Page 10 of Grave Matter

Then again, I’m here.

Now that the altercation is over, the rest of us leave the building. The drama has made me feel like I’ve been sucked back into high school, which is annoying because we’re all probably inour twenties. I guess that’s bound to happen when you’re stuck with your cohorts in forced proximity. I just hope it gets better over time, not worse.

Just as I was the last to arrive, I’m the last to leave the learning center. I follow behind Lauren as she exits, lagging a little to peer at a painting of a red-and-white Amanita on the wall, wondering if it’s, in fact, theirAmanita excandesco.

The door almost closes on me, but I push it open with my forearm before it does, stepping outside just as someone on the other side tries to pull the door open.

I run right into my future psychologist.

CHAPTER 5

“I’m sorry,”I cry out as I collide with Dr. Kincaid’s chest. The man is built like a stone wall, but even so, he takes several steps backward, his striking eyes widening for a second.

“My apologies,” he says, his voice sending a shiver up my spine. I’ve always been a voice gal. If a man has a low, gravelly voice, a little rough, a little rich, it makes me weak in the knees. If the man also happens to possess muscled forearms and strong hands, then that’s Sydney’s sex trifecta.

My gaze drops to his hands, which are clenching and unclenching into fists in a way that reminds me of the infamous Mr. Darcy shot fromPride and Prejudice.Those fit the bill, though I can’t tell what his forearms look like under his black coat. It’s thick and wool, more suited for winter than a mild evening. Two out of three ain’t bad, though judging by the breadth of his shoulders, I’d wager his forearms would earn him the trifecta anyway.

Knock it off, I chide myself.Lusting after your professor slash psychologist is the very last thing you need.

Old habits, they die hard.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, still keeping his distance and gesturing to the door, which had closed. He seems to want to avoid me, and I figure it’s because I’m probably staring at him with googly eyes.

But as he steps around me, I meet his gaze for a moment, and I swear the world goes still, like the fog wraps around us, blocking out the sporadic calls of the ravens, the haunting trill of the varied thrush, until there’s only silence. His eyes are shadowed by his dark, low brows, his irises a ghostly shade of grey that matches the mist. His stare is intense, electrifying, burning straight into my soul, like he can see all of me.

And what he sees scares him.

Enough that he has to quickly look away.

“I’m Sydney Denik,” I blurt out, not wanting him to walk away, not wanting my future shrink to already make some crash judgments about me. “I’m in your classes,” I add, though I wince inwardly because of course I’m in his classes. We all are.

He freezes, his long fingers grasping the door handle. He nods, licks his lips, hesitating. Then he closes his eyes for a moment and turns to face me.

He meets my gaze again, and this time, the intensity is turned down. He still has a bewildering thousand-yard stare, but his brooding brows have softened. The corners of his eyes crinkle enough that I’d place his age in the late thirties.

He wipes his hand on his coat. “Sorry. Hands are clean, but they smell like diesel.” He shakes mine, firm and hard, his palm warm, and it’s as if a current of electricity runs from his skin to mine. Not enough to shock, but enough to make my nerves dance and send sparks down my spine. He holds on to my hand longer than is probably appropriate, and the longer he does, the more intense his stare becomes, until I can feel it start to unravel something in me, something I don’t want unraveled.

He swallows hard, his full mouth forming a hard line, and then looks away, dropping my hand. Again, his fingers flex at his side.

“Wes Kincaid,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Do I call you Professor Kincaid or Dr. Kincaid?” I manage to ask.

“Either one is fine,” he says, his voice turning raspier. He clears his throat again. “Do you prefer Sydney or Syd?”

“Either one is fine,” I echo. “I think I’ll just call you Kincaid.”

He gives me a soft, genuine smile, like I’ve amused him. His eyes light up, his face too handsome for his own good. “Then I will call you Sydney unless you tell me otherwise.”

“My friends call me Syd,” I tell him coyly. “I can’t tell if we’re going to be friends or not.”

I know I’m sounding a little flirty, and I shouldn’t, Ireallyshouldn’t, but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable by it.

“I guess we’ll see,” he says. “Don’t be late for your class tomorrow.” His face grows stern, a look he does so well, but I can tell it’s in jest.

“I won’t,” I say as he gives me a nod and then disappears into the building.

I stand there for a moment at the closed door, feeling strangely outside myself. The fog around me seems to be wisping away with the briny breeze, the light growing brighter. I sniff my hand. It does smell faintly of diesel, though I detect the scent of tobacco as well. He probably smokes.

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