CONTENTS

Title

About the book

Dear reader

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Author’s Note

The Author

Books by Selina Mae published at LYX

Excerpt

Imprint

SELINA MAE

Lessons in Faking

A Novel

English Edition

by LYX

ABOUT THE BOOK

There’s one thing Athalia Pressley wants more than designer bags and daily takeout: her twin brother’s affection. Since their parents’ death, Henry hasn’t given her much of it—until a halfway-to-failed class and the need for a tutor lands her in his enemy’s lap, and suddenly Athalia is awarded her brother’s undivided attention. Unfortunately, if she wants to keep it that way she needs Dylan McCarthy Williams’s help. She’s not fond of her brother’s enemy, his slick comments, or that know-it-all attitude. Fluffy hair, dreamy eyes, body of a college soccer player … and she still hates his guts. But there’s no one who gets under her brother’s skin quite like he does, and when Athalia proposes her risky fake dating ruse, McCarthy is almost eager to participate. Through forced laughs, fake dates, and the restraint not to strangle him whenever he opens his mouth, the two craft the perfect relationship facade and occasionally leave their bickering behind to chase one common goal: a Pressley’s attention.

This book contains explicit content.

For more detailed information, please see here.

Disclaimer: The content warning includes spoilers for the entire book!

We wish you the best possible reading experience.

Love,

Selina & LYX

To those who love without trying

or realizing or wanting anything in return.

Thank you.

CHAPTER 1

I was sure of exactly three things.

1. Revenge is just another word for justice.

2. Money does buy happiness.

3. Stay away from Dylan McCarthy Williams or my brother will have me murdered in my sleep.

And how badly did I need this, really?

Technically, I was failing Statistics II—yes. And sure, Professor Shaw said this weekly tutoring thing would be the only way to get through his class, after the midterm I had “completely violated” (his words, not mine).

But let’s face it. Perhaps college just wasn’t my thing. Despite my mother’s reputation, statistics certainly wasn’t. And McCarthy certainly wasn’t, either.

My eyes fell to the brunet on the other side of his desk with an internal groan. His tall frame hovered over a stack of papers, dark brows drawn together slightly, as he assessed one of them. Sitting in the small office chair, coffee-brown hair falling into his features, he hadn’t acknowledged my presence in the doorway. Not after I’d knocked. Not after I’d opened the door. Not after I’d—

“Athalia Payton Pressley,” he drawled, not looking up. Automatically, my body deflated in sync with the sound of his voice. “Would you just sit?”

The words left Dylan McCarthy Williams’ mouth with irritable indifference, still scribbling into his notes, before the red pen dropped from his grip. And somehow, that gesture in itself, felt intentionally passive-aggressive. Like he was saying How dare you interrupt my work? without ever opening his mouth.

Instead, he said, “Or were you planning on staring at me for the entire hour?” His eyes found mine and his brows rose, with a prompting look on his face that made me want to run the other way, but instead, forced me into the chair opposite his. McCarthy followed my every move, watching cautiously as I took a seat, swooping my brown hair to one side, so it wouldn’t get stuck behind my back. I crossed one leg over the other, holding the hem of my black skirt in place, smoothing a hand down the wool fabric of my long sleeve.

Innocently, I blinked at him. “I was promised Shaw’s best and brightest.” My head tilted with a smirk on my lips, not hiding the light disdain in my voice, as I got a stack of notes out of my bag. It was half the size of his, but I ignored that. “Have you seen them, by any chance?” With a loud thud, hoping the gesture would mirror the attitude of his pen-dropping, I maneuvered my papers onto the desk.

An unamused huff escaped him, as he reached for the passive-aggressive pen again. McCarthy thought, before his gaze lifted onto mine once more, lips turning into a wide, fake smile. A smile that said: I’m not here to bullshit back and forth with you, I’m here to ass-kiss for extra credit and a good reputation. A smile that also said: I’d much rather kill you now and live with the consequences than do this; the threat was hidden behind deep dimples and the words “You can’t really be surprised, can you?”

He gestured to his own frame, down the plain black T-Shirt, the silver chain disappearing under its neckline. He sported a cocky grin, when my gaze flicked up toward him again.

Dylan McCarthy Williams was, if nothing else, what my brother hated most in this world. More than strawberry ice cream (“It’s a sorry excuse of a flavor, Athalia! No, I’m not debating you on this.”). More than Eric (my first boyfriend). More than our dead parents (for… dying?).

There were a few noteworthy reasons (and a couple of hundred more).

1. McCarthy stole his jersey number.

2. McCarthy stole his spot as team captain.

3. McCarthy stole his girlfriend (Paula), three days after they had broken up.

Of course, it was pure coincidence McCarthy had ended up with the number seven on his jersey. In the end, their bickering had cost both of them their chance at captaining the HBU soccer team, though Henry Parker Pressley was of the firm belief that McCarthy had been out to get him, from the moment he’d laid eyes on him, three years ago. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t particularly care, either. All that mattered was that I stood in solidarity with him—which put McCarthy high up on my own metaphorical hit list, for the mere fact he was #1 on Henry’s.

There wasn’t much history between McCarthy and me. Although my brother didn’t care about much regarding my life, he’d obviously made sure of that. What I knew of him, though—the arrogance, the sarcasm, the general attitude—it seemed he’d done me a solid. One that didn’t change anything about the fact I was still sitting across from McCarthy now.

While I usually didn’t mind facing conflict head-on, the thought of asking Professor Shaw for a different tutor was appealing now. His office was just next door. I could knock, apologize (for… failing his class?) and promise to get to a passing grade by the end of the semester, all by myself.

And with anyone else, that might’ve worked, but Shaw hated me enough as it was. Plus, what’s to say I’d actually manage to pass by myself? The odds were stacked against me.

I shook my head with a sigh, eyes scanning the room. Honestly, whoever had chosen it couldn’t have found a smaller one if they’d tried really, really hard. Compared to the vast dining halls of Hall Beck University (in which I’d eaten a total of four times), the massive library on the main campus (that I’d been forced into more often than I would’ve liked) and lecture halls, with hundreds of seats (that still ended up completely packed whenever I’d get there, two minutes before a lecture began); this was a broom closet. Crammed into it a wooden desk full of loose papers, a bookshelf filled with folders of various colors, and then a man too large for the chair he sat in.

Behind McCarthy, a window looked out onto one of the courtyards of the university, showing the mild fall weather of the east coast. Dust collected in the corners of the glass. The space was too small, too packed for this to end well.

“What makes you think this is a good idea?”

“It’s not.” McCarthy shrugged, technically agreeing with me.

The thought of the both of us agreeing on anything—even if it was the mere fact that we wouldn’t get along—struck me as odd.

Odd enough, that I must’ve made a face, because he went on to say, “Poor Princess Pressley.” A note of amusement lingered within his otherwise dismissive tone. His head tilted slightly. “Can’t believe someone wouldn’t be thrilled to spend time with her.”

My last attempt at civility, was letting that comment slide. By now, I’d been called far worse than ‘princess’. I watched him silently scan through the few notes I’d collected in the first weeks of the semester and hoped he could feel my glare, even if he wasn’t looking at me.

“Jesus Christ.” His silence had been far too short. “How did you pass Statistics I like this?”

I didn’t need confirmation to know he’d found the midterm, that had gotten me into this predicament in the first place. The way his lip curled upward said enough, but for emphasis, he turned the pages and huffed, “A D? Really?”, in the worst possible way he could.

My nose twitched, before I deadpanned a “Fuck you.” McCarthy just snickered in amusement.

The truth, though? Blind as a bat, and with his long, greasy hair hanging into his face at every given opportunity, how would Professor Shaw have noticed little old me last year—with my phone under the table—snapping photos of the questions and sending them to someone who did know the answers? Exactly.

My brother, uptight and smart enough for the both of us, would probably call that cheating. I’d call it being resourceful.

The problem: my performance in the last class and my final, acceptable grade, didn’t correlate. Hah, statistics. And though Shaw hadn’t had any proof of my cheating last semester, he sure had been determined to get it, this time around. Hence the seating chart he’d introduced in our first lecture of Statistics II, and why I was seated in the front row. It forced me to take my midterm fair and square, and, well, here we were.

With a D.

McCarthy snorted with amusement, as if he’d heard my inner monologue and knew my answer to his question, even before it formed on my tongue. “Of course.” He nodded knowingly. He rolled his eyes. “When do the Pressleys not throw Daddy’s money at their problems?”

“It’s Mommy’s, actually.” I smiled innocently, watching him place my notes on the desk between us, turned, so we could see them from either side. “And clearly,” I continued, “this is me not throwing it at my problems, or you’d have noticed by now.”

“That’s funny.” He didn’t laugh.

And after he didn’t laugh, he cleared his throat like we were really doing this. Like he would really teach me ‘A-B tests’ and ‘bandit algorithms’. And like he really expected me to get it.

I honestly had believed him to be as opposed to this as I was. To figuratively scream and fight, until Shaw would let him out of it, throw a tantrum if he had to. As long as we wouldn’t be sitting here by the end of it…

“Why would you want to torture us like this?” I hoped my words would divert us from the path toward hypotheses and variables. “You’re out of your mind if you think—”

“It’s my job, Pressley,” he said, face straight, expression unreadable for a second. Then, the right corner of his lip twisted, just the tiniest bit, in a cruel, yet irritably intriguing way. “You know,” he teased. “That thing where you show up, do what you’re told, and get money for it at the end of the month? With your background, I don’t know if you’re familiar—”

“Wait.” I was just beginning to get it. “You’re TA’ing for Shaw?” I shook my head a little, confusion lingering in my expression. “Why?” I basically spat the word.

“Why not?”

“You don’t need the money,” I assessed, green eyes narrowing slightly. Very quickly, they flicked to the watch around his wrist (that had probably cost as much as the pair of Miu Miu’s in my closet). “You definitely don’t need the money.”

“And yet here I am.”

And yet here he was.

So, on I went. “What happened to the cute senior from last year? I liked him.” I faked a pout.

“Believe it or not—he graduated.”

“And you just had to be the one to replace him?” The smug smile on my lips was a complete lie. A front that kept the realization from manifesting on my face. My chances of getting another tutor had been slim before, but knowing McCarthy was TA’ing for Shaw had just reduced them to zero, and I was dying inside.

There was no way he’d bother assigning me another tutor, when he had McCarthy—his TA to do it. “No one else up to the task?”

“They dodged a bullet.” He was beginning to get annoyed. I could feel it. In the way he impatiently drummed his fingers on the wooden desk and the way he fumbled with the papers between us, to steer my attention onto them. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Man,” I sighed with a victorious smile, dragging the word out. I couldn’t help it. I leaned back into the uncomfortable chair, and his exasperated groan almost made me laugh. “TA’ing for Shaw, huh? Must be the worst.” Our eyes stayed connected; the bags under his told me he couldn’t have slept more than a few hours last night. Still, somehow he looked more put together than I would, after a full night’s rest. “Do you get in trouble if you can’t get the job done?”

He leaned his forearms onto the desk. His dark hair fell into his face, and the glimpse of a smile played on his lips—not an amused or happy one. Challenging. “That depends,” he said softly. “Will you get in trouble if you fail his class?”

“What’s his punishment? Do you get your pay cut? Overtime?” I ignored his words. “Or do you just get fired?” I swallowed hard; smile still on my lips when my head tilted. “Could I get you fired, McCarthy?”

I could see the gears in his head turning, the corner of his mouth twitching, and his Adam’s apple bobbing before he answered. “Doesn’t matter.” Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he shrugged as he leaned back into his chair. “I always get the job done.”

Then he sighed, and I shifted in my seat, uncrossing my legs. “And just so you know,” he began once more, gaze falling to my right. “That door connects to Shaw’s office.” He nodded toward it. “In case you want to make sure he can hear your insults, speak up just a little more next time.” He huffed in light amusement. “You can guess how thin these walls are.”

I tried to prevent the panic currently seeping through every fiber of my being from showing on my face, as best as I could. Quickly shifted my eyes from the alleged connecting door. To distract him, I cleared my throat, leaned forward, and flipped through my own notes.

“Right,” I exclaimed, and I could tell how pleased he was. “You were saying? About…” My voice trailed off, reading the half-hearted notes I took in the last lecture. “About ‘two-sample comparison’?” My eyes batted open to find the victorious smile I’d expected from him, and I almost regretted caving.

Though, if there was one thing worse than McCarthy’s presence, it was the wrath of a certain Professor Simon Shaw.

My brother would understand.

CHAPTER 2

I heard my best friend before I saw her.

The rattling of her crowded keychain when she opened the door to our shared loft on the edge of campus. The thudding of her rushed steps, only briefly interrupted as she kicked off her shoes by the door. And finally, “You can’t be serious.” Her tone clipped and annoyed, she rounded the corner into the open kitchen.

“Unfortunately.” My gaze trailed from my laptop toward her as she came into view. “I’m dead serious.”

Wren frowned, and slowly but surely let go of the grocery-filled tote bag over her shoulder. It slid to the ground as she, undoubtedly, thought of the string of text messages she’d received as soon as I had left McCarthy’s office.

“No,” she insisted.

“Yes.”

“McCarthy?”

I nodded again.

Finally, she let go of the deep breath she must’ve been holding for a while, blowing strands of short, split-dyed hair out of her face in the process. The black and white of either side of her hair parted in the middle and barely reached her shoulders; the color was a DIY project, from way before we’d known each other. Now, unpacking the bag she’d maneuvered onto the kitchen island, it was moving in sync with the motion. With a sigh, I jumped off the stool to help her.

“You should’ve seen his face,” I continued mid-motion.

“I’d rather not.”

“It was just so—” I struggled to find words that would describe what had been an equal mix of arrogance, confidence, and smugness on his face. I gave up with a frustrated groan. “As if his ego isn’t big enough as it is.” I opened the fridge a little too forcefully. “Now I’m stroking it every time I accidentally learn something from him—which is supposed to be the point of the whole thing, right?” I closed the fridge with a thud. “Learning something, I mean. And thanks to him, it’s the only thing I don’t want to do now.”

Wren gave me her best attempt at a sympathetic smile, which meant her nose twitched and she grimaced more than smiled. But I got the message, took my first deep breath since I’d broken into a fit of rambling a few minutes ago, and slumped back onto the stool.

“I doubt he’d be able to teach you anything to begin with,” Wren muttered, head cocked. Another twitch of her nose, then a sigh—a sound filled with both pity and determination. She turned toward me again. “I’m sure I could pick up Statistics in a heartbeat,” she said. “I’ll be your tutor. Fuck McCarthy.”

A low, almost defeated laugh rattled through me.

“I’m serious,” she added, sounding convinced.

For a second, I let myself imagine it. Wren in that office chair opposite me. Wren asking me questions I didn’t know the answers to. And asking me again and again, until I eventually did. No McCarthy in sight. It was beautiful, almost utopian.

“I know.” I dragged the last word out, sounding almost whiny. “Which is why the offer is so terribly inviting.” A pout formed on my lips, turning into a half-hearted smile at the prompting look on Wren’s face. Okay, so? it was asking. She crossed her arms, revealing the stick and poke tattoo of a knife along the side of her hand—the result of our procrastination, during summer exams last year.

I shook my head in amusement. “I cannot possibly in good conscience steal that much of your time. Again.”

Wren Inkwood was the kind of friend who accompanied you to every party, every get-together, despite the fact she didn’t like to drink and she did not like people. She was the kind to beat up your boyfriend when she’d found him cheating on you—before she even told you he had. The kind to take you home for Thanksgiving, despite only knowing you for ten weeks.

And because she was clearly the ‘above-and-beyond’ kind of friend, and I was the ‘average-at-best’ kind, I wanted to take less and give more. I wanted to be there for her, instead of the other way around. Which is why I was persistent in my stance.

“You can’t be serious, Athalia.”

“I am.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

The knock on our front door felt like my saving grace—a way to get out of an argument before it had really even started.

I jumped off the bar stool with a faked apologetic look on my face, then basically broke into a sprint to the door. Though, once I was greeted by the less-than-pleased expression on my twin’s face, I immediately missed the childish back and forth with Wren as she disappeared into her room.

I’d like to see him more often, yes. But never when he was in a bad mood.

“Henry.” My brows rose as he slipped into my apartment without another word. “Why don’t you come in?” I muttered, waving him in with an unnecessary swat. He’d taken a right turn and reached the open kitchen by then, rummaging through cupboards and shelves unbothered. I could hear it from here. With a roll of my eyes, I slammed the door and followed. “You know I love your annual visits, but a bit of a heads-up would be… great.”

Henry was still in his jersey, crimson shorts on full display, a little eight stitched onto them, and a black hoodie thrown over the matching shirt. He was probably sweaty and gross and still, he looked as put together as ever. Light brown hair parted in the middle the way it always was.

“They’re not annual,” he acknowledged after a solid fifteen seconds, finally resting once he got his hands on a half-brown banana from the otherwise empty fruit basket. Taking it forced him to first place the stack of papers in his hand onto the island, drawing my attention to them.

I stiffened. “Where did you get those?”

The question was unnecessary.

Henry’s green eyes followed my gaze pretend-casually. “Oh, these?” He shrugged, using the banana as an extension of his finger to half-heartedly point at my statistics notes.

He took a bite, then with a full mouth went on to say, “Funny story, actually.” The expression on his face told me it wasn’t—or at the very least he didn’t think so. “McCarthy gave them to me after practice.” Disdain sprawled across his face at the mention of him. “Told me my little sister must have left them at his office; if I could be so kind to get them back to her, and if I was already stopping by anyway—”

“Not that you were going to,” I reminded him quickly. “Stop by, that is.” Not if it hadn’t been for my notes in his hand, and the fact they’d previously been in McCarthy’s.

Henry ignored the dig pointedly. I wasn’t surprised. “He wants me to let you know that, apparently—” My brother was nothing if not dramatic, and he paused like he needed the moment to collect himself.

My eyes closed, head falling back as I stemmed my hands on top of the counter behind me. I braced myself for impact—for whatever message McCarthy had left my brother.

“Apparently,” Henry repeated, waiting until I looked back at him. “He really enjoyed himself today—is looking forward to next time, even.” And as if it couldn’t get any worse: “But remind her how thin the walls are, he said. I won’t go as easy on her again.” I wouldn’t be surprised if the last words were an exact quote. That they were half the reason Henry was here to begin with.

We stared at each other in disbelief––of very different kinds.

Mine was: I cannot believe McCarthy would feed my brother this bullshit.

His was: I cannot believe my sister is hooking up with my arch-nemesis (like I said, dramatic).

And when I didn’t say anything in my defense—because I was still too stunned to say anything at all—the accusation shot out of him. “You’re sleeping with McCarthy!”

His unfiltered words snapped me out of it. “Good God,” I gasped, grimacing. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

“Then explain these!” He waved my notes in the air, desperately. “Please.” And he sounded the part, too.

“Tutoring!” I sputtered. “He’s my tutor.” I took a deep breath. “Statistics.”

Like the word was all the explanation he needed. I could see the realization seep into every single one of his features. The relief of the explanation was immediate. The way his shoulders sagged, the deep breath he took. Henry closed his eyes in what seemed to be a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in.

