Page 18 of The Professor's Possession (Crystal River Billionaire Brothers)

A bell above the door rings when I step inside. I can see why my roommate raves about it: the café is very cute. Small and homey, with a relaxed ambiance. There’s a long counter displaying all times of different pastries. I can’t help immediately spotting the large almond croissants and my mouth immediately begins to water.

I order a coffee and one of the croissants from the friendly barista. Her name tag reads Josie. Like me, she has brown eyes. They’re hiding behind her black curly hair. She’s pretty, but with a noticeable sadness behind her eyes.

“I’ve heard these are good,” I say, nodding at the croissant as she hands it to me.

“The best,” she replies with a soft smile.

I wonder what her story is. What has led her to work here? What must be going on in her life to make her seem so sad?

But I’m simply too shy to ask any of those deep questions. Instead, I quickly pay and then take a seat by the window looking out over the park with the newly bought almond croissant clutched excitedly in my hand.

I take my first bite and...

Oh my God.

Ava’s definitely one hundred percent right.

These are delicious.

I take a moment to savor the taste, and then I’m rummaging in my bag. I pull out my old, battered copy of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. It’s clear from the coffee-stained cover and worn-out pages that it’s my favorite book and it has been since I first read it as an early teenager. I can just simply get lost all day in the misty English moors and rugged countryside and the dark characters of the story. I love how unabashedly melodramatically Gothic the whole thing is. So much shadowy drama in every sentence. The characters are so full of life. So many intense emotions. I find myself drawn to the main hero – and some might sayvillain– of the book. Heathcliff. A dark man with a black and white soul.

Professor Penmayne’s first lecture has really made me think about literature, that’s for sure. I have been excited to re-read this book ever since the professor’s lecture where he talked about long-dead authors reaching across time and touching their readers. I certainly feel like Emily Bronte does just that to me with this book every single damn time I flick open the pages.

When people find out that this is my favorite book, they always like to tease me with the famous song with the same name from the eighties. To be honest, I really like the song. It gets the melancholy of the tale just right. The dreamlike nature of it all. But it would be nice to tell someone about this book without them half-assing singing a song in my face.

I turn the pages until I reach my bookmark. This book, more than any other, takes me nostalgically back to a much more innocent bit in my life when I would stay up all night eagerly reading until I eventually would fall asleep with the book, opened, resting on my chest.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to those days. Just childhood me and a book and a flashlight and no worries at all. Things were a whole lot simpler then, long before I had to grow up. When everything in my life simply revolved around the next stolen chance to read. A time before money problems and social issues and boys and a million uncertainties about the future.

The café bell rings, bringing me from my childhood memories back to reality. Someone new has entered the café. My eyes flick up.

And Professor Penmayne is walking through the doors.

Oh.

He’s on the phone, talking in a hushed tone. He doesn’t see me as he comes in, his attention solely on the intense conversation he’s having. Seems like very serious phone interaction. I watch him as he approaches the counter and orders a coffee from Josie, even as he still talks down the phone.

I’m frozen to my chair, Wuthering Heights held firmly in my hands. I really hope my professor doesn’t recognize me over here.

He collects his coffee. It’s to-go. He turns away from the counter and then...

His eyes meet mine. Those icy blue eyes.

Crap.

I quickly glance away, pretending not to have seen him.

But it’s too late.

The professor is walking toward me across the café.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“Wuthering Heights?”

His deep voice fills the air between us.

And I finally look up at him. I can’t avoid it anymore. He towers over me sitting at the table, his natural height not helping matters. I notice he’s wearing another suit.

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