I text Audra to just leave the house key under the doormat and hope that there aren't any prior damages that I'll now be responsible for without a walk-through. Quickly abandoning the idea of changing clothes in my car in favor of keeping at least some of my quickly decreasing dignity, I head back the way I came.

Per the GPS again, it's faster to drive, but I end up using most of my time looking for a parking spot. So much for the superiority of algorithms. Next time, I'll make sure to walk.

On the plus side, there's hardly anyone else around on this side of campus. Unlike the chaos up at the main gates, there are no kids searching for their residence halls here; only a few well-dressed adults are coming and going. I'm guessing they're faculty like me, although in my faded jeans, wrinkled Hellfire Club t-shirt and worn Birks, I look—and feel—anything but professorial.

Taking the exterior steps of the ivy-covered College of Humanities and Sciences two at a time, I pull open the large oak door. The familiar scent of academia—old books, dust, and that indescribable aroma of higher education—fill my nose. It's a smell that always brings me both anxiety and anticipation, and today's no exception.

Inside, the marble flooring, wood paneling and low lighting all add to the reverent feel. But I don't have time to dally about the aesthetics. I'm already late.

Helpfully placed signage on the walls leads me to the Dean's suite of offices on the second floor. Behind another set of elaborately carved wooden doors, sits the type of middle-aged woman you'd expect assisting a man in a top position. With her gray-streaked auburn hair up in a neat French twist, cat's eye glasses and a dress straight out of the first season of For All Mankind, she's hunched over some type of ledger.

I'm guessing this must be Patty.

"Uhm, hi. I'm Barlow Milligan and I'm here to see—"

"Dean Ward will be right with you, Dr. Milligan," she says, cutting me off before she even looks up. Putting her pen down, she stands and walks to the door behind her desk. "You may wait for him in his office until then."

I mumble a hasty 'thank you' as Patty opens and then shuts the door behind me. I am left alone.

I don't know much about Clayton Ward, but it's not for the lack of trying. The university's website was strangely devoid of information about the man who is in charge of this particular school in the university. As dean, he presides over hiring and curriculum decisions related to departments like English or politics, and even that of my own little corner of academia, anthropology. Yet there was no photograph or even a biography of Dr. Ward under the 'Leadership' section of the Packard University website other than a listing of his name, full title and area of specialty: cellular regeneration and gene therapy.

I read some of his papers and they're fascinating, if not overly ambitious. His scholarly interests are in no way similar to mine, but as an anthropologist, I am curious about the potential sociological effects we would see if any diseases are cured with gene manipulation if his research turns out to actually work. Not that a stodgy, old academic like I'm expecting him to be for a man in his position would care about what someone like me would think.

As I continue to wait, I'm taken aback by the hundreds and hundreds of books lining the shelves on nearly every wall in the office. Only the space for the two floor-to-ceiling windows straddling a now dormant fireplace lacks a beautifully bound leather tome.

Starting at the nearest wall, I run my fingers along the spines of a set of books that looks to be in Romanian. Above them are titles in French next to some others written in Latin. Although I can understand all three enough to identify a useful citation for my research, I couldn't imagine knowing each of those languages well enough to stock a collection vast as this.

My opinion of the mysterious Dean Ward is immediately elevated. Maybe he's not so stodgy after all.

Moving along to another shelf, I spot an interesting title and begin to pull it out. Unlike many of the other books, this one is in English: Veles and Other Slavic Mythical Creatures. Bingo.

In my excitement at the find, I lose my grip and the book slips between my fingers. Immediately pivoting on my heels, I crouch down next to the splayed book on the floor, but I'm no longer alone.

"Here. Let me get that for you," says the man now huddled across from me as I audibly gasp.

I know that I didn't hear the door open, nor were there any footsteps to signal an arrival. The man must be lighter on his feet than a cat!

Stunned by the sudden appearance of this stranger, I bolt upright without a word. We continue to each hold onto one end of the book as he also stands.

I get a better look. His dark suit is impeccably tailored, and I wouldn't be surprised if it's Armani or Prada. Against the contrast of black hair and eyebrows, his light brown eyes practically glow like hot embers as he stares down at me.

"You're welcome to borrow it, if you'd like," he says, still being the only one to talk.