“Tutoring,” he affirmed to himself in a half-whisper, then took another bite of the banana, as if the fit he’d just thrown never happened. Swallowing, he nodded in another self-assuring gesture. “He’s your tutor.”

“Yes.”

His voice was calm, his gaze gliding through the room almost distractedly, when he said, “So get another one.”

I snorted, and wondered whether he really believed that thought hadn’t yet crossed my mind. “I can’t simply get another one,” I huffed, sitting back on the bar stool.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I groaned. Henry’s brows rose, waiting for the end of that sentence. “Because Shaw said this is my only shot at passing his class.” I pinned him with a look when he still seemed unbothered—like it was a mere inconvenience I hadn’t put enough effort into fixing. “McCarthy as my tutor. Once a week.”

Henry shook his head as if he’d been there, during mine and the professor’s conversation, and as if that wasn’t what he had said at all. “I’ll be your tutor instead.”

And hello, offer number two.

“Are you Shaw’s TA?”

“No,” he said. Before I could retort anything, he went on. “But I’m better at statistics than McCarthy.”

“You think you’re better than him at everything,” I pointed out with a sigh, giving up on this conversation as my head fell into my arms on the island.

“Because I am.”

“Sure.”

“Athalia—”

“What?” I didn’t mean to shout the word at him. His demeanor had been entirely too calm for that, and yet my head jerked in his direction forcefully.

A short silence hung between us before Henry gave me an apologetic smile, rounding the kitchen island. Propping himself against it by my side, his hand ruffled my hair in that way he knew I hated, but I knew he loved. Even if it felt like one every time, it wasn’t a malicious gesture. Actually, it was probably the way Henry said You know I love you, right? the way siblings usually did. Only he never said the words—I couldn’t remember the last time he had.

“I’ll talk to Shaw,” he suggested, voice low. As if he knew even the smallest thing could set me off now. Like I was a bomb only waiting for a reason to explode. Maybe I was?

“That’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had, Henry,” I said calmly, mostly to compensate for my outburst seconds ago. “Shaw hates your guts almost as much as mine.”

“So what?” he asked. “He should know better than to put you and McCarthy in the same room. I’ll talk to him.”

I didn’t mention that Shaw probably had other things to worry about than a stupid rivalry between his top students.

“There’s no point.” Shaw wasn’t going to budge, McCarthy wasn’t going to quit. That was all that mattered.

Henry rose back to his impressive six foot one, and circled the kitchen island again to throw the banana peel into the trash under the sink. “I’ll talk to him,” was all he said.

“No you won’t,” I retorted, suddenly fierce in my stance.

“Athalia,” he groaned.

“Henry.”

Exasperated, his hands flew up, pinning me with a grim look that almost made me slip a smile. Henry was so easy to aggravate, I almost saw the appeal in McCarthy’s actions. At least that way he was paying attention to me. “I just don’t want that asshat—”

“Asshat?” My smile did slip out now. “Very original.”

Henry waved me away half-heartedly. “Whatever,” he huffed. “I just don’t want that guy anywhere near my little sister, that’s all.”

“I’m twelve minutes younger than you.” I shook my head slightly. “Which is why I don’t need you to baby me. In fact, I don’t need anyone to baby me. I’ll handle the situation with McCarthy like any adult would—by myself.”

He pointedly ignored the last statement. “And yet, you’re born a day after me. Twelve minutes or not, Athalia, you’re my baby sister. Period.”

“Henry—”

“Either way—” He shrugged like he hadn’t interrupted me, heading for the door. He made his way out of the apartment backward, eyes on me. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it, little sister.”

“Don’t you dare—” I was by his side again before I could even finish my sentence. “I will handle it.”

Unfazed, Henry opened the door, only hovering in the doorway long enough to give me an unbothered smile as a parting gift.

Little shit.

I took a deep breath, leveling my voice. “Dylan McCarthy will not get anywhere close to your little sister—” I mocked. “At least not closer than the desk separating us at all times. Now, let me just deal with this by myself. Okay?”

“Sure,” Henry said as he left, but he didn’t mean it.

CHAPTER 3

“You’re sure this isn’t a costume party?” Wren’s voice traveled through the barely lit street, accompanied by the music blaring through the walls of the colonial-style home we stood in front of.

Shifting my attention from the Greek letters sprawled above the entrance, I grinned at her. “Positive. Though even if it was—” My eyes danced across her: the military boots, the run in her dark tights that disappeared under a skirt—the same shade as everything else she usually wore (black). “You might still qualify for Halloween.”

“Fuck off.” Wren rolled her eyes as she matched my smile, probably rethinking the entirety of our three year-long friendship when I nudged her up the porch and reached for the door. I gave her one last look, lips turned up into a full grin by now. When she matched it again, I pushed the door open.

A few cheers erupted through the crowd, welcoming us—not because they necessarily knew who we were (or cared), but simply because, to them, more people equaled more fun. More singing, more dancing, more possible hookups.

“Athalia!” By the time my head shot in the direction of the sound, two arms already pulled me into a bear-like hug, before a big hand ruffled my hair in that way I hated.

Henry.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I muffled against his chest, already too tipsy from pregaming to care about the fact he’d just ruined an hour of hairstyling in five seconds. Probably too taken aback by the fact that I was in Henry’s arms. That he was hugging me.

My brother was hugging me and I did not remember the last time he’d done that. Had been affectionate beyond his hair-ruffling at all.

Before I could fully understand what was happening—why it was—Henry shrugged, letting go to embrace Wren just as enthusiastically. I took the time to consider my twin. His brown hair was styled just enough to seem casual, when I knew it took him almost as long as it took me to get ready. He wore a black polo tucked into tailored pants, somehow pulling off that ‘golf-course’ vibe as casual.

While Wren patted his back—waiting with an upturned nose until he was ready to let her out of his hug—I considered another fact. Henry was drunk, and Henry did not usually drink.

Help me, Wren mouthed, pulling me out of my thoughts before I could figure out what had gotten Henry to this point. Not that I could ever figure out anything about my brother in the first place.

He wasn’t usually around enough for that.

“All right!” I announced, wrestling Wren out of Henry’s grip. Falling out of his arms, she took in a deep breath—basically a gasp. I barely managed a “See you around!” shouted in Henry’s general direction before my best friend dragged me through the crowded living room of the frat house. The last thing I saw was Henry giving a “see-you” salute.

Wren huffed, dusting off her black top in a way that was just so her, it had my heart swell with affection for no real reason. At the wide, distracted grin on my face, she did a double take. “Athalia—” she warned, taking a tentative step back that I immediately followed. “I know that look. Don’t—”

But my arms were slung around her before she could finish the sentence. In defeat, she grunted against my body. Her five foot two came up to my shoulder, on which she slumped her head in resignation. “This is my least favorite thing about you,” she muttered into my hair, relaxing into the inevitable.

“My great hugs?”

She barked a laugh before correcting my assumption. “That you get so touchy when you’re drunk,” she tsked. “Apparently, you and Henry have that in common.” Letting her go, I shrugged, delighted to find a lazy grin on her.

“Speaking of drunk…” I wiggled my brows. Wren sighed.

“Right. The drinks are over there.” She laughed, gently turning me toward the kitchen counter. “I’m gonna find the bathroom, then meet you there.” With a pat on the shoulder, Wren disappeared, turning back toward me only when the crowd had almost swallowed her whole.

My best friend pierced me with a look I knew all too well. One that had the corners of my lips edge up. “Take. It. Easy!” she shouted over the music, her voice taking on that motherly tone as she enunciated every word. What she meant by that was, don’t be black-out drunk by the time I get back.

Naturally, I honored her words with a shot.

If there was one thing about Wren Inkwood that was almost as certain as death and taxes, it was the fact that she’d be looking for a bathroom within the first ten minutes of arriving at any party.

She didn’t drink alcohol––never had––but while I’d been pre-drinking to our ‘getting-ready’ playlist at home, she couldn’t not drink something. It’s the principle of it, Athalia, she’d always say. So, she opted for water.

Gallons and gallons of water. I suspected that’s why her skin was porcelain-like. Inevitably, it also sent her looking for the nearest bathroom by the time we got to our destination. Like clockwork. She went to pee; I waited wherever she’d park me that night.

Tonight, it was the makeshift bar on the granite counter of the open kitchen.

I shook as the alcohol burned down my throat, wiping the residue off my lips. Turning back toward the counter, I knew (before I even touched anything), that the drink I was about to mix myself would end up way too strong.

“Oh, heavens.” It came from behind me, lingered between the loud music––my reaction delayed. “This has never ended well before.” By then, I realized the words were directed at me, and I twirled toward them, startled by the proximity of the body now in front of me.

My eyes wandered up the white dress shirt—the top two buttons open—before my eyes found his in panic-riddled recognition. His gaze fixed on me. A playful smirk hung in the corners of his lips, his piercing blue eyes digging into mine.

When you thought of the devil, most imagined horns and hooves, red skin, and even redder eyes. When I thought of the devil, however, he was all blond hair, blue eyes, and cute curls. Coincidentally, as ‘Highway to Hell’ played in the background and drunk college students blurted it louder than it was playing, he stood right in front of me.

“Let me take care of that.” He swooped the red cup right out of my hand, fingers brushing mine in a gesture I knew was deliberate. I found out a little too late that, with Jason Montgomery, everything was always deliberate. A little wistfully, he added, “Your mixers were always way too strong.”

I had that same thought around a minute ago. The realization freaked me out enough to keep my mouth shut and accept my full cup when he turned back around. Maybe the alcohol already in my system had something to do with that? Maybe the unwanted insecurities still riddling my thoughts around him did too.

Taking a sip, I had to begrudgingly admit that my ex-boyfriend was as good at mixing his drinks as he was at cheating on me.

“You used to talk more.”

Great observation, I wanted to say. The possibility that I still talked just as much to the people I actually wanted to talk to hadn’t even crossed his mind. I knew him well enough to know that it wouldn’t either.

Stunned by his audacity—and my audacity to still let myself be stunned by him—I simply nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line. Jason turned to look at me, body leaning against the bar behind us. Meanwhile, my eyes desperately searched for a familiar face in the crowd around us. I couldn’t see anything in the colorful, flickering lights.

“Used that mouth of yours quite often, Pressley,” he continued.

I groaned loudly, letting my head fall back in what became annoyance the more he talked. I doubted he even heard me over the noise around us. (I wasn’t sure if I could still consider it music. I probably would after a few more drinks).

“Pretty skillfully, too.”

Fuck. Me.

My entire body hurtled in his direction, quick enough that I lost balance for a dreadful second. With my hand holding onto the bar he still leaned against, the full weight of the alcohol I’d consumed until now kicked me. Hard.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I finally snapped. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Oh,” Jason hummed quietly, nodding to himself. His eyes flew to the makeshift dance floor. “She speaks.”

Honestly, the J-name should’ve been my first blindingly red flag. Yet, despite all odds and previous beliefs, I fell head over heels for Jason Montgomery, just three weeks into my freshman year. Probably more so because my parents would’ve loved him, because my brother had loved him, and because everyone (excluding Wren) had told me we were practically perfect for each other. The thought was repulsive now.

But back then, knowing nothing of Jason—apart from the fact that he was the Montgomerys’ golden boy, with a bright future ahead of himself, and the charm of someone who had been trained to be nothing but charming—he was perfect. Handsome, too.

“This.” I gestured between the two of us, finding an amused gleam in his eyes. “Is not happening.”

“What’s not happening?” Jason’s hands flew up in mock surrender. “I’m not trying to make anything happen, Athalia.” He shrugged, unbothered. The only thing giving him away was his smug, subtle smirk. I hated the way my name sounded on his lips. “But honestly, after you egged my car and slashed a tire, I thought we were even.”

The tire was an accident. Sort of.

He leaned closer, his voice lower when it reached me over the music. “I’m just trying to catch up with an old friend here.” As he straightened back up, I hoped to God it was the alcohol that sent a light shiver down my spine. Taking a step forward to stand opposite me, he added, “We are friends, right?”

And I was trying to come up with the best way of telling him that I would rather eat my own foot—

“I think I’d know about that.”

For a moment, I wondered whether it was my own voice that had become deep and sulky, carrying a cool kind of indifference. Perplexed, my hand reached for my mouth. I was pretty sure I hadn’t said a damn thing. If I did, though, it would’ve been just a little more rude than that.

Then, my head snapped to the arm that carefully placed itself around me, a beer in one hand, hovering by my shoulder. I jerked at the touch, taking a step away, only to bump into a body that hadn’t previously been there. My hazy mind couldn’t put two and two together. The loud music—it could be classified as that again—roaring in my ears, had sucked the last bit of coherency from my brain.

What I did notice, though, was that Jason took a step back at whoever’s presence lingered around us now. And that was all it took for drunk, simple-minded me to relax into the stranger. I even managed to whip up a smile. My eyes dug into Jason’s, suddenly fueled with a confidence that usually went out the window with him around. Meanwhile, he wasn’t even looking at me.

“McCarthy,” he said by way of greeting.

The name alone was enough to almost startle me again. Jason still focused on him, and my own eyes carefully drifted to the body beside me. They skirted up the black T-shirt, noticed the silver necklace hidden underneath it, and dashed across an annoyingly familiar jawline, before taking him in as a whole.

McCarthy lazily draped his arm around my shoulder, getting comfortable after I’d unknowingly relaxed into the touch. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence much more than that. His attention was entirely on Jason.

In any other situation, I would’ve shoved McCarthy off me before I could even be sure it was him. But now, with Jason here—with the way he straightened in alertness… McCarthy was useful enough for me to stick by his side.

“What a sight to behold,” Jason said, snapping out of it. His eyes flicked back and forth between us in record time. I swallowed deeply, the room spinning, the alcohol continuing to catch up with me. “Never thought Brother Dearest would approve.” His eyes slid back to me. “Where is Henry, by the way?”

Henry wouldn’t approve. He’d kill both of us if he saw McCarthy’s arm around me the way it was now, standing as close as he was. I had to keep myself from looking around frantically, just at the mention of my brother.

McCarthy did what Jason hated most: he ignored him. Instead of answering, his eyes landed on me for the first time. His brows rose slightly, an edge of—surely faked— concern in his features. “Care to join me outside?” he asked coolly, nodding to the backyard.

And I wasn’t even lying when I said, “Yes, please.”

CHAPTER 4

“I’d thank you—” The crisp autumn air only accelerated the alcohol’s impact as we’d made it outside. I was swaying and hiccupping, even before we reached the garden bench to the side. “But this is probably just as bad.”

To be honest, nothing was worse than spending another minute in the suffocating presence of Jason Montgomery, but McCarthy didn’t need to know I was lying. So, I doubled down. “Maybe even worse.”

“You could just say thank you, you know.” I felt the bench shift underneath his weight when he sat beside me, and without looking at him, I knew a self-satisfied smirk played on his lips right about now. The same one that he couldn’t seem to suppress whenever he realized just how lost I was during our tutoring.

“I didn’t need your help,” I clarified, only because the sheer thought of that cocky smile irritated me.

“Of course not.” Still that same undertone in his voice.

“I had it under control.”

“Of course you did.”

I groaned, eyes trying to find his to shoot daggers at him. I expected a mocking grin, could practically see it before I even looked at him. But when I did, his eyes were on the night sky above, not even glancing in my direction.

There were too many lights surrounding us to see anything significant up there, and the few stars you would usually see were covered by clouds. Still, his attention didn’t waver.

“I’m being serious,” I pressed once more. The short silence probably wasn’t longer than a few seconds, but to me, intoxicated and annoyed, it felt like minutes passed by before I went on. “For all you know, you could’ve been cockblocking me.” When the accusation finally made him look at me, I gasped. “Oh my God.” The words were slurred more than usual, spoken as I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “That is what you were trying to do, isn’t it?”

He shook his head with a resigned huff, and I think for the first time, I saw what could’ve been classified as a smile on his lips.

“Got me.” His hands raised playfully, though despite his words, he gave me a look before elaborating. “I think I’d definitely end up aiding and abetting something if I saw any girl in Montgomery’s vicinity without heroically rescuing her.” His nose crinkled at his own joke.

“We used to date.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to clarify that. Now, in the five seconds of silence that followed, I felt stupid for doing so. But I had.

“I know.”

I jerked back to look at him, surprised above all else. McCarthy keeping up with my dating history was… unexpected. I couldn’t help the smirk on my lips. “Of course you—”

“Did you just wink at me?” He honest to God sounded baffled, laugh catching in his throat before it made it out of his mouth. If I weren’t so drunk, I would’ve probably been just as taken aback by myself.

“Or did something fly into your eye? I can’t tell the difference.” He leaned in closer, pretending to examine my eye with faked worry in his features. For a second, my attention lingered on him, taking in his dark silhouette, before I could stop myself. Then, I kicked his leg lightly enough to get nothing more than a scowl before he leaned back.

The only light came in waves and flickers from inside, and yet, it was fairly easy to make out his jawline, the tip of his nose and chin. I imagined his eyes examining the clouds, his cheeks tinted a light pink from the chilly air around us. Every now and then, he would blow one of those floppy brown hairs out of his face after the wind had knocked them into it.

And as my head began to clear just slightly, I wondered how I had ended up here: drunk and alone with Dylan McCarthy—who hadn’t said anything in a few minutes—his eyes still set skyward, looking somewhat… content.

I cut those thoughts short, attention lazily drawn to the opening sliding door as someone stepped through. Scanning the backyard once, their eyes fell in our direction. They hesitated, then walked toward us, somewhat determined.

“Athalia?” My name rang out in the dark, and I only recognized her—and her voice—when she stood right in front of me. I blamed the alcohol.

“Wren!” The corners of my mouth curled up, and I jumped off the bench, determined to give my best friend a hug. And while she allowed it, even through the haze of alcohol, I could tell she wasn’t feeling it. Not even in that Wren way of hers.

Untangling myself from her, I caught her glance at the man behind me, just before her eyes returned to me. She blinked, then couldn’t help going back for a second look at McCarthy.

“What are you doing?” She didn’t bother lowering her voice; wasn’t concerned about letting McCarthy know she wasn’t thrilled to see him here—probably wanted him to hear. It made me smile and forget to answer what had been a question. “Here,” she specified, speaking slower. “With him.” Her eyes flicked toward him one last time, probably to make some kind of point.

And I couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped me when I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my head tipping back in a soundless laugh. “I really don’t know.” Funnily enough, I was just asking myself the same thing. McCarthy decided to perk up from behind me at that.

“Hello to you too, Inkwood,” he huffed in that sarcastic tone of his, taking a sip of his beer before getting up. His brows rose with the movement, eyes trained on my best friend, who was vigorously glaring at him.

Instead of answering, she looked back at me, and I only vaguely registered McCarthy passing us to get back inside.

“What did I say about taking it easy?” she muttered, though her features relaxed and she was almost smiling when I shrugged once more.

“Sorry, Mom!” I let my head fall onto her shoulder with a laugh, and as if that one gesture brought back the events she’d missed, I groaned loudly. Dragging my best friend back inside, I filled her in on my encounter with the blue-eyed devil; so occupied, that I didn’t notice him talking to my brother at the other end of the room.

