Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) Read Online Free Page B

say.
    “Yes, again.” I lay my bag on the desk at the front of the auditorium and pull out my notes. Only a few students actually pay attention. The rugby team hasn’t flinched and though I know they’re likely half asleep, I’m not going to let them get away with slacking.  I don’t care that Nichols is their faculty adviser. Donovan is on the front row snoring. I pick up the dictionary off the shelf and stand in front of him, then deftly slam the book on his desk. There is a collective gasp and he jumps about two inches off his seat.
    “Morning, sunshine. Do you think you can manage to wake up?”
    “Nichols said—”
    “Nichols is seventy-eight years old and could give a flying fart about teaching his classes. I do the lecturing and the grading. You want to play the Nichols card?” I shift forward, just low enough so only Donovan and his teammates can hear me. My silver cross necklace moves as I bend toward them. “Or do you wanna piss me off and see where that gets you?”
    “No,” he says. Donovan sits up and elbows the player next to him who clearly is capable of sleeping through a hurricane. “Dude, wake up.”
    “Good. Let’s get started.” I walk to the front of the desk and sit on top of it, pulling out the text. “Okay guys, The Epic of Gilgamesh. It’ll be painless if you actually pay attention. We left off on table five.”
    Fifty minutes later, the students bolt from the room like there is a fire and I’m at the center of it holding a can of gasoline.  Donovan offers me a smile, which I don’t return. He nodded off twice during my lecture. Anyone would be somewhat personally offended by his napping. Eager to grab a quick latte from the coffee shop, I shove my notes and textbook into my bag, not paying attention to the sloppy mess I make, which allows my folder with dozens of loose papers to topple out onto the floor.
    “Awesome,” I say to myself. Several pages fan into the corridor and I’m convinced in my last life I must have been a malicious pirate, possibly a politician. This is my punishment, the frustrating job as Nichols’s assistant. The perpetual ineptness.  
    Two wayward sheets scatter near the door and as I crouch to reach for them, I am met with a pair of large Nikes in Cavanagh red. A rugby player who clearly hasn’t broken in his tennis shoes. Long, thin fingers grab the pages and I stand, my eyes following the stretch off solid, tan legs, heavily muscled calves, and a narrow waist. The wide, finely shaped chest and the familiar patch of brown hair peeking out of the collar of his jersey stalls my breathing.
    For the first time in a year, Tucker Morrison stands in front of me.
    “Hey sweetness,” he says.
    Rational thought is held still as we exchange a look. Air refuses to enter my lungs and a large wad of dry cotton has taken permanent residence in my mouth. He seems older than the last time I saw him. He is tall, over six feet, with brown, wavy hair and sharp cheekbones. Tucker covers the awkward silence with a grin and my heart pounds as I notice the small chip on his front tooth, the only flaw on an otherwise perfect smile. I used to kiss that little chip. I used to pay a lot of attention to many of his fine attributes.
    He steps closer and I don’t bother to move. I am caught up by how blue his eyes still are, how the sharp contours of his thick arms flex when he hands me the papers. Then I remember the last time I saw him. That night, our argument was loud and I threw books, candles, anything I could get my hands on; the disturbance shook the windows of my apartment and my neighbors called threatening to phone the police. It was the same night he broke my heart.
    Two brief blinks sort out my shock and I jerk the paper from his hand before returning to the desk to finish repacking my bag.
    “Come on, Autumn, don’t be cold to me.”
    My eyebrow arches up. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
    He sits on my desk as though invited and I move him away to