Page 112 of Love, Academically
Lila’s phone buzzed in her hand and she swiped at it absently.
First Sue, now Jason.
What the hell had Rhys done?
Chapter 18
Compunction(noun) com·punc·tion
anxiety arising from awareness of guilt
distress of mind over an anticipated action or result
a twinge of misgiving
Rhys
Rhys’s top lip fucking hurt. The bastard face paint was coming off slowly and leaving in its place a massive fucking red mark where he’d rubbed furiously at it.
It was worse than that though. He’dforgottenabout the meeting. He’d missed the email, or he’d read the email and it hadn’t sunk in, he hadn’t put it in his diary, he’d just… been distracted and had completely forgotten. He hadneverforgotten anything as important as this. Never.
He’d sat there, bumbling through a half-prepared and half-remembered speech about what an honour and a privilege it would be to be part of the Historical Association, about his research, his planned papers, his book proposal. With a massive fucking blue moustache painted on his face.
How could Dan have let him just walk off with it on his face without saying anything? It wasn’t Dan’s fault though. It was his own for letting Lila paint his face. Lila’s fault for actually doing it. Why did she have to be like that? All fluffy and insistent that he join in, be part of the ‘History Department community’ when he was quite happy by himself.
Now his chances were ruined. He would never be taken seriously with a poorly worded, rambling speech and a fucking bushy blue moustache on his face.
Fuck.
Bracing his hands on the sink he glared at himself in the mirror. This ‘informal chat’ would influence the panel and he would be a fool to think otherwise. He’d been on enough interview panels, had enough fucking experience to know that connections, relationships, networking fuckingmattered.
Rhys had let his mind go. He’d been so absorbed with Lila, so loose and free with his time and mind that his focus had gone.
Slamming the bathroom door behind him, Rhys stormed back to his office. There was absolutely no way that he was going back to that stupid fucking Mexican party with warm sangria and tinny music that put his teeth on edge.
He was vibrating with anger, his hands unable to stay in his pockets, legs unable to let him sit still. All the frustration burst out of him and he smashed his fist hard into the side of the filing cabinet.
“Fuck,” he shouted.
The pain shot up his wrist into his forearm, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about the blood pooling on his knuckles, staining into his coarse, awful beige carpet.
Somehow, some way, his father would hear about this and that would be yet another negative mark against him. Turning up unprepared to what was essentially an interview with fucking face paint on. There was no way he would ever live that down.
He moved over to the window and leaned his elbows on the sill, holding his head in his hands. None of this was going to be fixed any time soon. In fact, it may have ruined his chances with the Historical Association.
Forever.