CHAPTER 5

I couldn’t quite remember how I got home. All I knew was that my body ached, my head thudded, and I felt my comfortable bed underneath me when I woke the next morning.

For five terribly short minutes, I contemplated my plans for the day. As I thought of the study session written in my calendar in bold, capital letters (underlined twice with a red pen), I tried not to hear an “I told you so” in Wren’s voice. Obviously, she had. And I barely remembered my own excuse when she’d explained, in great detail, how I was going to regret going out just ten hours ago.

And yet, here I was. There were too many things I needed to get done to simply skip. Again. It’s what I’d done last week. And the week before that. It’s how I had ended up here, with reading due Monday, an essay worth twenty percent of my international management grade, and Statistics II. The latter, of course, being the worst of them all.

I could type a few thousand words. I could read a few pages. I couldn’t, however, wrap my head around correlation coefficients and whatever else McCarthy had in store for me. And yes (technically), figuring all that out was what he was for, but I didn’t like McCarthy’s smug expressions, his amused hums when I didn’t know what he was talking about.

If I showed Shaw I could do this by myself, got an acceptable grade in the next test, perhaps then I wouldn’t need McCarthy at all. I’d be rid of those ridiculous looks and condescending sounds before I’d get used to them, and that was motivation enough to finally swing myself out of bed.

Just, that instead of swinging, I slowly, deliberately, carefully slid from underneath my covers—ignoring my spinning surroundings—and groaned as I clutched my throbbing head. I thought I might throw up, but I managed to drag myself to the kitchen instead.

The sun peeked through the windows—a rarity in East Coast fall, when it mostly blessed us with grey, rainy days. It was a perfect day for a stroll to the library, studying at one of the tables by its large windows. Unfortunately, it was an awful day for a hangover. Too bright.

“Fuck.” I flinched, hands falling from my face, previously shielding my eyes from the brightness. “Sorry.” I tried to give Wren my best hungover smile after almost bulldozing into her by the coffee machine. Though, all I got back was a single nod before she turned to grab the steaming cup under the machine. My brow furrowed.

“When did we get home last night?”

A few seconds ticked by. “Around two.”

I blinked at her, hesitating at the awkward tension. “Oh, okay.” My eyes narrowed as she went to leave. “Thanks.”

Now she faltered in her steps. Turned around to look me over once, clutching her cup (in the shape of Lin Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton’s head) tightly between her hands. “For?”

“Getting me home.”

“Sure.” Wren nodded, turned to leave again. She stopped right before disappearing into her room, as if she’d just reconsidered her stance on talking to me. “I could hardly leave you by yourself with the company you would’ve kept.” The attitude in her voice was undeniable now, and at least I was sure I wasn’t imagining it anymore. “Who knows, though, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I didn’t mean to snap my words; I was genuinely curious. And confused. Though my hangover seemed to be shortening my temper even further and now I had an attitude, too.

Wren snorted drily, though she was clearly not as amused as she wanted to portray. “Nothing,” she managed. Before shutting her door, she added: “Forget I said anything.”

Great.

Today was not the day for arguments. I had things to do and papers to write, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight or even speak to anyone with an attitude, which Wren clearly had. I wanted a calm day. One in which I’d spend most of my time in the library, reading, writing, and studying. Where I wasn’t required to have snappy comebacks for whoever deserved them. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone at all. A day in which it was just me—and a load of schoolwork. As a college student, that couldn’t be so hard. Could it?

So, after taking painkillers, a hot shower, and an espresso shot (in that order), I strolled to the library, ready to conquer my demons between books and burned-out college students.

And it was going great. By four o’clock I’d finished that godawful essay and was through the reading materials of the past two weeks. If you ignored the coffee I’d spilled across the wooden table, the chair I’d rammed into the knee of a student passing behind me, and the loud snore I accidentally let out (during a particularly boring chapter to entertain myself), I was thriving. Really.

Productivity over humility. Wasn’t that what they said?

“Athalia”

My head jolted at my whispered name, messy curls inches from my face when I looked up. Heather leaned across the table toward me. A wide grin played on her heart-shaped lips, and I offered one of my brother’s best friends a smile—just as welcoming.

Heather, Henry and Reuben lived in the mirror apartment across the street from us. Once I’d moved up on the waitlist and managed a last-minute spot at Hall Beck U., it had been too late to rent off campus, so I’d ended up in the dorms. The second Henry had heard about someone moving out across the street from him, he’d reserved the apartment, and Wren and I moved in at the beginning of sophomore year.

My brother and I didn’t speak often—we weren’t even particularly close. But when we did, it was always because he’d managed to fix something in my life I wasn’t able to. A problem solver, through and through.

Hey, you, I mouthed at Heather; more carefully now, having had the librarian issue me with a first warning for that snore earlier. Two and I assumed I’d be out of here. My brother’s roommate cared half as much, though. Fishing a stack of notes out of her bag, and lining them up with the book she’d taken off the shelves, Heather cheerily chatted on.

Although I relocated to one of the long, dark wooden tables—shielded from Ms. Jones’ direct line of sight, courtesy of the high bookshelves on either side—I threw a nervous glance, wanting to make sure the librarian wasn’t lingering around a corner, just waiting to kick me out. Fortunately, all I saw were the bent necks and bad postures of students hung over their pages, lots of books (of course), and the changing colors of leaves through the massive window-front on the other side of the aisle. No grey, pinned-up hair, thin brows, and tiny glasses on a sharp nose in sight.

“I’m not going to lie,” Heather quipped, English accent muddied after the three years she’d spent at HBU. “You look godawful.” A sympathetic smile followed her words, and I couldn’t help but huff. Her eyes ran across the statistic notes neatly lined up in front of me. I’d spent the past ten minutes doing that––only delaying the inevitable. The sympathy on her face turned into pity when she looked back at me.

“At least you’ll be rid of him now.” She nodded to my notes with a knowing look. “But yeah, I guess that means having to do it yourself again. Pick your poison kind of thing, isn’t it?” Her eyes had already drifted onto the book in front of her, scanning the table of contents for whatever chapter she was looking for. It’s why she didn’t pick up on the confusion sprawled across my face.

“What?”

“What?” Her head snapped up in a startle, as if she’d completely forgotten I was here, only seconds after diverting her attention. “Sorry,” she muttered, shaking her head. Then, again, “What?”

“I’m going to assume you’re about to explain what you’re talking about?” I questioned hesitantly. Heather’s eyes flicked across my face, her brow furrowed before she waved me away with a “come on now…” look.

“You know,” she insisted, amusement still lingering in her voice. She nodded to my statistic notes again. “You’ll have to work on passing statistics yourself now.” She laughed. I was not, because I still wasn’t catching on. “You must have known that once you were rid of McCarthy, you’d have to learn all that by yourself.” She gestured to my papers once more. “Which is why you’re here.” She blinked slowly. “Studying statistics. By yourself.” Her eyes met mine again. “Right?”

A few seconds of silence ticked by.

“Please don’t tell me—” she began.

“Rid of McCarthy?” I said at the same time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her head fell into her hands; then a groan escaped her lips that was entirely too loud for a library. “No way,” she mumbled into her hands, voice lowered again. “NowayNowayNoway.” Her eyes snapped back to mine. “Henry didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” My patience was beginning to wear thin. With her. With this subject. With my thudding head at the prospect of what she was saying.

“I’m so sorry—” she began, immediately cutting herself off again. “I thought, you know—” Her head shook again. “I thought if he was going to talk to Professor Shaw, he’d do it because you asked him to. Or suggested it. At least that you knew about it. Bloody hell. Why—”

“Heather.” I reached for her arm, relieved her attention latched onto me again quickly. She swallowed hard.

“Oh, right.” She cleared her throat with an awkward smile on her lips, brows curved. “Henry talked to Professor Shaw about your tutoring setup.” She said the words as if she couldn’t get them out fast enough. Then, to my dismay, added, “Well, not talked, really. Emailed him.”

I blinked at her.

“He emailed him.” If I sounded the words out, maybe they’d make more sense. “After I specifically told him to stay out of it. After I specifically told him to let me handle this by myself.” Heather’s expression grew more horrified with every word. “After all that. He emailed him?”

“Oh God.” Her head disappeared behind her hands again and somewhere in the distance, the librarian shushed her. I barely noticed, perceived it somewhere in a distant corner of my mind, maybe, because I was still trying to wrap my head around other things. How much of an asshole my brother was, for one. A few things were going through my mind.

1. Where did men get the audacity?

2. How could I be sharing the same genes with that particular man?

3. What… the fuck?

I could pinpoint the exact moment confusion turned into anger. It was right after I’d excused myself from Heather. Right when the chilly air hit me, and a gust of wind whipped hair into my face with full force. It was the wrong day for that, and I wasn’t just angry then: I was furious. And a little embarrassed.

Embarrassed by the fact my professor would now think I was sending my star-athlete brother to handle my business. Furious, because my star-athlete brother couldn’t comprehend that I was old enough to live my own life, competent enough to deal with problems myself.

And, quite frankly, livid, because the only time I warranted my brother’s attention seemed to be when there was a problem he didn’t think I could fix. I was 99% sure the reason I got into HBU—one of the best schools on the East Coast—was Henry’s friendly reminder about the name of their athletic center. And it was bad practice to reject someone who coincidentally, carried that same name. Thanks, Pressley Center for Recreation.

Problem solver through and through, I remembered my earlier thoughts. Fuck that.

Apparently, I was only worth Henry’s time if I was the problem. When I might not get into college, when I couldn’t find an apartment, and, apparently, when Dylan McCarthy Williams was involved.

“Pressley!” My voice echoed across the soccer field before I even reached it. In the distance, behind the waist-high handrail and between the trees circling the pitch, I could see a few heads whip in my direction, confused and annoyed at whoever dared to interfere with their sacred training, and so close to the NCAA championship at that.

I found him quickly. Number eight printed on his jersey, he casually jogged toward me, casting a pleading look in his coach’s direction to keep him from throwing me off the pitch. An edge of concern riddled his expression when he came to a standstill on the other side of the railing.

“Look, Lia, can this wait—?”

I almost snorted before a sharp, “No,” seethed past my lips.

“I’m in the middle of practice—”

“I don’t care, Henry.”

He didn’t like the way I raised my voice at him. In front of the team, in front of his coach. It bruised his incredibly fragile ego; I could tell. Which was why I continued, with every single word deliberately slow and enunciated. “You know what I do care about?” I mused, trying my best to hide just how angry I was.

The scowl on his face grew, confusion and annoyance prominent in it. Restless in front of me, he dared a few glances across his shoulder, trying his best to will his team to continue what they were doing, instead of eavesdropping on a clearly uncomfortable conversation.

“I care about you not butting into my life every chance you get.”

His face fell at my tone, though not in recognition or understanding or guilt. Blinking down at me, brow furrowed, there wasn’t a single thought behind those beautiful green eyes. He had no clue what I was talking about. And it somehow made it worse.

“Oh my God.” I can’t believe this. “You don’t even think you did anything wrong.”

His silence confirmed that.

“You know,” I began. “You do not have to play concerned brother every time you spot a chance to flaunt your wealth and influence in order to stroke your ego.” His expression remained clueless. “I don’t need your help with this. I’m old enough to go to some stupid tutoring once a week, even if I don’t like the guy, and yes—even if you don’t.”

There it was. A spark of understanding that seemed to rush through his body. He straightened, more alert, though seconds later his head fell back, and he huffed in a way that could only be annoyance. Before he could answer—

“Pressley!” The shout came from behind him. “Get your ass back on the field!” My gaze shifted to spot the source of those words, but I could’ve probably identified the lackluster shout, the annoyed tone, even without looking. The latter I’d have the pleasure of dealing with every Wednesday from now on. If only to annoy Henry. “You’re holding up the entire game!”

Henry’s head whipped around at the same time my eyes found McCarthy’s. He stopped his approach when he caught both of our attentions. His eyes flicked back and forth, already noticing the tension feet away. His gaze settled on mine, brows rising questioningly.

I looked back at my brother. “Nothing to say?”

“I’ve got a lot to say,” he suddenly snapped, eyes back on me. “But this argument is not worth skipping practice over. It’s not even worth having. I’m dealing with shit you don’t know anything about, and I did you a favor, despite it. You can thank me when you realize that.”

Something snapped. In me. Between us. My next words were more unhinged, though hushed, because as much as I wanted to embarrass him, I did not need personal issues aired out in front of the HBU soccer team.

“You have no right to just reach into my life and change what you don’t like,” I hissed. “We talk once a month and this is when you decide to butt in?” I tried to make the accusation sound snippy—to make him feel guilty about shutting me out, about the fact we’d become part of each other’s lives merely out of some kind of genetic obligation.

“Clearly I have to. Because you would’ve continued going to those stupid lessons, with your stupid thin walls and McCarthy’s stupid face.” The mere mention of his name made a vein pop on Henry’s forehead. At least he felt the argument was worth having now. At least he was talking to me.

I almost laughed. “You’re acting like a ten-year-old, Henry—”

“I just don’t want you to spend time with him, for fucks sake!”

“And I don’t want you to control my life. Look!” I cheered, sarcastically. “Seems like we’re both not getting what we want.”

At that, he ducked under the white handrail we argued across, grabbing my arm to drag me out of the team’s eye- and earshot and exchanging insults and curse words until we were. Anger radiated in his eyes. If this were a cartoon, there’d be steam coming out of his ears and his face would be as red as the devil’s.

“You can’t tell me what to do—”

“I can try!” he shot back with a glare, finally coming to a halt behind the changing rooms.

“You can’t!” Pretty sure I shouted that. “If I want to, I’ll continue going to McCarthy’s stupid lessons. If I want to, I’ll see him outside of them, too. If I want to—” It was out before I could stop myself. “If I want to, I’ll go out with him. Get a drink. Go back to his place. I’ll do whatever the hell I want, Henry. You’re not the boss of me, and I’m not twelve anymore.”

And that’s what seemed to do it. What sent him over the edge. I almost smiled at the way his head turned a deep shade of red with fury.

“That’s what you want?”

No.

“Maybe I do.”

Henry’s eyes closed in an unsuccessful attempt to calm himself. But he sensed my bluff, I could feel it. “No, you don’t.”

There it was.

So really, I had no other choice but to double down. I had to. My hands were basically tied.

“Maybe I already am.”

“You’re not.” A beat, and his eyes narrowed, as if he just remembered a vital piece of information. “So Jason was telling the truth, then?”

It was all I could do not to flinch at the name, not to yell and scream at the mere fact my brother had talked to my ex-boyfriend behind my back. About me. Saying I didn’t care about what would be a lie. But whatever it was, it seemed to support my claim, and it seemed to make Henry believe the lies I was telling him.

So, with the tiniest smirk on my lips, I shrugged.

I had the upper hand now, and that’s all it took for me to relax into the feeling of it— forget that he’d betrayed me not once, but twice now. Not just with the Shaw thing, but by talking to the guy who had fucking ruined me a year ago.

“God,” he groaned. “You’re fucking infuriating, Athalia.”

Red steam engine Henry was back. And just like that, he left.

CHAPTER 6

I didn’t like being angry at my brother.

We’d grown up fighting more often than we got along. And I wasn’t sure if he’d just gotten older, or if he really did seem more unhinged today than I remembered him ever being. Even when we were shouting and screaming through our entire summer house so loudly the walls shook—he’d never seemed quite so on edge.

I’m dealing with shit you don’t know anything about, and I did you a favor despite it.

We argued, we fought. Then, our parents died, and all of a sudden our fifteen-year-old lives were thrown into a whirlwind of lawyers, press, and therapists. To me, it felt like Henry was all that was really left of them.

After the accident, it was hard to plan for the future. Mom and Dad had planned theirs perfectly, and it didn’t matter at all when air turbulence had catapulted them into the Atlantic. What the fuck was the point when life was so, so fickle? When somebody could be a constant in your life at one moment and wiped out of it the next through no fault of their own?

The realization had made me want to cling to my brother like a lifeline. Fifteen-year-old me never wanted to let him out of her sight, never mind accept what had become apparent quite quickly: he did not feel the same way.

At fifteen, Henry had bought his first planner and became the crisis-averting top student and athlete he was today—with a mind for nothing but his meticulously planned, picture-perfect future.

Even though that meant we weren’t fighting anymore, it kind of felt like I’d lost my brother that day as well. When we’d been hurling petty insults at each other, pulling hair and teeth, at least we’d still been talking.

It’s all I could think about now. We were fighting, yes, but at least we were talking. At least he’d been looking at me, speaking to me, probably thinking about me too. In a way that I should probably unpack with my therapist, I felt… cared for. Loved. I hadn’t felt that from Henry in so long; just the very hint of it made me itch for more.

That care had never extended past grades and career prospects—had never reached into my personal life. Until now.

I scoffed, trying to suppress the memories of better times, with parents who were alive and loving, when my greatest worry had been if Henry had snatched the last chocolate bar out of the fridge or how he’d messed up my hair on picture day. All of it was coming back to me now.

The way they’d tear us away from each other, take us into our respective rooms—Dad with Henry, Mom with me. I didn’t know what my brother had been told all those years, but Mom’s words lingered in my head even now.

“Listen here,” she’d say, softly. If I cried she’d wipe my tears. “Henry has a hard time coping with his feelings the right way. But your brother loves you very much, Athalia. He admires your strength, your kindness, your humor. A little piece of him wants to be just like you.” She’d say, “And you love him, too, don’t you? His bravery, his confidence?” Depending on how bad the particular fight had been, I would argue with her here. But in the end, she’d always won. “See?” she’d say. “You’ll always have each other. Your brother will take care of you, and you’ll take care of him long after you would need to. And you’ll find it so annoying—” She’d continue in a whisper. “He’s a little annoying, isn’t he?” she’d joke. And I’d laugh every time. “But you’ll be with him much longer than you’ll be with us, Lia.”

A few things about Henry Mom didn’t mention… He wasn’t just brave and confident (although he was). He was also stubborn, arrogant and could never, ever be wrong. And all of that got worse when he felt like he wasn’t in control. Of a situation, of his life––apparently my life too.

Sitting on a wooden bench perched up behind the main building of HBU, I noted that Henry Parker Pressley was an asshole. Then, despite my brother’s selfishness and ignorance, I scolded myself for wanting his attention like a child, regardless.

If I’d been more like him—driven, determined, destined to play pro sports or academically ahead of the rest of our classmates—maybe we’d be closer now. Maybe I wouldn’t need a fight to feel close to him, at all.

Unfortunately, I was none of those things, and a part of me was still that fifteen-year-old girl clinging to her twin brother.

“Please don’t tell me you come here often.”

I startled, my spine straightened, and my eyes squinted against the setting sun. McCarthy was still in his crimson shorts, a hoodie thrown over the jersey, and his hair still damp from the shower he must’ve taken after practice.

Could this get any worse?

“You’re really the last person I want to see right now,” I admitted, eyes shifting from his towering frame to the townhouses—mostly occupied by fraternities and sororities—across the wide, empty field separating main campus and frat row.

“Is that so?” As if to prove a point, he planted himself on the bench beside me.

I wanted to groan, then yell at him, before becoming seriously violent. “Today is not the day, McCarthy,” I warned.

