Page 77 of When Hearts Collide

Uncapping my pen, I write.

Dear Ryland,

It seems fitting the first letter I write to you, one you’ll never read because I’ll never send it out, is on a stormy night. I’ll never forget the day I met you, when I was dripping wet from the rain and absolutely mortified, my mind with one focus, which was to get out of your way so you could continue to teach without my disruption. But even then, you took my breath away.

My mom told me about the whirlwind. The exhilarating feeling of being in love with the right person such that nothing else matters, no hurdles too high, no conflict too deep. I’ve always wished it would happen to me someday. And when I was at your feet that day, staring up at your angry face, your steely eyes, I could sense the flutters of the whirlwind, an innate connection between us I couldn’t explain in words.

And I know you feel the same way because you and I are kindred spirits, both having experienced debilitating loss but are still standing, still fighting. You are my warmth in the harsh rains, and I can be the light in your dark moments, when you feel the weight of the world sitting on top of your shoulders.

I know you’re pushing me away because you think that’s what I need and I’m here to tell you one word: No.

A resounding no.

What I need is you. The rest is just noise.

Yours, Millie

Chapter 30

I follow him. Like a deranged stalker.

Stop being so dramatic, Millie. You’re just trailing after your professor to his office so you can ask him a question.

Yeah, right.

Class ended five minutes ago. Our teams formulated detailed whistleblower policies and outlined protocols for dealing with complaints. It was surprisingly complex once we delved into laws of various jurisdictions, workplace psychology, and victim mentality.

I can see why Ryland assigned this project to the class. It sheds light on the various factors going into policymaking, and the experience has made me even more excited about the future when I can hopefully make a difference in the world.

Ryland is walking swiftly toward the faculty building, his long legs eating up the distance in no time, and I huff after him, trying to catch up. He’s talking on the phone with what no doubt is a scowl on his face, judging by the forceful gestures he’s making with his free hand. He has this raw magnetism of a man who knows what he’s doing and where he’s going, and everyone around him gives him a wide berth.

I’m going to talk to him again. About us. I’ve come up with at least five reasons he should give us a chance, to give himself a chance, because he’s obviously suffering as much as I am. And now, with the Professor Archer and Tammy case, it’s almost kismet. It’s like the universe is telling me what not to do when going after my professor.

One: We can keep it on the down low.

Two: Life is too short not to pursue this chemistry between us.

Three: I’m a big girl and can handle if this doesn’t work out.

Then, there are the logistics. We don’t want any email trail. Last names only in public. No more sexy times on school property. Or maybe we can wait a few months until I graduate. I’m open to suggestions.

There are a few more reasons and considerations in my arsenal, and I plan to use every one of them to argue my case, since he seems to enjoy healthy debates in class.

After talking to the girls last week, I realize I can’t let this go without a fight. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, this all-consuming need to know him, to peel back his many hardened layers to get to the softness deep inside, to know the stories behind every scar on his soul, to find out why his striking eyes seem to hold sadness and regret when from the outside, he seems to have everything at his fingertips.

I want his heated gazes, his quiet but meaningful words, his hands and fingers on my body.

I want to live in his storm.

And if this makes me silly, a naïve young woman chasing after her worldly, older professor, then so be it. I’ll use my youth and naivety as a weapon, shattering the thick walls of his jaded heart.

My phone pings. A message from Taylor.

Taylor

You’re coming to Grace’s celebration at The Orchid this Saturday, right? I know you haven’t been inside there yet, and it’ll be my first time as well. They’re making me dress up. Can you believe it? Me…in some frilly dress?

Snorting, I use the dictation function and reply, all the while keeping an eye on my target, “Of course I’ll be there. It’s not every day one of your best friends opens her own finance consulting firm. It’s such a big deal, and frankly, I’m low-key excited about seeing what The Orchid is all about. I know we won’t get to explore the various floors, but I hear the rooftop bar is spectacular. I’ll see you there.”

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