“Hm.” He pressed his palm against his jacket, smoothing the already pressed fabric. “I wanted a word before your afternoon meetings.”
Of course he did.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I began walking toward the exit. When it was clear I wasn’t going to stop, he fell into step beside me.
We moved through the hall together, the echo of our shoes sharp against the stone. I didn’t bother to slow my pace. If Randolph wanted my time, he could keep up.
“I hear your assistant has settled in.”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “If you’re fishing for reassurance, save it. HR cleared him. His access is approved.”
“Oh, I’m not concerned about procedure. That is Judith’s favorite sport.”
He paused as if he expected me to laugh.
“Still.” He cleared his throat. “There were a number of applicants for the position. Strong ones. Some with more… conventional qualifications.”
I stopped walking.
Randolph took one more step before realizing I hadn’t followed. He turned, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise.
“Go on,” I said.
“I’m looking out for you, Henry. Ashford men have to stick together.”
Ashford.
There was nothing in it worth remembering—no pride, no nostalgia. Just rot.
Randolph had graduated two decades before me and was acting like we belonged to the same club. Like surviving that place made us allies.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made me want him further the fuck away.
“Several applicants had prior assistantship experience, Henry. Better institutional alignment.”
“Alignment with what?”
“With expectations,” he said smoothly. “The role is competitive. Naturally, people notice when someone unexpected is chosen.”
Unexpected.
The word dragged across my nerves.
“Archibald Quinn wasn’t chosen at random.” I ground out.
“I didn’t suggest he was.”
“You implied it, did you not?”
Randolph held up his hands. “I’m simply saying—Wexley is an ecosystem. Choices ripple.”
I stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. Close enough that he could feel my breath against his overly bronzed cheeks.
“You don’t get to reduce my decisions to optics,” I said quietly. “If you want to discuss funding, scheduling, or the absurdity of your lecture quotas, I’m available. If you want to second-guess my judgment?—”
“I want to understand it,” Randolph cut in, smiling. “That’s all.”