Not that looping that fight with Henry over and over in my mind wasn’t enough, fate wanted me to stare the reason for it straight into his big brown eyes. I closed mine. And a wave of awareness flashed through me like lightning, my body stiffening for the second time.

The reason for it.

Dylan McCarthy Williams was the reason for it.

Not my need for independence or that I’d yelled at Henry. Not that I’d interrupted practice and caused a scene.

It was McCarthy. The mention of him, the thought of me spending time with the enemy.

I just don’t want that guy anywhere close to my little sister. Wasn’t that what he’d said?

I sorted through the information behind closed eyes, neurons firing at lightning speed, before I opened them wide.

If McCarthy hadn’t already taken a seat, I would’ve offered it now.

In a magical turn of events, he wasn’t the last person I wanted to see. He was exactly who I needed, sent not out of spite, but as my one-way ticket to Revenge-ville. And if it meant I had my brother’s attention for a little while longer, who’d complain? Certainly not me.

“That seems dangerous.” His words drew my gaze back to him, only noticing the sly smile on my lips when McCarthy pointed it out. Literally. His finger circled my grin a safe distance away when he added, “I’ve never seen you smile, Pressley. It’s terrifying.”

“Good.” I turned my body toward him, considering all my options carefully. The entire plan was still forming in my head, and once the words were out, I couldn’t take them back. “I have a proposition.”

“I’m listening.” McCarthy’s brow rose with interest. “What has that marvelous brain of yours produced this time?”

My body deflated with a groan, gleaming eyes narrowing into a glare. “If that’s a reference to my statistic skills—”

He cut me off with a snort, his head tilting slightly. “Skills?”

It was easy to forget how infuriating the guy opposite me was. With his thick, dark hair and the hint of a dimple working its way into his cheek, it was almost like that was the point.

“You know what—” As my nose scrunched up, and I was close to dropping the whole thing, his hands shot up in mocked defeat.

“All right, all right.” Amusement still played in his features. “I’ll admit it, I’m interested to know what’s going on in that little—” He cut himself off at my reinforced glare, clearing his throat. “In that very big brain of yours. Spill.”

Despite the urge to abandon my plan, I saw it through.

“I know you deeply despise my brother,” I began, still not quite sure how to go about my proposal.

No way back now.

McCarthy huffed. “Masterful deduction.”

“Well, I present you: the one thing that’ll show him just how much you really do.”

CHAPTER 7

I regretted asking, as soon as his lips had split into a wide, victorious grin.

“If you wanted to take me out this badly, you could’ve just asked, Pressley.”

“Can you… not?” I muttered, suppressing a groan. “If I wanted to go out with you, I’d be going out with you.”

A challenging smile deepened the dimple in his cheek that I’d only discovered today. Despite the self-assured grin, his mouth remained closed. Just how I usually liked it. Though, in this situation, some feedback would’ve been appreciated.

“So.” Still awaiting an answer, I brought us back on track. “What do you—?”

“Yes.” It was almost like he couldn’t get the words out fast enough now. The amusement on his face disappeared—dimples vanished, leaving only a hint of the earlier grin behind when his eyes fixed on mine.

“Yes?” My mouth closed, brow creasing, anxious at the gunshot of an answer.

The corner of his mouth tipped up when he repeated himself. “Yes.”

I’d expected to do some digging. Some groveling I was willing to do, to strike a deal with him. A You’ll-do-this-for-me-and-I’ll-do-that-for-you kind of thing. What I didn’t expect was a “yes”. Quick and precise, no bullshit. I wasn’t used to it from McCarthy.

I studied him curiously, a hint of confusion in my features. With his head turned to me, arms propped on the backrest of the bench and both brows raised as he waited for my next words, you couldn’t guess I’d just asked him to be my boyfriend.

A fake one, yes. But a boyfriend nonetheless.

The breeze had his brown hair in constant motion, indifference lacing every part of him now: posture relaxed, face straight. A yawn escaped his lips.

It was too easy.

“What?” His head tilted slightly, and now he was fighting hard to suppress another smile. “I said yes.”

“I heard that.” I snickered halfheartedly. More so, I was focused on finding something in his demeanor that revealed the lie. Or I was stalling for time until he’d break into a fit of laughter because I’d actually believed him. Neither happened. “Why?”

“Why?” he repeated. My uneasiness only seemed to make his amusement grow. “Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I cooed. “Maybe because it means you’ll have to actually spend time with me. And you don’t particularly like me.”

Poor Princess Pressley. Can’t believe someone wouldn’t be thrilled to spend time with her.

McCarthy shrugged, eyes shifting. “I don’t particularly like your brother any more.” He mocked my choice of words.

“And you want nothing in return,” I stated, still wary. “God knows you wouldn’t do me a favor if your life depended on it, McCarthy. So what’s the catch?”

He stretched beside me. With his arms in the air and long legs extended—he was the picture of tranquility. His eyes fell on me when they opened. “I’m getting everything I want, Pressley.”

And for some unknown reason, he looked genuine.

My brow rose in suspicion nevertheless. “What would that be?”

There had to be a catch here somewhere, right?

McCarthy sighed. “Let’s see—” He pretended to think over his answer for a moment, his words laced with irony. “A beautiful girlfriend on my arm when I walk around campus—” He immediately cut himself off as amusement glimmered on his face. “I’m sure people won’t mind the horrible attitude, unfunny jokes. Right?”

“Because you’re such a comedian,” I spat back, ignoring the beautiful and latching onto what I knew him for: the insult. “Just say no, and I can find someone else.” I was bluffing. There wasn’t anyone on this planet my brother would like to see me with less. But McCarthy didn’t need to know that.

“I said yes,” he reminded. “I’m sure you remember?”

“You’re not acting like that’s your final answer,” I said. I shook my head quickly. “So, I’d rather skip the back and forth and move on to you saying no, like you will anyway.”

“So little faith,” he mused. “I’m saying yes, let me be your fake boyfriend, Pressley.” His voice took on a fake pleading tone when he intertwined his hands in front of his chest. “Do you want me to beg? Is that what you want?” He pretended to get on his knees. Of course, he never would.

“So you’re serious?” I deadpanned. Not a hint of humor on display.

“Dead.”

“And you want nothing in return?”

McCarthy thought for a moment. “Fine,” he conceded. “Even if seeing your brother lose his mind is enough for me, if you want me to want something in return…” He eyed me just to make sure I realized how ridiculous it sounded. “Let’s just say you’ll owe me. A favor for a favor.”

Can’t complain now.

“All right.” But something about the calm demeanor, the lightning answer felt… off. I couldn’t shake the feeling. “And you’re sure you know what you’re—?”

“Getting into?” he cut me off impatiently, and I nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m sure I want to see you be my girlfriend, and I’m sure I want to see your brother when he realizes even more. Is that enough of an honest answer?” His brows rose to make a point. “This seems like an incredibly easy way to do so. So yes, I’m in. It was your idea. What are you so hesitant about?”

“Your ability to be a convincing boyfriend.” It slipped out. And I didn’t regret it.

“I can be a very convincing boyfriend,” he rebutted.

I snorted humorously. “You don’t even date.”

“I go on plenty of dates.” His nose scrunched defensively.

“Yeah, but you don’t date, do you?” Please don’t ask me how I knew that. “Like, the same person, multiple times. After she slept with you?”

I didn’t really mean to be as caught up on the subject of his dating history as I was. Girls just talked: when they were in the library, when they were getting ready to go out, when they were drunk in bathrooms. And if you stayed to listen, you could hear their conversations through the closed doors quite easily.

Why couldn’t he just agree with me so that I wouldn’t have to drive this point home so hard? He knew I was right.

McCarthy’s lips broke into a smirk, and I wished the ground opened up beneath me, before he had even opened his mouth. “Is this a frequent topic in the Pressley household?” he asked curiously, smiling. “My relationships? Dates? Say, do you have a file of every girl I’ve been with?”

“Can’t really blame Henry after Paula.” I shrugged quickly, shifting my eyes to study the brick wall behind us. “Besides,” I added in an amused drawl. “That file would be thin, only proving my point.” I dared a glance toward him.

“Paula?” McCarthy tilted his head, a little hesitant as he ignored the rest of my words. “Castillo?” I nodded. “What does Paula Castillo have to do with anything?”

“Oh, you know,” I muttered, sarcasm in my voice. “Just the fact she basically cheated on him. With you.” The thought was enough for the semi-permanent scowl on my face to make an appearance again. McCarthy’s unapologetically loud laugh pulled me back to reality, though. “What?” I snapped.

“Oh, you know.” He mirrored my words. Something must’ve still seemed incredibly funny to him. He was still laughing. “Just the fact that Paula is my friend and I’ve never touched her for longer than a hug when Henry fucked up.”

“He didn’t—” I cut myself off. I wasn’t here to defend my brother’s actions, much less understand whatever relationship he did or didn’t have. “Whatever,” I huffed instead, head shaking as I shifted my eyes.

McCarthy snickered. “Whatever indeed,” he said. “Which means I’m perfectly qualified to be your fake boyfriend, Pressley. Are you happy now?”

And really, the reality of my proposition only dawned on me now. I scrambled. “This has to be convincing, you know? It’s important that it’s convincing—”

“It will be.”

I shook my head, then straightened to signal how serious this was. “You can pretend to be a good boyfriend?” I doubled down, beginning to worry the longer I thought about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked in the first place. “Have you even been in a relationship before?”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I can pretend to be a good boyfriend. Thank you very much.”

The fact he pointedly ignored the other question was answer enough.

“You can pretend that you think about me nonstop, that you’re totally and endlessly enthralled by me?” Again, there was an ironic exaggeration in my tone and words, and I held back a smile as he nodded once more.

“Yes.” At least he seemed convinced.

“You’re gonna have to be so in love with me, McCarthy. And if this doesn’t work, I swear to God—”

“Don’t worry,” he sighed, a fake smile graced his lips. “I’m a great actor.”

And that was that.

“A few ground rules,” I continued, brows creasing when my eyes fell back on him. Blinking, while he rummaged through his bag, I stifled a laugh when he pulled a little notebook out of it. “You’re taking notes?”

“Don’t laugh,” he scolded, trying to keep his own amusement in check. “Every agreement should be put in writing. No?”

“Spoken like a true business student,” I agreed. “We’ll do date night every Friday. I’ll pick you up from practice. Make sure Henry sees.”

His protest came quickly, eyes glued to his book. “Can’t do Friday; every Thursday?”

“What if I’m busy Thursdays?”

His head shot up, intrigued gleam in his eyes when they met mine. The corner of his lip quirked when he asked, “Are you?”

“Maybe I am.” I wasn’t. “But I’ll make it work.”

McCarthy snorted. “Thank you so much. I’ll be forever in your debt—” He stopped himself. “Oh, wait.” Smiled.  “That’s you,” he corrected with a wink.

“You’re hilarious,” I deadpanned. “Thursday it is.”

Clearing my throat—to suppress my annoyance and to distract from the smirk on his lips—I went on. “We could soft launch on Monday.” Two days from now. “Talk after class, smile at each other. Go all in a few days later. Keep it up for a month or two? Until the new year, maybe?”

McCarthy scribbled furiously, nodding along to let me know he agreed. When his pen stilled, he looked up at me through thick lashes any girl would be envious of.

“All in.” He hummed. “What does that entail?”

If I was being honest, I hadn’t decided yet. Up until now, I’d managed to make it seem as though I had thought about this thoroughly before bringing the idea to him. In reality, I was making everything up as I went along, not sure what would come out of my mouth when I opened it.

“Public display of affection is a must.” I spoke as I thought. “You know, holding hands and all that.” An amused expression on his face, he willed me to go on. “So, light PDA. Nothing above that, of course. And only when Henry is around, obviously.”

“Still not quite catching on.” Casually, he twirled his pen between his fingers. Something about his eyes batting to mine, innocence in them he couldn’t have faked better, told me he wasn’t as clueless as he was pretending. Maybe he was a better actor than I’d given him credit for.

“You know.” I trailed off, brows rising.

“Let’s assume I don’t.” His shrug was sheepish. “Gotta make sure I get this as accurately to your wishes as possible, right?” He pointed to the makeshift contract in his lap.

In defeat, I sighed. “Why don’t you just put ‘No Sex’ down, then?” I shot back, already growing irritated. Maybe this really wasn’t the best idea. “Put it in capital letters, too.”

“Oh no,” McCarthy sighed dramatically. “However will I cope? After all, that was the only reason I agreed in the first place.” He pinned me with a look that said the opposite. “Now,” he said, clearing his throat. “Are there any non-obvious rules to this masterplan of yours?” He leaned back. “Or do you just like to think of a world where I can’t keep my hands off of you, Pressley?”

At the end, our Fake Dating Contract consisted of exactly seven ground rules. Beneath them, both of our signatures beamed brightly.

#1 Fake-Date-Thursdays.

#2 Delivery Period: November 1st–January 1st.

#3 No Sex.

#4 Exclusiveness is guaranteed. (Single activities to be postponed until after the duration of this agreement)

#5 Athalia Payton Pressley is obligated to support her fake boyfriend Dylan McCarthy Williams at his soccer games.

#6 Both parties involved can’t, under any circumstance, break character.

#7 Don’t fall in love with Dylan McCarthy Williams (or Athalia Payton Pressley).

Number seven was McCarthy’s addition, and after I had added my own name (and then he added parentheses around it), I was okay with it. He’d made sure to underline the Don’t and wrote it in bold, capital letters, like I needed the reminder.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” I held out my hand for him to shake.

“The pleasure’s all mine, trust me.”

His hand was twice the size of mine. It basically swallowed it whole.

CHAPTER 8

I tried to self-care my way into thinking this was a good idea. When Wren came home that night, my wet hair was in a towel and my skin covered in a blue face mask. I sprawled across the brown couch in the living room, watching Gilmore Girls with a glass of wine in hand. Wren’s rattling key gave me a five second heads-up before she stood in the door. My eyes narrowed, assessing posture, stance, expression.

Her weird tantrum this morning had been the start of what turned out to be an awful day. Though after everything that had happened, I’d almost forgotten about it. In the grand scheme of things, Wren didn’t fuck up nearly as badly as Henry had.

Leftover tension hung in the air even before our eyes connected. She took me in cautiously, only shifting her gaze to take off her shoes and jacket. Leaving them by the door, Wren cleared her throat and I braced myself for whatever continuation of our argument we were about to have. It seemed inevitable.

“You look absolutely ridiculous,” she deadpanned instead. Her words hung in the air, and she dissected every minuscule reaction of mine to calculate her next words carefully. I assumed she caught the amused twitch of my lip before I could make sure they’d stayed put.

The tension visibly fell off her as she carelessly let the paper bag slip out of her hand. The next second, a loud, theatrical sigh left her lips.

“Ugh!” she humphed, heading for the couch I was sitting on. “I am so sorry, I don’t know what came over me this morning,” she admitted as soon she took a seat next to me. “I probably just slept horrible, you know? Parties are not my thing, and staying up late isn’t either. And while you were playing some variation of beer pong, Henry would not stop chewing my ear off.”

My body reacted to the mention of my brother’s name. There was nothing I could do about it. “Since when does he drink, by the way—?” It took Wren a second to catch it, then she faltered in her wordy apology. I hadn’t heard her talk this much in one sitting since we went to see Hamilton last year. It was my first time. Her fourth. Or was it fifth? “What was that?” she asked quickly, one brow rising.

“Nothing.” I wasn’t a terrible liar, but Wren knew me like the palm of her hand. Seeing as she knew how to read them, that said a lot.

She looked at me curiously, leaning in as she blew strands of black and blond hair out of her face. Then, she said “Henry,” as if to test the waters. Slowly. Cautiously. And, of course, I flinched again. “Aha!” she exclaimed, finger in my face, before she jumped back victoriously. She only realized what being right meant when she quickly settled afterward. “Sorry.”

I sighed loudly, accepting her apology by letting my head fall onto her shoulder. If she cared about the blue goo currently seeping from my face onto her hoodie, she didn’t act like it. Instead, her hand cupped my shoulder in a makeshift hug before resting her own head on top of mine. We remained quiet for a while. Our attention was on the screen, and I think we were both grateful for the silence it filled.

“Before you tell me everything—” The groan I let out was meant to show how little I wanted to talk about it. But the way she squirmed out from underneath me to get up did intensify the sound. Her head whipped in my direction, brow raised as if she knew I’d tell her, whether I wanted to or not. She was right.

“Before you tell me everything,” she repeated, sterner, a hint of humor in her voice—“I got takeout from Prem’s.”

Prem owned the Indian place down the street, which, coincidentally, had the best takeout in the entire state. And even more importantly: the best Bhatura in the United States of America. A weakness of mine. A comfort not many things could bring me. Now that Wren had mentioned it, I could smell it from here.

My eyes probably lit up and my mouth watered as I shot upright, full attention on the brown bag Wren was currently retrieving from where she’d dropped it earlier.

“Apology accepted.” I smiled as soon as the container saying ‘#12 no onions’ appeared on the coffee table, followed by the Bhatura bread wrapped in foil moments later. My heart jumped at the sight.

“I’d hope so,” she muttered with a laugh, leaving her food on the table to get cutlery from the kitchen. “Also: got some of that left?” She pointed at her own face, finger circling it.

I snorted. “You called my face mask ridiculous five minutes ago.”

Wren simply shrugged, returning to the living room with her hands full. “Bathroom?” she wondered, and I nodded halfheartedly, attention back on the TV.

When she came back, her short, colored hair was tied up as best as she could manage, traces of blue catching on the edges of it here and there. The face mask covered her already clear skin messily, but entirely.

Wren was aware of my weird brother issues, so when I told her about our fight, and then my inevitable I-wish-I-were-more-than-an-inconvenience-in-his-life epiphany, she wasn’t surprised. She ate and listened, every now and then throwing in an outraged “Motherfucker,” or “What?” Usually, when she’d just taken a bite.

At the end of my monologue, Wren considered me for a mere second. “So?” she asked. Our food was done and Netflix asked whether we were still watching.

“So what?”

“What’s the plan?”

Ah. The plan. Of course Wren knew I’d want to get back at him. Shame she won’t like it. At all.

It seemed McCarthy had made quite a few enemies in his three years at HBU. Coincidentally, on the top of that list were the two people closest to me. Henry at number one, of course, closely followed by Wren Inkwood—for some reason not quite clear to me.

Before today, I’d never really questioned why either of them disliked him so much, never cared enough to ask.

Hell, I wasn’t even sure what my problem with him was. Take Henry, and my previous solidarity with him, out of the equation, and I was left with pretty much nothing. Except the way his lips curled knowingly when I gave a wrong answer.

“Funny story,” I muttered, faking a single laugh as my eyes roamed the living room, like I’d never seen Wren’s bookshelf against the wall behind the couch filled exclusively with historical texts and fantasies. Never sat on the smooth brown leather of our couch, facing the TV on the opposite wall. Like the open loft layout and the green-white checkered carpet under the coffee table were new. And like Wren’s polaroids decorating the short hallway to the front door had only been hung this morning. I scrambled for the remote between us, telling the screen that, yes, we are still watching; please fill the lingering silence now!

“Is it?” she asked. “Funny?”

