind coming in an extra day, but he eyed me over the rim of his glasses, giving me a look that brooked no argument.

“Got it,” I said and clamped my mouth shut.

“And,” he continued, releasing a sigh, “you’ll promise to let me know if it all becomes too much. You came here to study literature and writing, not help an old man keep his wits about him.”

I blinked at him. Old man? I didn’t know Benoit’s exact age, but I doubted he was a day over forty, and he wasn’t hard on the eyes either. He was well over six feet tall and had broad shoulders, a square jaw, and thick brown hair only slightly tinged with silver at the temples. He might have the stylistic taste of a man twice his age, but there was certainly nothing old about the man himself.

“It won’t be too much, but I promise anyway.”

He nodded. “How are your other classes, by the way? Are you enjoying Professor Lagrange’s course?”

“I am. I’m learning a ton from workshopping my writing with the other students. I suspect this is Professor Lagrange’s first time critiquing a romance writer’s work, but so far, his feedback has been diplomatic. It’s really helping me learn to view my work more objectively.”

“That’s good to hear. Lagrange can be a real stickler when he has a mind to be.” He crossed to his desk and returned with a stack of stapled papers. “Now, about your piece for the magazine.” He dropped the stack in front of me, and I skimmed the first page.

“Um, that’s a lot of red.”

“It is. You asked for my feedback, did you not?”

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