Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Go on,” he says, “I won’t judge.” His tone is light, but I catch the flicker of tolerance under the surface.
I lean in, take the bite, let the espresso and sugar coat my tongue. I close my eyes, pretending I’m somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t so loud or bright or full of people waiting for me to fail at pretending to be normal.
Dylan watches me eat. “It’s good, right?”
I nod, chewing slow. “Really good.”
We finish the dessert in silence, passing the plate back and forth like a peace treaty.
When the bill comes, Dylan pays without hesitation. He signs the receipt with a flourish, then stands, holding out his hand to help me up. I take it, and the heat of his palm surprises me. It’s the first time we’ve touched all night.
He leans in, face so close I can smell the aftershave and the faintest echo of pool chemicals. “You want to go for a walk, or…?”
I shake my head, fast. “I should get back. I’m exhausted.”
Dylan’s face falls, just a fraction, but he recovers. “Sure. I’ll get you back to your dorm.”
For the first time all night, I smile sincerely.
“Thanks, that would be great.”
We’re at the hostess stand waiting for the coat check, the air in the foyer syrup-thick with perfume. Dylan is scrolling his phone, probably checking the team group chat, while I run mental laps around everything I’ll tell Andie about the date, all the while scraping at the memory of how little I actually cared.
It’s then that the unthinkable happens. The front door opens and Professor Thomas—no, Liam, I have to remember to call him that, at least in my head—materializes inside the restaurant. He’s drop dead gorgeous in a dark coat over a white button down and black pants. But the asshole isn’t alone! His arm is wrapped around a woman’s waist as he ushers her inside, a sharp-featured brunette in a red sheath dress that could put out a fire by walking through it. She’s middle-aged, maybe thirty-five or so, but still attractive. She’s clearly enthralled by Liam, and smiling up at him with adoration.
“That’s so funny,” she breathes. “You’re hysterical, Liam.”
My stomach knots in that special way: anger, jealousy, the petulant knowledge that even when I try to move on, there he is, cooler and more untouchable than ever.
He sees me in an instant. There’s no flicker of surprise, just a subtle tightening in his jaw and that same glacial blue stare, turned up to maximum voltage. For a second, I swear he might come over and drag me out by the ponytail, caveman-style. Instead, he steers his date forward.
“Claire,” he murmurs to the woman beside him.
I act before I think. My hand slides into the crook of Dylan’s arm, squeezing it, just so. The handsome boy looks up from his phone, startled, then beams and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in. We are suddenly the image of collegiate coupledom, as if we’ve been doing this for months and not ninety minutes.
Liam’s mouth twitches, barely. I can feel him watching every micro-movement, every fake laugh, every squeeze of Dylan’s hand on my ribcage. He and the brunette pause just a little too long in the foyer, the moment vibrating.
And then, as if God is running a dress rehearsal for my humiliation, the hostess shouts, “Mr. Tourneau, your coat is ready!”
Dylan steps forward to get it, which means I’m suddenly standing alone, right in front of Professor Thomas and his attractive, age-appropriate companion.
She’s the first to speak. “You and that boy are so cute together,” she says, smiling at me with real warmth. “Is he your boyfriend?”
The word tastes like battery acid, but I nod. “Something like that.”
Liam’s face is set in stone, the blue of his eyes more a bruise than a color. His date glances at him because we obviously know each other. She’s waiting for an introduction, and when he doesn’t give it, she sticks out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Claire,” the woman asks, sensing something in the air. “Have you two met before?”
“No,” Liam says, at the same time that I say “yes.”
Claire’s brows go up, and she puts on a smile.
“Well, that’s an interesting answer,” she laughs. “I’m a friend of Liam’s from way back when. And you are?”
I shake her hand, which is soft and cold, her nails glossy red. “Simone,” I say. “I’m an English major at Century.”
Liam’s lips twitch again, but he still doesn’t speak.
Dylan, ever the puppy, bounds back with both our coats, grinning like he just set a world record. “Hey, Professor Thomas,” he says, giving the older man a head-tilt. “Didn’t know you liked Italian food.”
“I don’t,” Thomas says, smooth as glass. “But Claire does.” He squeezes the woman’s waist, a gesture so studied it might as well be an answer on a pop quiz.