“Well,” I began, eyes flicking to Wren long enough to see her eagerly awaiting my response. “Let me preface this by saying my methods may be flawed, but they are always effective.” I was stalling. Clearly. “So while the means of achieving my revenge might not be ideal, the outcome will be worth—”

“Just spit it out, Athalia.”

Fuck it.

“I’m going to pretend to date McCarthy for the next two months.” The speed in which the words flew out of me could win a Guinness world record. “Exclusively,” I added reluctantly.

It took her a good thirty seconds to comprehend the jumbled mess I’d just thrown at her. When she got it, her brow stretched high, and she leaned back, in some kind of shock. For a moment, I think she froze.

I didn’t know whether it was five seconds or minutes or hours. I think I was holding my breath until she simply said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s gonna piss Henry off.” She mulled it over once more, expression twisting into a grimace. “It’s definitely going to piss him off. Bonus points for getting the attention you so clearly crave. A quick fix for something that, at some point, you will have to talk to Stephanie about.” She narrowed her eyes at me, just to drive that last point home. The fact Wren knew my therapist’s name was evidence enough that she’d gotten to know me way too well in our three years of college together.

“I mean, it’s a solid plan. Except for the one unpredictable, right? If McCarthy is one thing, it’s probably unpredictable. See how I said probably? That’s because he’s so unpredictable, I don’t even know––” It felt like Henry had rubbed off on her. Wren didn’t usually ramble, but she was definitely doing so now. Rambling on and on and on and—

“Okay,” I cut her off quickly, my hands lifted in surrender. “I get it,” I huffed. “It’s an idiotic plan, but if it works the way I want it to work, it’ll be the best thing I can do. If McCarthy doesn’t act like a jerk—which is unlikely—and if spending time with him isn’t insufferable —also unlikely— I might not even regret this.” I was also rambling now. “But it is a good plan,” I insisted.

Wren sighed, head falling back in resignation. “It’s an okay plan,” she said, but smiled.

Going to bed that night, I checked my emails, in the hope that any of next week’s lectures had been cancelled. Instead of the sweet relief of one of those messages, it was this one, waiting in my inbox:

<D.M.WILLIAMS@HALLBU.COM> 6:33 PM

Pressley,

Find attached a copy of our written contractual agreement.

Unkind regards,

D. M. W

CHAPTER 9

During the soft launch stage, I could count the number of times my and Henry’s eyes had met on one hand. He was stubborn enough to barely look at me, and I barely wanted to look at him.

And now, with two hours until my first lecture, here I was. Being stood up by my fake boyfriend, on our first fake date. Wasn’t life just marvelous?

Wren had said this was a bad idea. And I didn’t want to admit it, but doubts had started to dig away at my brilliant plan in the last few days, too. McCarthy was unreliable, selfish, arrogant—not great qualities to have in a business partner. Less in a boyfriend.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The sinking feeling of my own humiliation got replaced quickly. Instead, I was just annoyed, now that McCarthy’s voice drawled through the air. As carefree as ever, he took a seat on the other side of the small table, right by the window. My gaze moved toward him slowly.

“You’re late.” I dropped the spoon that had just been stirring my coffee in aggravation back into the cup. His brown hair was still damp as he shrugged his jacket off, revealing the compression shirt underneath like a second skin, clinging to his outline. My eyes flicked back up, twitching into a glare, ignoring the tight fit around his arms before I could accidentally linger.

“You’re early,” he corrected quickly, eyeing my cup. “We agreed on 9:30.”

“9:15.” I thought my nose might have twitched at the excuse. I was sure I’d said 9:15, and I was sure he’d agreed to 9:15. Why else would I be sitting in Daisy’s Coffee at 9:15—

“You said 9:15,” he confirmed. Unfortunately, he went on, “I said I won’t make it for 9:15, suggested 9:30 and you shrugged. Which, in my world, means you agreed.” His smirk was unbearable, even before he added, “To 9:30.”

I sighed more in annoyance than defeat. In my defense, that conversation had taken place in the same Statistics lecture he had told me to pay more attention to. And I had felt Shaw’s eyes on us the entire time we were having it. I’d been prone to agree to anything he’d said, just so he would shut up.

“Ah, she remembers.” He smiled when my gaze met his again.

“You’re insufferable, McCarthy.”

He reached across the small table for my drink, took a long sip and placed it right in front of me again. “Just think about what you might’ve done to deserve a boyfriend as insufferable as me.”

I grimaced. “Charming,” I muttered as he wiped the whipped-cream moustache off his face. To make sure no one saw the unfiltered urge to murder him dash across my features, my eyes shifted.

Daisy’s was the only coffee shop perfectly located between my apartment and campus. Relatively modern—painted white with accents of pink here and there, tiles ran along the front of the counter to the pastry display behind a glass front. If I let my gaze wander to the right, the counter’s modern white tiles morphed into dark wooden planks. The light, clean floor was replaced by ancient-looking wood, and flowers and plants spread out across the entirety of the other side of the building. The walls were red brick, instead of white paint. Daisy’s Coffee and Daisy’s Daisies shared the space—a coffee and flower shop in one.

It’s what was charming about the place. Two entirely different concepts—clashing, yet somehow working together so incredibly well.

And on sunny days like this one, Henry preferred to walk to class, get a coffee from Daisy’s on the way instead of a cup from his machine at home, before heading into the nightmare we called: Accounting. That little habit of his was the only reason I was still sitting here, surrounded by flowers, fresh pastries, and a guy I wasn’t sure would come out of this alive, if I had it my way.

“So you’ve been studying?”

My eyes fell on him again, gaze catching his as the question slipped past his mouth. Right away, I knew this wasn’t about Statistics. “Of course.”

To his initial email, I’d replied with a similar one.

<A.P.PRESSLEY@HALLBU.COM> 9:20 AM

McCarthy,

Find attached a document of all the things my boyfriend should know about me. Should you not memorize each of these points, I, your future fake girlfriend, will be thoroughly disappointed, as well as forced to fake break up with you.

Insincerely,

A. P. P

To which he’d replied:

<D.M.WILLIAMS@HALLBU.COM> 10:35 AM

Pressley,

Find attached my own list of fun facts my girlfriend should know. I’ll be expecting just as much commitment from you, as you are from me.

PS: Did you know your favorite animal tortures other sea creatures for fun? Thinking about it, I can see why you like them.

Worst,

D. M. W

It’s how we’d ended up here: full-blown quizzing each other on the content of our respective document.

“Best friend?” I asked challengingly, brows raised. I felt myself lean on the table in anticipation, waiting for an answer less confident than the last few. Although, as he’d met her just about a week ago, the surefire reply was to be expected.

“Wren Inkwood, history major. Dislikes me strongly. Mine?”

I tried to hide the disappointment at his correct answer, instead focused on the response he expected from me. “Blake Zachary, computer science.”

So far, we’d gone through full name (McCarthy Williams, Dylan), age (twenty-three), favorite color (green) and parents’ names (Natalie McCarthy and Lincoln Williams). We were moving quicker now, the next question already on his lips before his last had even been answered. He was enjoying this, hoping to make me slip up, just as much as I wanted him to.

“Hometown?” he asked, and the answer flew out of my mouth effortlessly.

“D. C. Mine?” Determined to see him fail, I leaned closer once more.

Unfortunately, his answer was just as confident and correct. “London, Chelsea. Moved to New York when you were five, grew up there.”

I groaned at the victorious smile on his lips, watching the dimples in his cheek deepening with the sound.

“Seems much easier for you to study me than correlations and regressions,” he pointed out in amusement. By now, the lack of distance between us was apparent. Even to me, who hadn’t noticed leaning in closer in the first place. The more challenging the question, the less space there was—in the hope to intimidate, or the fear of missing anything about the other’s face when they’d get an answer wrong, I didn’t know. So far, no one had been intimidated, and no one had gotten an answer wrong. We were just competitively staring at each other in the middle of a café, not enough space between us for comfort.

“Well.” I cleared my throat, leaning back into my chair to break the tension hanging over us. “There’s few things duller than correlations and regressions.”

McCarthy huffed in amusement, his head tilting as he mirrored my action, arms crossing lazily. “Aw,” he hummed with a cruel smile. “Did you just admit I’m interesting, Pressley?”

My eyes rolled with an equal mix of amusement and disbelief. “Being more interesting than statistics is not a compliment,” I noted, adopting his lazy tone.

He shrugged. “I’d say that’s subjective. Don’t you think?” He waited for my response somewhat eagerly, as if my words were next week’s lottery numbers.

I only let my head fall back with a sigh. “Have I mentioned that you’re insufferable?”

“And yet you begged to fake-date me.”

My head shot back in his direction. He looked at me like it was the exact reaction he’d aimed for. Fuck.

“I did not beg,” I clarified despite it. “And at this point, I regret even politely asking.”

“No you don’t.”

And I would have one-hundred percent disagreed with him, if Henry hadn’t just walked through the door. Instead, my body stiffened, and my gaze stuck to my brother behind McCarthy. He noticed me immediately.

Henry’s gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second before shifting unnaturally quickly to explore the familiar shop.

His eyes flew over the handwritten menu on the chalkboard behind the counter, despite knowing what he would order. His attention shifted onto the various bouquets of flowers on the other side of the room, even though he’d bought at least half of them for Paula at some point. And then, as if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze flicked toward me again.

If an expression could be made of steel, his was stainless. Not a twitch in the mask he was wearing for ego-preserving purposes.  It was infuriating.

God, I really needed this McCarthy thing to work out.

“He’s behind me?”

I started at the reminder of his presence, attention shifting onto him. Fortunately, it was the nudge I needed to get it together and put my—no doubt risky—plan in motion.

Nodding, I smiled as if he’d just promised me the world. A quick glance behind him told me Henry had a hard time not showing interest in the guy his little sister was sitting across from. But his relatively calm expression told me he hadn’t yet recognized the back of his enemy’s head. “How good is your fake laugh?”

McCarthy didn’t reply. Instead, his lips parted in a grin, his nose crinkled, and he squinted slightly as a perfectly natural laugh filled the store.

I didn’t think anything could’ve prepared me for the sight. Or the sound. Or the way I could grow accustomed to hearing it more often. The slight rasp, the hint of a giggle bubbling in the back of his throat when he threw his head back.

Damn it.

My best bet was to focus on the recognition manifesting on Henry’s face when I sneaked a peek behind the heavenly smile in front of me.

“You do that often?” I wondered, amusement edged into the question.

He winked, and it was a shame Henry stood behind him. “Only with you.”

“You should know your girlfriend is incredibly funny,” I said with a joyous drawl. “There’s no need for fake laughs.” My eyes narrowed and I leaned across the small table to emphasize my point. To make sure Henry couldn’t interpret this any other way.

McCarthy gasped in surprise, laughed, and then shook his head. All in all, he was playing the part as if his life depended on it. And I was unironically thankful for it.

“How come my fake laugh is so well-practiced, then?” The accusatory tone in his voice made me crack a smile as he leaned on the table as well.

“Your other girlfriends must be tools.” I shrugged, making sure to break eye contact only for a second, and only because I knew the ringing of the bell above the door had announced Henry’s departure, even before I saw him walk off. No coffee cup in hand, aggravation lacing his steps.

My gaze fell back to McCarthy, a sense of accomplishment radiating through me. His brown eyes, close enough for me to make out their different shades. His face, close enough to notice the minty scent of his gum lingering in the little air left between us.

“What are your favorite flowers?” As he asked the question, he sat back into his chair leisurely. The unbothered, well-rehearsed look on his face was back on full display and I was sure he knew Henry had left without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

“Why?”

“As your boyfriend, I feel I should know.”

I huffed in amusement. “What makes you think I have favorite flowers?” I asked, relaxing into my chair as well.

“Come on,” he teased as if it was obvious. To underline the fact, he gestured up and down myself once. “You’re a billionaire’s daughter. You simply must have favorite flowers.” The concept seemed amusing to him.

“And you’re a millionaire’s son,” I challenged. “What are your favorite flowers?”

McCarthy shrugged. “My mother’s are lilies.” I took that as an and so are mine.

I threw a glance across my shoulder, eyes roaming Daisy’s bouquets for inspiration. They flew across roses, sunflowers, peonies, daisies, orchids. Eventually, I sighed as I turned back. “Tulips, I guess.”

He pondered over the fact for a moment. One look, and he probably spotted the bouquet of pale pink tulips, just like I had. “Least favorite?” His gaze shifted to me again. “Which should’ve been my first question, actually.”

I huffed with an eye roll, shook my head without really meaning to.

“Now that’s an answer I can give you.” Because picking favorites was… hard. Figuring out the pros and cons of so many good things, only to find the best. Knowing what you disliked, however, was as easy as falling asleep after pulling an all-nighter. It came naturally. Quick, like an instinct you followed. “Red roses.”

CHAPTER 10

Henry skipped our Accounting lecture, which I thought was childish. Then again, it meant whatever we were doing was working. In return, I’d had a light bounce in my step and a smile on my face for most of the day.

What’s better than a plan working out when you weren’t sure it would work at all? In this case, it was exceeding expectations. Even if I wasn’t speaking to him, at least I knew he was thinking about me. I hadn’t been this certain about it since our parents had died.

I could tell by the look that washed over him when he spotted me in the hall. The way his head whipped in the opposite direction before I even really looked at him. He was on his way home, I was on my way to McCarthy’s tutorial, and that fact probably wasn’t lost on him.

Divine intervention or a simple coincidence? When McCarthy’s head popped out of his TA office before I even reached it, I said a silent thank you. I assumed he spotted both me and my brother when a cruel smile formed on his lips.

The hallway was long, though the door to McCarthy’s office was barely ten feet from where my and Henry’s paths would cross. The light beige walls were peppered with doors to my left and windows to my right. Between every window, the bust of some historically important person was placed on a slim, wooden podium and I thought Henry might walk into President Abraham Lincoln himself, with the way he eagerly avoided my gaze.

“Pressley!”

I wasn’t used to my arrangement with McCarthy just yet, and the friendliness of his tone caught me off guard. As Henry’s gaze shot toward him, it seemed he wasn’t familiar with the sound either. Though, when someone called your name, it was almost like second nature: you’d check, right?

The look that passed between the two could’ve frozen lava.

McCarthy shifted his gaze first, quickly—to make sure Henry’s attention was still on us when he casually raised his hand and gave me a lazy smile. One that hopefully said: Oh, my girlfriend, I’m so glad to see you, in the most convincing way.

“Would you look at that,” I muttered, as I sidled past him into the tiny office. “You can actually sound like a decent human being when you try.” He shut the door behind me with a thud, gesturing to the uncomfortable chair on this side of his desk.

“You’d be surprised how kind and generous I can be when you’re not around.”

“I’d guess about just as much as Shaw on a bad day.” My brows rose. “Right?”

McCarthy threw me a wide, fake smile, though his attention was already on the source of my demise for the next sixty minutes when he sat down: Statistical Interference I.

“Have you read this before?” He held the book out to me, a brow raised critically.

“Sure.” I leaned back in my seat, and the gesture made him drop his hand with a theatrical sigh. He knew that the honest answer was a big fat nope.

“It was required reading last year, Pressley.” Instead of waiting for me to take the thing out of his hand, he made a point out of opening, turning, and placing it in front of me with a noise that startled me. He went on without checking if I was even looking.

Then again, if I weren’t looking, I wouldn’t know he wasn’t checking.

“It’s got a chapter on everything you’re failing to understand.” His finger slowly ran across the table of contents, giving every relevant chapter a purposeful tap. The null-hypothesis: tap. Calculating probabilities: tap. Confidence intervals: tap.

I didn’t know why my eyes were practically glued to the book. The book—not the ringed finger running across it.

McCarthy turned the page slowly, continuing to run his finger across every chapter of the table delicately. A-B tests: tap. With every tap, his finger curled slightly before straightening to continue running down the white page. Correlation coefficients: tap. I noticed a vein that ran from his knuckle upward, and my eyes followed it mindlessly. Regressions: tap. They were nice hands. Firm, tough-looking, with veins running across the back of it. He wore rings, too. Three silver ones.

My eyes jumped up to his quickly. I wasn’t quite sure how long he hadn’t said anything, and I was even less sure of how long his hand had remained on the page. When our eyes connected, his brow rose in amusement, waiting for any kind of reaction. I huffed as I stalled for time.

“The thing is also, like, a hundred pounds, McCarthy,” I finally retorted. “There’s no way—”

The book snapped shut, and I was sure the only reason he closed it was to keep me from talking. His patience was already wearing thin, five minutes into the whole ordeal, and I wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or a little guilty. Being Shaw’s TA must be hard enough without the burden of having to teach a hopeless case statistics.

“What is your problem with this?” he asked, with an equal mix of aggravation and confusion in his voice. “You’re not dumb, Pressley, but somehow you don’t want to understand.”

My head tilted with a fake pout on my lips. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I quipped, and McCarthy’s eyes rolled in annoyance.

“I’m being serious.”

“And that might be the problem.” A shrug accompanied my words. And as the silence that followed my statement lingered, I dared a glance at the man opposite me. A hand ran through his dark brown hair, eyes on the wooden table. I sighed. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

McCarthy couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic snicker as his eyes batted open. “You’re not even trying,” he pointed out.

Rightfully so. I wasn’t trying. And I didn’t know why I wasn’t trying. At the very least, I always tried.

Perhaps it was the fact that, no matter how hard I’d try with this, I’d never be my mom. I’d never be Naomi Yung, the woman who had changed the way we applied statistics in business today. Way past her death, her success was a lingering presence. Last semester, I’d stumbled over her name three times trying to study for this damn class.

I’d never be her.

The thought made me sick.

Henry was basically Dad, living up to his name and the reputation of a Pressley in soccer. He’d go pro after college, just the way he was supposed to. The draft was but a month away, and I wasn’t even worried he might not make it. Everyone knew he would.

Why couldn’t I be just a little more like either of our parents, too?

Could I be—if I just tried a little harder?

I wasn’t quite sure what trying in statistics looked like, but the following tutoring session with McCarthy was not it. Any traces of the bounce in my step and the smile on my face that had been a constant companion for the past few days were wiped away by the end of it.

I watched as his nose scrunched, trying to decipher the notes in front of him. His brown hair fell into his face as he read through the words, as unsure about them as I had been. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, he squinted, then flicked his eyes toward me.

You’re totally staring at him, the voice inside my head blurted out as soon as our gazes connected. It was right. I was staring. Why was I staring?

Though now that his attention had diverted from the paper in his hand, he held our eye contact steadily. So technically, was he staring at me too?

When his lips broke into a rare smile—all dumb and teasing and uncontrolled, and the dimples in his cheek became visible: for a brief second, I remembered why. He was irritability attractive. It was a fact. Probably one that contributed to why I disliked him so strongly. Probably one that contributed to why Henry did, too.

I shook my head to snap out of it. “So—” I began. I didn’t get very far.

“You were totally staring at me.” McCarthy bit his bottom lip to keep from breaking into a toothy grin. Apparently, he’d picked up on it, too. “Don’t shake your head like that.” He went on. “Athalia Payton Pressley, you were totally staring at me,” he said again, dropping the sing-song voice.

