The Memories of Stars
an excerpt

Patrick ambled down the aisle. She—Lena—was struggling with the multitude of cords that connected her laptop to the projector. She dropped down in front of the podium, and he distinctly heard her mutter, “Damn it.”
He sauntered up to the podium and rested an elbow on it while peering down at her. She appeared completely oblivious; all he could see was the top of her head, and the gleaming, impossibly shiny cascade of golden-brown hair. But he had the distinct feeling she had a charming scowl on her face. “Need some help?”
She jerked, nearly cracking her head on the ledge inside the podium, and squeaked a little. Patrick had to struggle valiantly not to laugh. She quickly regained her composure though, and looked up. “If you can provide it, yes.”
Oh, man, that voice. It was even better up close. As was the face. And the body. The whole ribbon-wrapped package. Fair golden skin, to match her hair, and golden-green hazel eyes. Soft mouth. She chewed on it as she looked up at him. Shy. It just got better and better. So Patrick flicked his wrist and unplugged the one cord that would solve all her laptop and projector woes. “There ya go.”
She blinked. “That easy, huh?” She stood, and tugged at her jacket. “I haven’t had to give a lecture in a long time.”
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Patrick said, leaning against the podium as she closed her laptop and slid it into its case. “I’m Patrick Connelly.”
“Oh,” she said, fumbling with the case before offering her hand. “Lena Passerini.”
“So he said,” Patrick said with a smile, rolling his shoulder toward where Epstein stood at the doorway, talking to another professor.
To his utter delight she blushed. “Right,” she said. “Anyway. Um.”
“I teach literature here,” he added. “Mostly Victorian.”
“Oh!” she said, and then she smiled, and holy God above, it was like the sun had come out. “I, um, just bought a Victorian. A house, I mean. A Victorian house.” She frowned slightly.
“Victorian houses are wonderful,” Patrick remarked. “I just have a lowly apartment with a slob roommate.”
“I had one of those,” she responded, and then a definite cloud passed over her face. “Right. Um, I need to get back to my office.”
“As do I,” Patrick said. “Papers to assign, undergrads to torment.”
“Me too,” Lena said. “It was nice to meet you.”
All right, a definite dismissal. He could handle that. “Thanks, you too. Have a good day.” Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled off. Before he left, he turned around and watched as she walked across the stage to the stairs, hair shining with every movement.
He walked out into the bright sun, and beamed up at the August sky. “I am the favored child of the gods today,” he declared. “Yes indeedy.”