His voice is deep, yet extremely pleasant—almost seductive. Coupled with his strong jawline and unwavering gaze, I can feel my cheeks becoming flustered.

But this isn't some singles meet-and-greet and I need to stay focused. More specifically, I'm puzzled as to why this man would offer me one of Dr. Ward's books. Who is he to just show up like this in the dean's office when I'm the one with the appointment?

"No . . . thank you," I say, glancing at the door expecting my host to enter any moment now, before tugging on the book and re-shelving it.

Having years of experience being around the men in academia, I expect resistance to the refusal, but I get none. Instead, the stranger walks toward the center of the room. Rounding the antique desk, he pulls out the swivel chair behind it and . . ..

"You're—" I let my astonishment slip out as the pieces finally fall into place. I am such an idiot. I had let my expectations of a distinguished academic—fifties, graying, and maybe even a bit portly—cloud the reality that was right in front of me. Young, fit, and smoking hot.

Holy hell, what did I just get myself into?

As he sits, Clayton Ward lets his lips form a tiny smile. It's barely more than a twitch of muscles under his neatly trimmed stubble, but his amusement at my flub doesn't escape my attention.

Based on my informal attire and obvious mistaken identity, I should probably be embarrassed, but actually, now I'm a little mad. It's as though he had planned to make me uncomfortable all along. First with moving up the time of our meeting and now deliberately not introducing himself right away. I bet he got similar reactions all the time. So was this supposed to be a joke? Or a test of some kind? If so, did I pass?

None of that matters right now. I just need to show that it didn't faze me. That I'm adult enough to rise above it. And maybe, that two can play at that game.

"I'm sorry. Where are my manners?" I say, extending my hand, taking a jab with the deliberate emphasis. "We haven't been introduced. I'm Dr. Barlow Milligan."

Forced to stand again or risk being called out for breaking another social expectation, Ward's face becomes stern as he shakes my hand. "Clayton Ward. Do have a seat, Dr. Milligan," he says, motioning toward an armchair.

The piece, just like the desk, is oversized and while I wouldn't consider myself to be petite, both make me feel smaller than usual. Another attempt at intimidation, perhaps? I'm starting to like this man less and less by the second.

Ward's piercing gaze across the desktop isn't helping so I try to focus on the wall above him. But there, hanging over the mantle, is an even more unsettling sight.

"Do you hunt?" I ask bluntly as I stare into the glassy eyes of the mounted six-point buck. It must have been once a beautiful animal, freely roaming some forest and peacefully living its life. Now, the severed and stuffed head is just a reminder of the inevitability—and permanence—of death.

There is another inappropriately long pause, but I suppose my question was unexpected.

"If the occasion calls for it," Ward says after carefully choosing his words.

What an odd answer. That'll teach me for trying to fill uncomfortable silence with small talk.

So from now on, I don't. But that just means that we spend the next however many seconds—perhaps minutes—without speaking again. In any other case, I would give in, but I'm the guest. If this man wanted to see me so badly that he even moved up our meeting time, then he should start the conversation.

It becomes apparent that neither of us wants to relent, and I'm starting to fear that this was all a mistake. That working for a man who plays mind games would be unbearable. That I should have just looked for a job closer to home.

And then Ward's phone rings.

Pulling the device out of his pocket, he glances at the screen and declines the call. And that did it. It was the magic formula needed to break our stalemate.

"This isn't the usual way I like to welcome our new faculty," Ward says, leaning forward in his chair and interweaving his fingers. They're long and strong. Masculine. Perhaps even dangerous.

I'm tempted to reply, I would hope not, but he continues before I have a chance.

"But in this case, I needed to meet you before things went any further," he says.

I flinch. "I thought everything has been finalized. I've signed a contract and—"

"No. No. This has nothing to do with your employment," he assures me, waving his hands in emphasis. "You're all set for your first class to start on Monday."

Now I'm really confused and I shake my head. "What is this about then?" I ask.

"Let's just say that there were details I wanted to personally confirm to ensure you get the most out of your time at Packard," he says, as measured as before.

Well, that doesn't clear anything up.

"So, did you get what you needed?" I ask, pursing my lips in annoyance.

For the first time since we've met, Clayton Ward genuinely smiles. The action lights up his whole face and I immediately determine that he should do it more often.

"Yes, I did," he says without hesitation. "Yes. I. Did."