I mulled over his accusation for a moment. “Stop being a five-year-old, McCarthy.”

He was grinning now. You. Were. Totally. Staring, he mouthed back, then redirected his attention to the notes in front of him. Before I could retort, a knock on the door cut me off.

McCarthy’s eyes dragged themselves toward the sound. He took a double-take at the clock above it—3 PM, on the dot—and then sighed. “I’ll email you the details for tomorrow,” he said, handing me my notes back, before raising his voice for a louder “Come in.”

And he did. Over the tip of his long nose, Professor Simon Shaw studied us somewhat curiously. His black hair hung into his features messily, and I almost couldn’t see the way his brows rose when I stood up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, head slowly turning in my direction. Standing still, I was glad he didn’t expect—or at the very least didn’t want to wait—for a response. “If you could fit five minutes with me into your, no doubt, busy schedule, Miss Pressley.” Shaw’s hand extended toward his office, inviting me inside with a snarl.

He didn’t ask me to join him; he expected me to. I thought, even if I’d had the most important appointment of my life in those five minutes, I still would’ve stepped into his office without a second thought.

A single glance across my shoulder showed McCarthy mouthing a sarcastic Good luck my way before he closed the door between us.

Professor Shaw’s office was brighter than McCarthy’s. Bigger, too. And tidier. Though, with the number of times I’d been in here, I wasn’t surprised by that. The chair on the opposite side of his desk looked more comfortable, too, but I didn’t get the chance to sit in it.

“There’s no need,” Shaw said when I was about to. “This will be quick.”

So I stood, nodded to will him to continue.

“How are you finding your tutoring? Making any progress?”

I blinked at him, and the urge to throw McCarthy under the bus was huge. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to destroy the flawless reputation he’d built with staff at this school. Even the janitors love him, was what Henry had said once, clearly annoyed by the fact.

Still, despite the golden opportunity, I nodded. McCarthy was doing me a solid, so this was hardly the time to stab him in the back.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered. “It’s only been two hours so far, but I feel like I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Great.” His mouth dropped into a straight line. “So why did I need to get an email from your brother expecting me to drop these sessions?” My cheeks flushed bright pink before I could stop them. “Expecting me to grant you a free pass?” he snarled with clearly faked curiosity in his voice.

“Professor—” My mouth was dry when I spoke, and I cleared my throat before I could go on. Shaw stood behind his chair, squinting at me and making the most uncomfortable eye contact in the history of eye contact.

“Just because your parents have earned their reputation at this school doesn’t mean either of you have, Pressley,” Shaw hissed, his voice still dangerously low. “Just because you’re their daughter and he’s their son, doesn’t mean you get to waltz around this school—my class—and tell me what you might prefer I do.”

He was right, of course. Henry had overstepped massively, overestimated the influence he might have around athletes and the sports faculty as Felix Pressley’s son. He did not have it here, and he should’ve known before he sent the goddamn email. I could kill him.

For some reason, I still didn’t rat him out. I really wanted to, more than I wanted to throw McCarthy under the bus. But instead of telling him that Henry should be the one in trouble—that it was his idea entirely and he hadn’t even consulted me beforehand—all I said was “I know,” followed by an “It won’t happen again.”

Shaw nodded, his mouth twisting in discontent, despite my words. “It is a shame,” he drawled, studying me. “With all that your mother accomplished in the field, I was excited to hear you’d joined my class last year.” He shook his head in disappointment, sighed. “It’s a shame you’re not living up to her reputation, Miss Pressley.”

CHAPTER 11

When I got home that afternoon, the details McCarthy had wanted to email me were waiting in my inbox.

<D.M.WILLIAMS@HALLBU.COM> 03:12 PM

Pressley,

If you survived Shaw, I’ll meet you in front of the Alexandrian Library tomorrow. Three PM sharp.

Happy Fake Date Thursday Eve! You better get your hopes up.

Disrespectfully,

D. M. W

“This?” was the first thing I wondered when McCarthy walked up to me that Thursday. “This is what you had in mind? What I was supposed to get my hopes up for?” My tone was disbelieving as I watched him, a copy of Statistical Interference I in hand.

“Well, did you?” The corner of his lip quirked at the prospect. As he took a seat beside me, leaving the bench on the opposite side of the picnic table empty, I rolled my eyes.

“Of course not.” I might not know McCarthy well, but I knew him enough to lower my expectations when he suggested I raise them. I shook my head again. “Normally, dates involve a movie, dinner, drinks. Flowers. Not—” I pointed at the 100-pound book now resting on the table between us. “That.”

“And usually, dates aren’t at three o’clock in a college courtyard, to make sure a certain someone would see you.”

Touché.

“Besides,” he added. “This is perfect. It makes sense. I’m your tutor. This—” He gestured back and forth between us. “—is a cute, unsuspecting study date. Taking in the last of this year’s sun in front of the library your brother happens to be in for—” He thought for a moment, his eyes shifting off the circular building to throw me a questioning glance. “How much longer, again?”

I shrugged. “Like half an hour.”

“Half an hour,” he echoed, checking his phone for the time and nodding in confirmation. “See? Perfect.”

If there was one thing about Henry, it was that he always followed a schedule. He had done, since he was fifteen years old; and he stuck to it religiously. It’s what kept him grounded, productive, and on top of his game. In control. And as someone who’d been with him since before his first to-do list, I knew his routine better than my own.

Mostly because the only routine I followed was Indian takeout on Saturday nights, and even that lacked consistency most weeks.

We lived very different lives, my brother and I. Every second that wasn’t planned out was a wasted one for him. Life was sacred, being someone he could be proud of in ten years’ time the most important thing.

I… didn’t quite operate that way. What happened, happened. Life went on regardless of the mistakes you made, regardless of who lived or died. So why invest so much energy into living a perfectly planned-out life when we all ended up in a casket, no matter what?

He’d tried often enough to fix that, by putting me on a schedule and giving me some kind of planner every birthday. Once, he’d stolen my iPad password to download one of those calendar apps. The only reason I hadn’t used it was to annoy him.

“You know,” I huffed, attention back on McCarthy and the devil’s testament in his hand. “The only reason I had any motivation to study statistics by myself, was not having to see you every Wednesday.”

He snickered in amusement, and I could feel his eyes on me. “Now that I’ll have to see you regardless, what motivation do I have left?” My theatrical sigh accompanied his hoarse laugh, and I let my head fall onto my arm on the table in a similar manner.

I was back to not wanting to even try. What. Was. The. Point?

“Proving me wrong?”

My previously closed eyes shot open, finding an honest look on his face, his head tilted slightly as he waited for me to grasp the concept. I sat up at once. I continued evaluating the stakes.

“Prove you wrong, how?” Suspicion laced my voice.

“I told Shaw you’re a hopeless case.” He shrugged as if it was the most casual of things to do. “He asked after your… conversation yesterday.”

I knew I was a hopeless case. McCarthy knew I was a hopeless case, and Shaw probably thought I was a hopeless case, too. But there was a significant difference between thinking, knowing, and having a conversation with your TA about it.

“You can’t just—” I wanted to argue, my raised voice faltering at his next words.

“He agreed with me.”

My body deflated, and a loud groan slipped past my lips. “Fuck you,” I deadpanned, unsure what else to retort as my head fell back.

“I’ll take that.” His hands raised in mocked surrender when I threw him a narrowed glance. “But it also provides you with an amazing opportunity.” I didn’t have to ask what he meant, and he didn’t have to say it out loud again either. A short silence lingered before he did, anyway. “Prove us wrong, Pressley.”

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. Yet, to myself I could admit the brilliance of his approach.

I was as competitive as the next person—it’s what growing up with an overachieving brother did, I assumed—and so the opportunity to prove McCarthy wrong, to prove Professor Shaw wrong… it was inviting.

So inviting, that I actually tried to listen, the next time he explained the basics of statistics and what we could do with them. Sure, trying wasn’t doing.

That blue Frisbee being thrown into the blonde girl’s face, who had been exceptionally talkative on the other end of the grass (even before it had hit her in the head), was still more interesting than why we needed a null-hypothesis. And the look on my brother’s face when he spotted us half an hour later was still more satisfying than actually understanding what a null-hypothesis was supposed to do.

When it came to statistics, I wasn’t used to understanding anything. I wasn’t used to paying attention to McCarthy, his voice, or what he had to say, either.

At one point I’d become so desperate for distraction, I found analyzing the curve in his dimple, the rasp in his voice after he cleared his throat and how voluminous his hair was—how soft it looked—more interesting. I briefly wondered if he used 3-in-1 shampoo, though hoped to God he didn’t.

I’d been so bored, I found the glances he threw me exhilarating enough to still think about them, back in the comfort of my own home. Accompanied by the genuine interest that had laced his voice when he asked if I got it, and the faked pout when I deadpanned no.

Then again, who was I kidding? Everything—everyone was more interesting than statistics.

CHAPTER 12

“No,” Wren insisted. I could tell how hard it was for her. “Athalia Payton Pressley, I’m not going.” My full name was added for dramatic effect. So was the grim look on her face, the crossed arms and the threatening tone in her voice.

With my brows raised and my eyes slightly narrowed, I pointed out the window. “We’re already in the car.” My voice was calm, but stern.

“Because you didn’t tell me where we’re going!”

“Because you love going to games!”

Hence why it was so hard for her to say no. She wanted to see HBU kick some ass. She wanted to be in the stands, cheering and booing and trying to explain what was happening to me: someone who’d been trying her hardest to avoid anything soccer-related since the ripe age of six. Apparently, I’d run out of the room screaming until I was out of earshot whenever Dad and Henry had started talking about it— which had been always.

So, yes, Wren loved to drag me to the games. She loved being there. She just didn’t want to be there for my reason.

“This is kidnapping,” she protested loudly, moving to open the passenger door. Panicked, I enabled the child lock.

Wren’s head turned forcefully in my direction, hair whipping across her face. “The only reason you want to go is your fake boyfriend; who I don’t want to see, by the way.”

Her eyes darted over the car to find another exit. Though, unless she wanted to smash the window—which, surely, was a viable option, for at least a second—she had nowhere to go. “So, let me out of this car before I smash the windows.”

I took one deep breath before fastening my seatbelt, and turning the key until the engine roared below us.

“Athalia—” A warning note played in Wren’s voice, and I tried my best to ignore it. Instead, I threw her a winning smile and pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m going to kill you one day.” I’d been waiting for the defeated sigh that followed her words. Dramatically, she let herself fall into the passenger seat completely before putting on her seatbelt and officially giving up.

I would tell her that I didn’t want to go to any game. That it was in the contract and there was no way around fake supporting my fake boyfriend. But she wouldn’t care either way, and I decided to avoid the topic of McCarthy as best as I could.

“I love you, too,” I retorted carefully, though the satisfied smile on my lips was still audible in my tone. “Now,” I continued. “Trust me with the fact we’ll have an incredible time, eat junk, and the next time we’re in New York, I’ll sit through another Hamilton show with you. Deal?”

Her posture relaxed beside me, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see a smile threatening to spill across her features. She hesitated before she nodded. “Deal.”

In my opinion, soccer games had always been too long. Whenever I had watched my brother’s high school games, or we’d flown out to watch Dad play, my short attention span was simply not made for ninety minutes of… anything. Add a fifteen-minute break to that and it was almost unbearable.

Sure, the rush of a win and even the lows of a loss were exhilarating. The energy shift when your team scored. The yelling, the screaming: it was fun. Especially when they were family. But that was just it. There were other things to do that were more fun.

I skipped most of the games I was invited to.

Due to my contractual obligation, that was obviously changing now. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was just as contractually obligated to cheer for the one guy I used to root against. Yes, that meant I could gloat a little whenever Henry would leave a hole in their defense, but it hardly mattered. My brother was on fire today.

Everything that had been bubbling up within Henry over the past week only seemed to make him a better player. It’s like he took his annoyance, irritation and anger and channeled it into kicking that ball as hard, as fast, and as aggressively as he could. And somehow, it worked. If we ignored the yellow card he’d earned himself within the first twenty minutes of the match.

Now, ninety minutes in and with two minutes of overtime left, the game was pretty much settled. Our stands were roaring with chants and whistles and screams, and I was sure I heard someone uncontrollably sobbing at the other end of the bleachers.

Wren had her arm wrapped in mine, pulling me into her rhythmic jumping, going along with the noise, as if I didn’t have to kidnap her to be here in the first place. A wide grin played on her face, eyes following the ball with a speed that was inexplicable to me.

When the sound of the whistle finally rang across the field, Wren’s hands flew in the air, our popcorn bucket right with them. No one around us winced—even seemed to notice—as she showered the few rows before us in popcorn out of sheer excitement. 2–0.

She hugged me, the stranger beside me hugged me. And I let myself be swept up in the excitement of an amazing win when I heard myself cheer with them.

An honest mistake. It wouldn’t happen again.

“That was—” Wren exhaled loudly, excitement still vibrating in her voice when we pushed out of the tightly filled rows. “Incredible.” She made sure to annunciate every syllable of the word, her arm still interlocked with mine. “Henry was amazing today,” she added apprehensively, side-eying my reaction.

I couldn’t do anything but agree. She was right. Although I didn’t watch him play often, today was one of his best performances, by far.

“Maybe the key to him going pro is us fighting.” By the apologetic look on her face, my attempted joke didn’t land the way I’d hoped.

And just to add fuel to the fire, arriving by the sideline to congratulate my boyfriend very publicly, the first person I noticed was my brother. The proud grin on his face and how good it felt to see him happy and accomplished. I wished I could be rooting for this version of him at the moment. Maybe, in some sisterly way, I still was. But this wasn’t what revenge looked or felt like.

“You were late.”

My attention was forced onto the striker I was here to see. And he lacked a shirt. A self-righteous smile graced his full lips, but I’d be lying if I said it was the first thing I noticed. Or the second.

The smooth abs and the sheen of sweat covering his entire upper body definitely came first. The bright lights illuminating the field now that the sun was setting only underlined the debacle I found myself in.

Don’t stare, Athalia.

My eyes shifted as soon as I could force them to, but the little glimpse of him they’d caught was enough to last a lifetime. My gaze crossed his, and I tried my best to remember what he’d said when he so rudely took over my entire field of vision with his perfect upper body.

I cleared my throat. “And you should’ve been busy playing, instead of checking whether I was or wasn’t on time.”

His lips broke into a lazy smile, the dimple in his cheek almost distracting from the damp, sweaty hair hanging over his face. Instead of retorting, he glanced Wren’s way.

The high of the win must have worn off as soon as McCarthy had made his presence known. And it seemed his exposed chest probably didn’t have the effect on her that it had on… me?

Wait, no. There was no effect.

“Inkwood,” he greeted with a nod.

Wren didn’t say anything. Instead, she faked a wide, exaggerated smile before purposely dropping it a second later, leaning against the bleachers with her arms crossed. I decided not to push her any further. Being here was enough for my taste, and more than enough for her, all on its own.

“So…” McCarthy hummed, leisurely propping himself against the handrail separating stands and field. Right behind him, Henry beamed brightly as he spoke to Coach Hepburn. “We’re going out to celebrate after this.” The statement lingered in the air, eyes connecting with mine again. “Care to join me?”

Surprisingly enough, his eyes flicked back and forth between Wren and me, inaudibly extending the invitation to the both of us. We replied simultaneously.

“Yes.”

“No.”

McCarthy huffed in amusement. “A few of the guys are bringing their girlfriends; I’d hate to rob them of the pleasure of meeting mine.” Though his voice sounded genuine, and was picked up by Henry exactly that way, the grimace on his face couldn’t have been more ironic.

And I was starting to like the way McCarthy thought.

“We—” I gave Wren a warning look. “Would love to.”

Before she could protest—and she was well on her way to doing so—I mouthed the word Hamilton in her direction. Her lips shut tightly, as if they were about to disobey her if she didn’t keep them glued in place. When I looked back at him, I smiled as if I hadn’t just blackmailed my best friend for the second time today.

“Great,” he said.

Great.

Although it was early Sunday evening, the streets were bustling with all sorts of people. College students drunk enough to already go home again, workers just getting off their eight-hour shifts and homebodies getting takeout at the Chinese place we’d just passed.

“I’m staying an hour. Tops,” Wren warned as we neared the address McCarthy had given us.

“And I love you for it.” I came to an abrupt halt, my gaze lifting from my phone to scan our surroundings for some sort of sign. The blue location dot hovered right by the destination pinpoint, though the name of the bar, or any sign of it, was nowhere to be found.

Wren huffed with knowing amusement. “Awesome,” she sighed in an I-told-you-so manner, leaning on a low fence behind her. “This is a joke, right?”

I turned with an apologetic expression. “There’s pizza—” She waved toward the small shop on the other side of the street. “Chinese—” Her head gestured in the direction of that, too. “But I don’t see—”

Before she could finish her sentence—lo and behold, right above her head—a broken neon sign flickered slightly, the light so dim, it was barely noticeable in the dark. Though, it was enough for me to make out a huge arrow pointing down and the cocktail beside it.

“I do!” I didn’t even give myself time to elaborate before grabbing Wren’s wrist, tugging her off the fence and steering us toward the stairs that led into the apparent underground bar.

“You’re so quick to expect the worst, Inkwood,” I teased as I pushed open the door. The light scent of beer, peanuts and sweet cocktails welcomed us, and let us know we were in the right place. It screamed college sports. Letting her body go limp in defeat, she let herself be dragged along.

I spotted the HBU soccer team right away. It was hard to miss thirteen broody men and their plus-ones. I was surprised they even had a table for a group as large as it was, in a place so small.

The light was dim, the bar stretching across the entire wall beside the table we were approaching. Confidence edged into my stride, and even Wren had picked up her slouch into a begrudging walk. Before we reached the group, an unfamiliar voice hollered and another joined in with a, “There she is!” Excitement lingered in the sound.

“The woman of the hour,” another cheered as he pretended to bow in the chair in front of us. Beside him: McCarthy, who smacked the guy upside the head, before turning our way with a tight smile.

“Ignore them,” he pleaded with both amusement and sincerity. The image of carefree, fun McCarthy shocked me right away. No scowl in sight.

I waved at the entire group with a quick Hi, eyes flicking across them. On the opposite side of the table, Henry tried his best to ignore the playful commotion around him, immersed in his phone and probably typing a bunch of nothing into his notes app just to look busy.

If I hadn’t been so focused on the lack of Henry’s attention, maybe I would’ve realized the seat beside McCarthy was the only one free before Wren had basically thrown herself into it. Sighing, I thought she deserved it for having to go through this in the first place.

“I’ll just grab an extra chair.” I gestured to the neighboring, much smaller table.

McCarthy already nodded in agreement when the boy beside him perked up once more, a widespread grin on his face. “Nonsense!” he laughed.

“Caden,” McCarthy warned. To no effect.

Caden’s box-dyed blond buzzcut contrasted his dark brows, but complemented the blue eyes, which gleamed in amusement when his hand landed on McCarthy’s thigh with a dull thud. “There’s a perfectly good seat right here!” he exclaimed, patting the leg beside him.

McCarthy threw a deathly glare at his friend, and it turned into an unreadable expression when his gaze drew to mine.

Was he actually considering this? Me? On his lap?

