Page 9 of Complete Me

I shove the last bite into my mouth and chew while Gunnar considers. “Well, we could order in, but that would take too long. I’m hungry now.” I nod in agreement. “So, I saw some tomato soup in the pantry. And there’s a loaf of bread on the counter. I’m betting you still have some American cheese from the burgers a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, I’m liking where this is going.” My stomach growls loudly in agreement.

Gunnar stands. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup, coming up.”

“Make the soup with milk and butter.”

He snorts. “Like there’s any other way to make it. You want crushed potato chips in the grilled cheese?”

I consider this culinary deviation from our childhood meal. “Maybe?”

“It’s great. Trust me.”

Waving for him to go ahead, I settle into the cushions, closing my eyes for a moment. A tap against my thigh jolts me awake. “Ouch! Fuck.” I wince and curl around my injured side.

“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I blink up at Gunnar. “It’s fine. I forgot and moved too fast.” Slowly, the scent of butter, cheese, and tangy tomato tickles my nose, and my stomach growls again. “Smells great. Here.” I hold out my hand, and Gunnar takes it, helping me to sit up. “This whole injury bullshit sucks.”

“Agreed.” He sits down, and we both dig in, not talking until we’re each on our second grilled cheese and most of our soup is gone. It’s then that I realize we’ve been hanging out, laughing, playing video games, and conspicuously not fighting. I don’t think either of us is particularly trying to be on our best behavior, and maybe that’s where we’ve been screwing up. We’re trying too hard not to fight, which has put us on edge, causing us to fight.

“Hey, Gunnar?” He looks up from his soup. “Thanks for everything.”

Eyes wide and eyebrows raised, he nods. “It’s just grilled cheese and soup. But you’re welcome.”

It would be easy to let it go and pretend that’s what I meant. But it wouldn’t be right. “Yeah, thanks for that, too. But I meant for taking care of the house and for sticking around this week.” I meet his eyes and try to convey my sincerity. “It means a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” It’s said a bit warily, like he’s not sure what to make of it.

“Look, not to ruin a good mood or anything, but if you want to talk about what’s going on with you and Jocelin, I’m here. I promise I’ll just listen. Lord knows I’m in no position to offer advice on relationships.”

That earns me a snort of agreement. “That’s the truth.” His hand comes up to stave off any comment I might make. “Sorry. I’m also in no position to say that.” He stares at the last few bites of his sandwich and tosses it onto the plate. “The wound is still too raw. I’m not ready to talk about it.” He turns to meet my gaze. “But thanks. Seriously. I mean it. And if I need to talk, I’ll let you know. I promise.”

“Fair enough. I’m here if and when you are.”

5

Xander

“I’m sorry, Ms. Anderson, but skimming SparkNotes doesn’t qualify as reading the novel.” The start of a semester is always chaotic. During the first few days of classes, students wander the halls, figuring out where classrooms are, picking up new courses or dropping ones they shouldn’t have signed up for in the first place. I seem to have more than my share of those this semester, but that comes with the intro level classes. And as an untenured professor, I still get saddled with them. And students who’ve never had to study before. “It’s up to you to come prepared for class. This isn’t high school. There’s no more coasting to an easy A.”

Kirsten Anderson shuffles her textbooks onto her hip and leans forward, her ample cleavage almost spilling out of her low-cut sweater. “Sorry Dr. Neilsen.” I keep my eyes on hers, not remotely tempted to look elsewhere. “I promise to do better. Is there any way you could tutor me? A one-on-one session?” She bats her eyelashes, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Just once, I’d appreciate some originality.

“Ms. Anderson, I am not in the habit of tutoring my students, one-on-one or otherwise. If you need extra help, you can see Toby, my TA. That’s why he’s here. And if you still find you’re struggling with something you can schedule an appointment. I have office hours for that.” I turn to my desk and close my laptop, sliding it into my messenger bag. “But I won’t be doing the work for you, or going easy on you. Do the work and you’ll earn the grade.”

Unfortunately, Ms. Anderson doesn’t take the hint. “There’s nothing I can do to get some extra credit? I’d do anything.” She steps close and strokes my arm.

I immediately put distance between us. This is not my first semester of teaching, and I’m well aware of the things some students will resort to for grades. “Ms. Anderson.” I load my voice with all the disdain I’m feeling. “I’m not sure if your innuendo is intentional, or if you really do expect I’ll give you, or any student, extra credit for any reason. I don’t give extra credit. Ever. My students do the work and receive the grades they earn. I’m not swayed by a pretty face or décolletage.” I pull on my coat. “There’s still time to drop the class without penalty, and I suggest you do so. However, if you plan to remain in my class,”—I truly hope she doesn’t choose that option—“I suggest you return to your dorm room, or the library, and begin the next reading assignment.”

As expected, she doesn’t give up that easily. Points to her for tenacity, even if it is futile. She bursts into tears, working up to a good sob, making noises as if she’s actually trying to convey sentences. When that doesn’t sway me, the crying stops. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, spins on her heels, and storms out of the lecture hall, shoving the heavy oak door so hard it sticks in the open position.

With a sigh, I lift my messenger bag and settle the leather strap over my shoulder, following at a more moderate pace. With any luck, she won’t show up to the next class. Pausing as I get to the double doors that open onto the main hallway, I take a moment to glance both ways, watching for an opening in the stream of people, and freeze. My gaze catches on white-blond hair and angular features set off by the high collar of a black peacoat. Kaino. They watch my student storm off and then glance into the lecture hall. Our eyes meet and their frown deepens. “You’re the person from the hospital. Bjorn’s friend.”

Since last week’s visit to the hospital, it’s been a struggle to think of anything else but Bjorn. And now I’m face-to-face with his former lover. An incredibly attractive former lover, with a sexy, deep voice and a very commanding aura. My pulse quickens. I’m not sure if I’m a teeensy bit jealous, or if Kaino is that intriguing. And charismatic. We hold each other’s gaze for a beat too long, and things get awkward. At least for me. Kaino seems in no hurry to speak, so I forge ahead. “Hello.”

They watch me assessingly, and the corner of their mouth quirks into an almost smile. “Hello.” They gesture down the hall. “One of your students?”

“Yes.” I extend my hand to him. “I’m Xander Neilsen.”

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