Chapter 3: Chapter 3

“Did you travel here from Boston today?” Jefferson asked.

Micah toyed with the edge of his napkin. “Yes. I’ve made arrangements to take some time off from my studies.” His mouth slanted. “When I told my professors who I was planning on seeing, they were more than amenable to my intentions. Provided, of course, I have fruits of my labor when I return.”

“Oh?” Jefferson regarded him like he was the only person in the room. “What sorts of fruits are your professors expecting? Or, perhaps I should ask, what sorts of fruits are you seeking?”

His throat was dry. Pinned under that slate gaze, Micah wondered how it was a man of such obvious charisma had chosen a career with a quill instead of one where his other talents might be better displayed, then reminded himself of the beauty that man created. Micah had been in love with verse almost since learning how to read, and no other had touched him the way Jefferson Dering’s poetry had the day he’d first devoured it. Or any day since.