Nothing but clothes separating us—no room to mess up our relationship facade? After all, Henry was right across from us. Any argument, any looks that didn’t say We’re-in-a-happy-healthy-relationship, and he’d know how fake it all was.

How embarrassing would that be?

McCarthy shrugged, brow furrowed as he tried to read my expression. Then, as if giving up, he pushed his chair back with a scraping sound that was almost entirely drowned out by the surrounding conversations and the low music in the background. His arms opened, and a prompting look washed over him.

And one glance at my brother’s face ushered me right into McCarthy’s lap.

CHAPTER 13

McCarthy was comfortable. His lap didn’t feel like one at all—or maybe I was just glad to spare my ass from sitting on chairs that looked as comfortable as blunt boulders. Even if that meant McCarthy’s legs cushioning it.

I tried not to think about that at all. About the muscles rippling his thighs, or about the fact I was sitting on them.

Despite my greatest efforts of focusing on anything else, I was still aware of the arm slung around my waist and the murmur of his and Caden’s conversation. Hence my startle when McCarthy shifted underneath me.

“Sorry,” he muttered, drawing my attention from my conversation with Wren and the girl beside her, Laila. She’d turned out to be someone’s sister: I wish I remembered.

McCarthy’s grip around me tightened when I turned his way. Bad idea. His brown eyes were mere inches from mine, so close I could feel his breath catching against my nose.

Which made ignoring him underneath me so much harder. His fingers curling around my hip didn’t help, and the fact that I’m pretty sure it wasn’t intentional didn’t either.

I blinked hastily, trying to adjust my new position. My arms ended up around his neck, and I honestly didn’t mean for them to. Because it meant his undivided attention on me, and my undivided attention on him.

He tensed below me, and I paused my wiggling abruptly, like I’d gotten a new sense of awareness what sitting—wiggling—in his lap really meant. “Sorry.” I cringed, honestly. “Just trying to get—”

“Comfortable,” he whispered, voice strained. An odd choice, I thought, to whisper in a loud, dingy sports bar. I didn’t like how intimate it felt.

McCarthy swallowed hard, eyes never leaving mine.

Undivided attention.

“Are you?” he asked, voice still low. “Comfortable? Because I distinctly remember you saying light PDA, and the way you’re nestling into my crotch is anything but—”

“I’m not!” I hissed, but the second I lifted some of my weight off him, I couldn’t deny it. Horrified wouldn’t begin to describe how I felt, and I was glad for the low lighting when heat crept up my neck.

He huffed. The way I felt it on my skin only exaggerated the color in my cheeks. “All I ask is that you have some mercy on me, Pressley.” Something low in my belly coiled at the rasp in his voice, and I was so focused on suppressing the feeling, I forgot to… say something. Speechless. I’d never been speechless.

“Great.” McCarthy nodded, the corner of his lip twitching. “So you’re comfortable?”

“Yes.” Even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t dare move. Not scared of the consequences, but by how much I wanted to know what they’d be. How much I wanted to shift in his lap just for the sake of it—

“Dude!” The words beamed across the table.

Whatever spell between us broke, and judging by my train of thoughts, I should be glad about it. I turned to follow the voice, wincing when it meant I was wiggling again. Getting away from McCarthy’s intense look felt like sweet relief in itself, but the low chuckle right by my ear would follow me into my dreams that night.

‘Dude’ Guy’s deep voice cut through the group as a laugh accompanied the word. Sitting next to Henry, he hit his chest hard enough to get my brother’s attention, then nodded in my general direction.

“Isn’t it weird?” He sounded amused, but the polite hint of a smile on Henry’s lips fell despite it, as soon as he followed his teammate’s gaze. I looked anywhere else.

Right then, I was painfully aware of McCarthy. The fact I was still sitting on top of him and his breath tickled my neck as he picked up his conversation with Caden again. It took all my willpower to focus on the voices on the other end of the table, instead of the sensations all over my body.

Dude Guy elaborated. “That McCarthy is dating your sister, I mean.” Thanks for the clarification. “I’d kill anyone at this table who tried—” He cut himself off, and my eyes flicked in their direction to see the guy throwing a threatening glare at no one in particular. “But my sister’s also sixteen, so…” He dragged the word out, shrugging at the fact, as if it wasn’t the main problem in the scenario.

Henry’s eyes closed for a moment to gather his composure. He looked like he was about ready to commit murder. Then, his eyes slid in our direction once more, a deadly glare in them. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat—wait, no. McCarthy’s lap. Goddamn it.

McCarthy drew in a sharp breath, head whirling in my direction again. I wasn’t sure if he meant for his hold around my waist to tighten. But it did.

“Pressley” he hissed, voice low and deep. “I’m really trying here.” But I didn’t want to focus on that, or him, or how tense he was all of a sudden. How he held me closer to keep me in place.

My eyes and ears were already on my brother again. The latter sighed, seemingly letting out all built-up frustration before he took a long sip from his glass.

As if to emphasize his point—as if he knew I was listening and as if he knew how desperately I wanted to hear his answer—he didn’t look away when he said, “Couldn’t care less, Michael.” Then, he smiled. Right to my face.

Which made an awful thought pop into my head.

Was the reason Henry supposedly didn’t care that he knew? Knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t purposely spend more time with McCarthy than seriously needed? Knew me well enough to anticipate the surefire revenge coming his way, and knew me well enough to figure out that this was it?

With how much distance he’d put between us, I didn’t think he’d know me at all, but…

My head spun. I panicked. I stood. Short-circuited. A few heads turned my way curiously, quickly diverting when they realized nothing was going on. Excluding Wren and McCarthy, who were both looking at me with equal interest in what I was planning.

Funny you should ask. I didn’t know, either.

“Getting food,” I lied quickly. I nodded to the bar and hoped to God they served nachos or peanuts or fries in this place.

And thank God they did.

I took my sweet time reading each and every food item on the menu.

Cheesy nachos. Onion rings. Peanuts.

I was in no rush to get back opposite of my brother. Or on top of McCarthy, for that matter. What was the point if Henry was already fully aware of everything? Any previous confidence in my plan had vanished.

Who would’ve guessed it’d be me begging Wren to leave well before she had the chance to? Apparently, her conversation with Laila was delightful. One glance told me as much.

With my eyes back on the menu, I sighed.

Mozzarella sticks. Wings. French fries.

“Athalia.”

My head shot back up at the sound of my name. The dim light revealed a vaguely familiar smile.

“Blake.” If I sounded surprised, it’s because I was.

Blake Zachary, all charm and big smiles. Remembering McCarthy’s list, Blake was his best friend. Tall, dark, and handsome: he was the very definition of it. We’d been on the same beer pong team once, but that was as far as our acquaintance went.

“You enjoying yourself?” His dark eyes trailed back to me when he absentmindedly gave the bartender his order. Compared to McCarthy’s honey brown, his were an almost abyss-like-black, deeper and darker, and I definitely needed to stop thinking about eyes that weren’t in front of me right now.

“Uh-huh,” I muttered, breaking my thoughts off. I nodded. “You?”

“Celebrating a win’s always nice,” he agreed. “Better than a loss, anyway—thanks, man.” He gave a grateful nod to the bartender, placing the beer on the bar between them.

“I feel we should get to know each other better,” he continued, his voice smooth and silky. “Now that you’re dating my best friend and all. I hardly know anything about you. Nothing, apart from the fact that you’re awful at beer pong and supposed to hate Dylan as much as your brother does.” There was something challenging in his eyes, yet his calm demeanor didn’t crack.

“Are you trying to do a background check on me, Zachary?” I teased, and it brought a slight smile to his face.

“Not at all.” He shrugged. Blake raised the glass to his lips, taking a sip before he shook his head. “Sorry,” he snorted in amusement. “Trying this new approach called ‘Intimidating Best Friend’. Wren’s got it perfected.” His eyes flashed behind me. “How did I do?”

“Awful,” I deadpanned. “Really quite awful.” I laughed then, and was relieved when he offered me a single one as well.

“Good.” His eyes wandered down my sweater, halfheartedly tucked into the pleated skirt, its grey almost as dark as the tights underneath. When his eyes came back up, it was too dark to read his expression. “Let’s try that again, then.”

And he was actually quite pleasant to talk to once he dropped the act of concerned, intimidating best friend. We did so for a solid ten minutes, before he turned to order another drink for Mike. Whoever that was.

As if I’d just remembered, my attention darted to the laminated menu still sitting underneath my fingertips.

“That must be one hell of a snack.” I startled at the familiar voice coming from behind me. My head whipped up in recognition, and I eyed the bottles of liquor behind the bar. “Whatever you ordered, better be worth the twenty minutes it took you to get it.”

McCarthy knew nothing had been ordered. He just wanted to see me squirm, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not after he’d left me speechless once already tonight.

“I’ll probably go with the nachos. What do you think?” I pretended to read that damned menu yet again. In the corner of my eye, I could see Blake’s attention shift from the much busier bartender to his best friend.

McCarthy’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind, head resting on my shoulder and his body flush with mine. To keep up our facade—obviously. Despite having sat on his lap for the past hour, this felt different enough for my breath to hitch. Hopefully so lightly it went unnoticed.

When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I think,” he began, his lips hovering right by my ear. “I think you might’ve forgotten you’re supposed to be my girlfriend. Not his.” The little nod in Blake’s direction had his lips graze my skin. A subtle touch. Nothing major. I ignored the goose bumps running down my neck when his hot breath tickled it. And I ignored the urge to lean into his tall frame behind me.

One of his fingers absentmindedly trailed along the dip of my waist, though the fabric dampened most of the impact it would’ve probably made.

Listen. It’s been a while. This was not about who did it, and more the fact it was being done in the first place.

The light scent of beer mixed with his cologne in the air around us, and I wanted to shove him off me just to feel like I could breathe in something other than his intoxicating scent. Instead, my eyes closed for a brief second so I could get it together; then I turned around.

I didn’t realize how close that would leave us standing. A few inches, not more. His face, his eyes, his lips, all right there. Trying to bring just the tiniest bit of distance between us, I failed when my back hit the bar, my head still angled up to catch his eyes.

They were rapidly taking in every part of my face. Drinking in every faint freckle along and around my nose, the green eyes I’d inherited from Dad, and the flushed cheeks I blamed on the stuffy air in here.

Remembering his words, I scrambled for a reply before the silence became deafening. “I’m bonding with your best friend,” I gasped in irony, my voice low. “You should be thrilled. At least we get along.” My eyes trailed to Wren, still immersed in her conversation with Laila, and he caught my drift without having to follow my gaze.

A smirk formed on his lips, and his head tilted slightly. Raising a brow, in a know-it-all tone he said, “My best friend, who’s had a thing for you since you picked your brother up from practice the first time?” His face was almost flush with mine, his lips by my ear again to make sure no one would hear his next words. “And proceeded to chew off the entire team’s ear about it? I’m just telling you what it looks like to them.” He shrugged when he brought much-needed distance between us.

“All right, all right, cool it.” I rolled my eyes, hands flying up in playful defeat. The urge to rest them on his chest came up. Briefly. Kind of. I mean, it was right there. Instead, I lowered them. Before he could say anything else, I made sure I had the next word. “So.” I trailed off, finger tapping the menu. “Nachos?” I looked up at him through mascara-covered lashes, the question leaving my lips with a grin threatening to spill across them.

McCarthy huffed, nodded and tried his best to suppress his own smile. He searched for the bartender—Gene—behind me, then let his hand slip from my hip to my hand, tugging it lightly to get me in front of Gene and my nachos ordered.

By the time I turned around, Blake was long gone, sitting in his previous spot at the table behind us. Five minutes after that, I was back on McCarthy’s lap, both of us unbothered by the other’s presence, maybe for the first time.

CHAPTER 14

I stood in front of our lecture hall, in the middle of a busy corridor. Glued into place. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” slipped past my lips, and I refused to take another step. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shift my gaze. Couldn’t do anything beyond staring.

Like he was a car crash you desperately wanted to look away from, but couldn’t.

In all his glory, there he stood. The white compression shirt loosely tucked into grey sweatpants, long sleeves clinging to every crevice in his arms. Leaning against the wall opposite of our lecture hall, McCarthy’s arms were crossed lazily. The red rose between his fingers stuck out like a sore thumb.

Various insults crossed my mind when I closed the few feet between us.

He lifted his gaze before I got to him, and the amused look that spread across his face told me all I needed to know. McCarthy smiled brightly, tongue between his teeth and the dimples in his cheek prominent.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

“You are unbelievable.”  My voice was hushed, laced in annoyance.

“I got this for you.” Extending the single red rose toward me, he decided to play dumb. “I remember you told me they were your favorite.” The cruel smile on his lips made this worse. “Or was it your least favorite? Ah, damn. I can’t remember now.”

McCarthy’s head fell back, pretending to remember what he already knew. I tried not to follow the bobbing of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed heavily, stalling for time. His teeth latched onto his bottom lip as he looked back at me, trying his best to hide the insufferable grin threatening to spill across his features.

He was failing. Miserably. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Groaning, I finally plucked the rose out of his hand, managing to dig my thumb into not one, but two thorns on first contact. Two seconds, and I wanted to throw the thing back in his face.

“God,” I pretended to swoon instead. “What did I do to deserve such an attentive boyfriend?” My voice was laced with loving kindness. My face basically told him to go fuck himself.

“All the right things,” he mocked with a wink. His shoulder gently bumped mine when he brushed past me toward the lecture hall beginning to fill up. He lingered in front of it until I decided to follow his lead, and I managed to catch a last glimpse of the back of Henry’s head, as he rushed into the room.

McCarthy and I walked through the open doors together.

“You know why I don’t like them?” I asked rhetorically, attention on the rose as I twirled it between my fingers. He shuffled into the same row as if it was second nature—normal, even, for us to sit next to each other.

“Oh-oh, let me guess!” Mocking excitement played in his voice. Letting himself fall into the seat beside me, he went on. “They’re basic, boring, cheap?” He quickly shook his head. “No! I’ve got it. That one time in your least favorite summer house in the south of France, your brother picked one of the roses off the bushes and blamed it on you. Your allowance was cut in half as a punishment, and how would you be able to survive off a thousand dollars a week, right?” His tone had become even more mocking, trying his best to mimic my voice.

“I sound nothing like that.”

“I mean, the audacity,” McCarthy went on, still grinning widely. “I totally understand why that would put you off them forever.”

My eyes rolled so forcefully, I feared they might get stuck. I didn’t know why I still struggled to keep a smile off my lips regardless.

“No,” I sighed theatrically, attention shifting from his dimpled smile hesitantly when Professor Carter walked into the hall. She closed the doors behind her with a forceful thud, and I shook my head. “But he did push me into a bush when we were summering in The Hamptons. Consider me traumatized for life.”

I honest to God startled at his laugh. I wasn’t sure how hard he’d tried to hold it back, but the way it spluttered out of him—rang through the entire hall, and earned us both a cruel glance from Carter—it hadn’t been hard enough.

And the real thing was miles… lightyears, ahead of the fake laugh he’d showed off oh so many times during the course of our fake relationship. I had considered it to be nice, but this one—the real one—made it feel halfhearted and weak by comparison. Giggly, somewhat boy-ish and cute. Unexpected. And it was all that it took for my attention to be forced back to him.

McCarthy’s eyes were already wide when they met mine. His hand covered the lips that had been spread into a grin seconds ago, eyes jumping back and forth between the professor and me, seemingly just as confused. His cheeks flushed at the unwanted attention.

“Something funny, McCarthy?” Carter’s voice rang through the room, and even from up here, I could see her dark brow rising dismissively, her eyes darting between us.

The earlier display of amusement washed off his face, his answer as quick as lightning. “No. Sorry.” He raised his voice to make sure it would reach Carter, who simply shrugged.

“Never took Pressley for quite the comedian,” she commented halfheartedly, earning herself a few snickers from the room. After throwing a final glance our way, she focused on her laptop once again.

“You’d be surprised,” McCarthy muttered under his breath. I was sure the words weren’t meant for my ears. It was almost a compliment, after all: something that was unheard of from him.

Smiling, the red rose between my fingers found its way into my bag, and I made sure it didn’t get crushed when I took out my laptop to take notes.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.

By the end of the week, I had four identical, disgustingly perfect and thorny roses sitting in a vase on my windowsill. One for each day of the week. I pushed the fifth one into the vase, throwing my bag to the floor.

I flung myself onto my bed, with its headboard against the wall, blanket and pillowcases not matching. My emotional support blanket covered the floor, along with… half of the contents of my recessed closet, probably; its doors remained ajar. It was time for a serious deep clean. Though between classes, fake dates and the extra statistics work McCarthy had sentenced me to, there hadn’t been enough time to consider one, never mind actually doing it.

My eyes trailed back to the only thing that seemed orderly in here.

McCarthy was having a field day with these roses. Every time I saw him, he had one in his hand, looking as proud as ever. As if it was the first time he’d given me one and he just couldn’t wait to see my face when he held it out to me. It didn’t matter that it had become predictable by Wednesday.

His nose still scrunched up in the same way when he spotted me. Anticipation still lingered in his every expression, and a wide grin still snuck onto his lips when I rolled my eyes. Every. Time.

My eyes shifting from the sight with one final groan, I tried to concentrate on the task at hand: mustering up the motivation to get ready for the party Henry would be at tonight.

Inevitably, that meant his favorite power couple would be there, too.

CHAPTER 15

It was 11PM when McCarthy showed up at my door, ensuring me he was ready to live it up. He did not look the part. As if on cue, a yawn rattled through his chest.

“We don’t have to go,” was the first thing that slipped past my lips. I thought it was…

“Wow,” he gasped. “So thoughtful of you.”

Yeah, it was exactly that.

“I know.” I continued, my tone exaggerated as I huffed. “I just care about you so much. You should know that by now.”

I rushed back into the kitchen, knowing McCarthy had let himself in when I heard the door shut. “It’s also the fact that I would like people to know I’m amazing company to keep, and my boyfriend falling asleep on me would say quite the opposite.” It definitely had nothing to do with the fact I was nervous. “Beer?”

The question hung in the air as I opened the fridge, rising to my toes to reach the top shelf. When he didn’t answer, I looked over my shoulder to throw him a questioning glance.

McCarthy’s eyes flew up to meet mine just in time, shrugging out of his dark Carhartt jacket and hanging it over one of the stools. When he pushed off the island to walk over, I took that as a yes—quickly grabbed a can out of the fridge before he could and then turned back around with a victorious smile.

Being faster than him felt like a small win in itself. I might’ve gloated more if I wasn’t immediately faced with his chest. It took him less time to get to me than I’d anticipated, and as the smirk slipped from my lips, it appeared on his. Without breaking eye contact, his hand curled around the can, finger grazing mine before I could let go.

I did not want to interpret the way his touch scorched my skin. The way color rose to my neck.

“No, thank you,” he said, voice lower as he placed the beer back on the top shelf. Cool air hit my back, and a shiver ran down my spine. McCarthy was close enough for me to feel the suppressed chuckle in his chest. His head basically hovered above my own, and I thanked God for the height difference that put some distance between us.

His eyes casually shifted to take in the contents of my fridge, ignoring my body pressed between his and the cold air. “Something sweeter?” he absentmindedly requested from above, hand curling around the corner of the fridge. His gaze dropped again, scanning my face. “Please?”

He seemed different tonight—more unpredictable.

Fuck, something was definitely wrong with the guy, when please and thank you out of his mouth made you feel on edge.

I took the opportunity to duck under his arm, escaping to clear my thoughts of… him. I didn’t want to notice the outline of his toned arms, the short sleeves showing them off. My eyes really just grazed them. Anyone’s would have.

“Oh, McCarthy.” I hummed playfully, overcoming the single flutter in my belly. Because I was nervous. About the party. “I’m flattered. But you can’t have me. Remember that contract?”

He tilted his head, huffed in amusement. “And what a shame that is, right?”

What a shame. I ignored his words pointedly. Nothing to read into here. Leaning against the counter beside him, I looked anywhere but his way. To distract from everything about Dylan McCarthy Williams that clouded my judgement. For starters, his presence. Followed by the scent of his earthy aftershave, the sound of his snicker and the way I could feel his eyes boring into the side of my face.

“This isn’t really a soda household. Sorry. Didn’t take you for a sweet tooth,” I admitted.

“That’s fine. Many things you wouldn’t take me for,” he retorted casually, then pushed off the counter to stand in front of me. “Ready?” His eyes flew down my frame when he asked, as if to approve the way I looked before he turned up on frat row with me on his arm.

“Don’t know,” I admitted. My honesty kind of surprised me.

It seemed he mirrored the sentiment. His brows shot up, giving me a tentative look before following up with another once-over. He shook his head when he looked back at me. “Seriously?” he asked.

In answer, I pushed myself off the counter and headed for the full-length mirror in my room. Since Wren was busy, I’d gotten ready by myself for the first time in a long time, and I wondered whether the lack of a second opinion had affected my outfit decisions. You could never go wrong with a black dress, but…

“It’s a bit basic,” I concluded loud enough for him to hear my words in the kitchen, a single wall between us. Or maybe it was too much? I thought back to my last frat parties, trying to remember whether people wore dresses to them. Distractedly, I twisted and turned in front of the mirror beside my bed to see all angles.

It was decided. I hated it.

In defeat, I dropped my hands with a groan. McCarthy showed up in my door the next second, and my eyes locked with his in the mirror. He leaned himself against the frame, head tilting with an incredulous look on his face.

“You’re not seriously thinking about changing, are you?” His eyes fell down my body again. Maybe even lingered on my backside. Who knows? I certainly wasn’t keeping track.

“I am.” I puffed out a breath. “It’s too much. Or too little. Maybe too—” Annoyed, I tried to fix what, in my head, had become the unfixable.

Riding the hem of the dress further up my thigh, I turned from side to side. I cupped my boobs, pushing them up, wondering if maybe I should’ve gone with the push-up bra instead of the no-bra option that left me looking relatively flat. In a matter of seconds, this had become a fashion emergency, and I’d forgotten all about McCarthy’s presence in order to fix it.

Until a strangled groan that wasn’t mine reminded me. Two large hands turned me, and I stared right at McCarthy. Startled, I looked up, green eyes big with surprise and my hands awkwardly falling from my breasts. He held onto my shoulders as he took a deep breath, trying to lessen his clear annoyance at how long I was taking.

At least that’s what I thought it was, until his gaze dropped lower for a fraction of a second.

“It’s perfect,” McCarthy snapped, dark eyes back on mine. “Heads will turn, Pressley. No doubt about it.” The sarcastic undertone I was used to made an appearance again, and somehow it calmed my suspiciously fast beating heart. “But if I still want to get the chance to show you off, we’ll have to leave this apartment eventually.”

I still ended up changing. Just my choice of shoes, though. And I regretted the knee-high boots for one reason only: their plateau heel. Neither of us wanted to be designated driver, but walking over to frat row had been one of his worst ideas.

Not even halfway through the twenty-minute walk, I forced him into an Uber. Necessary, if I wanted to survive the night. And five minutes later, we thanked the driver and jumped out of the car. Our destination was as obvious as the nose on my face.

Loud music, neon lights, laughing people. You could smell a frat party from a mile away, especially if it was a birthday bash for the captain of the soccer team. Which was how McCarthy knew Henry would be here, and which was why, inevitably, I was here too.

Not daring a glance in McCarthy’s direction, I slipped my hand into his. Big, and warm and solid, closing around mine without a second of hesitation.

This was our first official outing as a couple. This was different. It had to look real to everyone, from every angle, all the time. Not just to Henry. Not just when he was around or looking.

Always.

For the next few hours, I had to make sure every fleeting glance, every look, every touch would make this look real. And somehow, that didn’t seem quite as challenging as it would’ve been a few weeks ago.

As if McCarthy was reading my thoughts, he gave my hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before pulling me inside.

CHAPTER 16

We made a beeline for the drinks first. We both knew we needed at least some kind of alcohol, if we wanted to pull this off and look casual while doing so.

The kitchen of the frat house was open concept, cut off from the main living room by an island that served as a bar during events like these. Leftover pieces of pizza were scattered across the counter behind it, some still in the box, some… not. In any case, it was crowded back there—everywhere.

The couches that had been pushed to the walls of the living room were at full occupancy, and so was the makeshift dance floor they made room for. Sweaty, drunk, happy bodies that were no more than a blur moved across it, hands either in the air or on someone else.

Smaller groups were sitting and standing on the stairs. Someone had just fallen off the stairs, so technically, they were lying on them too. To say this was probably the most crowded party I’d been to would be an understatement.

My eyes returned to my company for the night. He’d ignored the sweet drinks he’d requested at my place and cracked open a bottle of beer instead. McCarthy squinted in displeasure as soon as he tipped the bottle to take a sip. I could only imagine how much worse it was warm, and three hours into the party.

Though the cheap wine in my plastic cup probably wasn’t much better.

“D!” The friendly shout caught my attention, and I turned with my cup firmly between my hands.

“Kenny.” McCarthy sounded just as pleased to see the vaguely familiar guy who approached us. They did that man-hug-but-not-really-hug thing, before McCarthy forced another sip of piss beer down his throat, this time without a reaction. “You seen the birthday boy?”

Kenny shook his head. Dark blond hair flopping over his forehead, he shrugged. “Not yet—just arrived.” His eyes slid to me. “But I do see you brought a date.” I gave a polite smile, not thinking a handshake was cool enough for the occasion. “And a nice one at that.” His attention was back on my fake boyfriend.

Dude, I’m right here—

McCarthy’s brow furrowed. “She’s right there.” He lifted our intertwined hands for emphasis. For a second I’d wondered whether I’d thought out loud. “You can give her the compliment, not me.”

Kenny’s eyes widened, though he made a point out of not looking at either of us. A nervous laugh rippled out of him instead. His uneasiness made me smile. Before he could stutter another answer, McCarthy put him out of his misery by announcing we’d go look for the birthday boy. In passing, he gave Kenny a pat on the back as we left.

“Don’t take it personal,” he said, as soon as we left him behind, leaning closer to make sure his voice carried over the music. Amusement played in his voice, the huff of a laugh brushed my ear. “Kenny’s got a real problem with talking to women. Especially pretty ones. We’ve tried to teach him, but he just goes into full panic mode. I’m talking sweaty palms, red cheeks, stuttering.”

“Just like you, then.” I shrugged, knowing I was as wrong as the sun rising in the west. And his head turned in my direction, still smiling because he knew it too.

“Yeah.” He dragged the word out comically, grinning. “Exactly like me.”

We found the reason for this party by the fireplace in the back, leaning against the stone exterior with a group of people surrounding him. Big Mike, the birthday boy, wasn’t big at all. Big Mike was also Dude Guy, aka Michael from the bar. And so when McCarthy casually propped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer in the middle of our conversation, Mike’s brows rose in sync with the smile on his lips.

He seemed to have a particular interest in our fake relationship, because he interrupted McCarthy in the middle of his sentence to say “So,” in a voice three pitches higher than its usual dark tone. “What in God’s name is this?” he asked, eyes jumping between me and McCarthy. The latter snorted casually, throwing me a quick glance and pairing it with a smile that said I’ll handle this. Fine by me.

“I know you don’t have much experience with the opposite sex, but I assumed you’d know a woman when you saw one—” McCarthy’s smug response was cut off when Big Mike whacked his hand across the back of his head, a wheezing laugh accompanying his words.

“It’s my birthday, asshole. You’re supposed to be nice to me!” Laughter pierced his words. “Pressley is going to shit himself when he sees you’re here together—” He cut himself off, whipping his head in my direction with an apologetic smile. “The other one,” he clarified unnecessarily, a warm smile on his lips.

I think a breath might’ve gotten stuck in my throat.

No one had ever referred to Henry as the other one.  That had always been me.

“Let him,” was McCarthy’s shrugged reply, when I was still smiling over Big Mike’s the other one.

“Well, was only a matter of time, anyway. Wasn’t it?” His eyes were on McCarthy again, his tone easy as he bumped his shoulder. My body basically pressed against him made it easy to notice he’d tensed up. He grumbled an inaudible reply, arm still around my shoulder.

“And besides.” Big Mike went on. “It’s definitely making him a better player, isn’t it? So we all win here.”

McCarthy relaxed at the mention of soccer. God, reading him was so much easier when I was close enough to feel every single one of his muscles move.

“He’s never played better,” he admitted. “He runs, like, twice as fast, is twice as confident—our defense is up tenfold thanks to him. Brown won’t stand a chance next week. Won’t even get the ball past Pressley with me around.” His eyes slid to me. “Or her.”

That was my cue to leave. Soccer talk had always been my cue to leave.

“Well, you’re welcome, guys.” I laughed as I gently wiggled free of McCarthy’s grip. He gave a confused look at my escape. “I’ll be right back, just gonna find the bathroom.”

“Upstairs,” Big Mike instructed, and I thanked him with a thumbs-up, already too far to want to yell over the music.

I squeezed past the pairs and trios sitting and standing—but not lying—on the stairs to find a much quieter, but not entirely empty corridor. The bathroom was through the door straight ahead, opposite the stairs. And I spotted McCarthy the second I returned to the hallway. My body’s reaction surprised me more than the sight of him. My lips tried to pull up instinctively. When he pushed himself off the wall to walk toward me, I actually smiled at him.

His eyes flicked behind me for no longer than a fraction of a second, and a small, almost nonexistent smirk pulled at the corner of his lip. I didn’t have time to form a single thought before he stood in front of me, and I was swept up by the whirlwind that was Dylan McCarthy Williams.

In the blink of an eye, he moved. Us. His hands on my waist gently nudged me left, into a room I hadn’t previously known to be there. His touch only lifted to open the door before turning me in his grip and using my poor, helpless body to close it from inside the room. I was stuck.

Between him, and an unmovable object.

Wide-eyed, I looked up at him, so much confusion in my expression, he had to stifle a laugh. The suppressed sound rumbled through his chest, and I could feel it because it was almost touching mine, which was rising and falling rapidly.

“Sorry.” And he sounded sincere. His hand stayed curled around my waist, and I didn’t make any indication of wanting him to remove it. My skin burned under his touch, despite the layer of fabric between us.

“Pressley.” His words did absolutely nothing to explain. Not even when he paired them with a nod to the closed door I was pressed against.

I was still so confused, all I asked was, “Yes?”

“No.” McCarthy shook his head quickly, the involuntary grin on his lips deepening. “The other one.”

There it was again.

I swear my eyes lit up and I didn’t know why or how or what. I just knew not being the other one felt great. And, secretly, I think that’s why he had said it. Not that he’d ever admit it. “Behind you,” he continued.

It clicked when someone hammered against the door. McCarthy locked it in one swift motion, leaving the part of me he’d previously touched cold and empty.

“Athalia!” Henry sounded angry, and I flinched at the hiss in his voice, pressing myself against the door harder just to make sure. My eyes were still fixed on McCarthy’s, now merely inches from mine, and I blinked slowly, unsure what to do.

“Quick thinking,” I admitted, my voice thin as I tried to relax into the situation. Unfortunately, my body wasn’t ready to calm down—he was too close. Looking down at me, his hot breath tickling my nose.

“And the rest is up to his imagination, I guess,” McCarthy muttered, a shrug accompanying his low voice.

I’d rather not have my brother imagining any of that—but that was the point, right? Henry didn’t know we were just standing still, locked in place. He didn’t know the first time we’d purposely touched was when I took his hand tonight. Or that this was the closest we’d ever been to each other.

“Can you believe this shit?” His voice came from outside, the complaint challenged by someone else, their tone calmer which made it hard to understand. Then, Henry scoffed. “No, Reuben, I can’t just—” He cut himself off with an exaggerated groan.

Henry continued his complaining. Loudly. Angrily.

Couldn’t care less my ass.

“Athalia!” It echoed again. With a sigh, my eyes fell onto McCarthy again, only to pop wide in their sockets. The lack of distance between us forced a sharp intake of breath out of me.

Had he always been this close or was I just losing my mind?

“Just… shut up.” I sighed at the smirk on his lips, the knowing snicker he let go of, hoping he’d forget the apparent effect he had on me. My gaze flicked through the dark room as a distraction, making out a bathroom door, the shadow of a king-sized bed in the middle and a streetlamp behind the curtains, which made it possible to see anything in the first place.

“What?” He laughed lowly, defensively. His hands shot up to display his innocence, and it brought a bit of distance between us. “That’s all you, princess.” My eyes jumped back to him, narrowed at the mocking nickname and in an effort to keep my stomach from spinning right out of my body. He went on to tease, “It’s not my fault you get nervous—”

“I’m not.” My answer came too quickly, though. Felt too forced. “I don’t.” When he only huffed, I wanted to scream. “You don’t affect me at all, McCarthy,” I went on in a low voice, laying it on way too thick. Great.

I hadn’t had enough to drink to blame what was happening on the alcohol. I wish I could, but a cup of cheap wine didn’t make me blush and stutter, and it certainly wouldn’t make me look so stupid.

“I don’t?” he pouted, and I jerked slightly when his finger trailed up my arm playfully, proving the opposite of everything I’d just said to him. “What’s all this, then?” His voice was as smug as the smirk on his lips when he referred to the trail of goose bumps he was leaving behind. God, someone take me out of my misery. Please.

Just that I wasn’t quite sure I’d want to be anywhere else right now.

Something played in the brown of his eyes before he went on. “You have to get used to being this close to me, Pressley.” His gaze shifted to follow the trace of his finger, moving up my arm and leaving my hot skin behind. Heat that made it all the way to my cheeks, and his long, firm fingers were right on its heels as they teased along my collarbones.

I swear I didn’t want my head to turn. Granting him more access wasn’t a conscious decision. When he spoke, a shiver ran up my spine. “You can’t get nervous with every little touch.”

Again, I meant to deny the accusation. “I don’t—” But I cut myself off when he gently hooked his finger under my chin, tilting it upward to connect our eyes. Inevitably almost connecting our lips, too. I couldn’t ignore how close they were, and my eyes flicked to them when really, I didn’t mean to.

“Relax,” he said, his voice dark and rough like I’d never heard it before. He sounded… strangled, focused on every reaction on my face. Which meant there was absolutely no way he hadn’t seen me look at his lips. “I’m your boyfriend, remember?” he emphasized. “If you want this to be convincing, you’re supposed to be used to this.” His mouth moved right to my ear, a rough whisper all that left it. “To my hands all over you. My lips on your skin.”

It sounded like a promise. One he seemed desperate to keep when his breath stuttered and his mouth moved—

“Athalia!”

Fuck.

Henry’s shouting brought me back to this reality. Pretty sure I’d temporarily entered one where I wouldn’t have minded McCarthy to go on with whatever he’d been about to do. And I almost wanted to curse Henry more than I wanted to get back there. Almost.

An annoyed groan slipped past my lips, head falling against the wooden door in defeat.

“I know what you’re doing, Athalia!”

That caught my attention. My eyes widened—no, I’m pretty sure they doubled in size—shooting back to McCarthy. Though he seemed as cool, calm, and collected as always. His finger merely lifted from beneath my chin to my lips, silently shushing me. Unsurprisingly, it did.

And he was right. Right? Henry couldn’t possibly know. If he did, he wouldn’t be furiously hammering against the door.

He wasn’t good enough at reading people—not good enough at reading me. Right?

“You’re fucking pathetic for this, Athalia. Seriously—” came from the other side of the door. “My expectations for you were low, but holy fuck, McCarthy?”

Oh.

My hand flew to the handle. Well before I had even made the conscious decision to open the door and physically fight my brother, my temper had decided for me. And I really thought I’d have to fight McCarthy too, when his hand firmly placed itself on top of mine to stop it from unlocking the door.

He lifted it quickly at my glare, only ruffling my hair with a devious smile on his face. At my questioning look, he shrugged. “Just gotta make you look right. Ready?”

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them, determined to sell this thing. “Whatever it takes.”

McCarthy opened the door so forcefully, Henry almost fell through it.

My brother startled at the sight of us, probably half not expecting me to cave, half knowing his words were exactly what would make me do so. We’d grown up learning exactly what buttons to push to get the reaction we wanted. The shock on his face turned into a victorious expression within seconds, scanning both of us quickly. McCarthy stood behind me, I could feel his towering body inches away.

“I know what you’re doing,” Henry repeated.

“I heard you the first time.” My voice sounded cold, unbothered. I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my panic-ridden thoughts.

“Good.” His eyes slid to McCarthy, gaze so threatening, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. “So you can stop whatever this is now, because I know—”

Which was when I cut him off before he could confirm my earlier fear.

“I don’t know what you know, Henry.” I could probably guess, but I ignored that pointed voice in my head. “I don’t care what you think you know,” I went on. “All I know is that you don’t know shit.”

Did that even make sense? The anger in me ignored all signs of reason.

My brother threw his head back in an Oh please manner, and then said the exact words to emphasize. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” His eyes flicked toward McCarthy once more, just to make a point. Just to let me know we were thinking the same thing. “Why you’re parading him around like a new purse. Why you only do so when I’m around. None of the people I’ve talked to have even seen you hold hands, never mind kiss—”

“You’ve been going around asking about me?” That was the first and only time McCarthy said anything. His brows drew together, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in irritation. Yet, he sounded almost monotone.

“If you’re supposed to be messing around with my sister; hell yes I am!” Henry’s eyes fixed on him again, unable to hide the anger surging behind his green eyes as well as McCarthy could.

It had always been their dynamic. Henry blew up quickly, got angry fast. McCarthy… I hadn’t seen him truly angry once. Just annoyed, bothered, irritated… the list went on.

It’s probably one of the reasons the two mixed so badly together: McCarthy acting unbothered only served to piss Henry off more, and Henry blowing up so quickly probably amused McCarthy. It was a vicious cycle.

While one look told me McCarthy hadn’t been happy about the revelation, I couldn’t help feel somewhat… victorious. When had Henry last cared enough to ask me a question? Never mind asking other people.

“What?” Henry spat during the short, deliberate silence that lingered. “You think I’m just going to let you—”

“We kiss,” I blurted. Probably in reply to his very accurate observation that we didn’t. It’s what seemed most threatening to this plan, and my brain must’ve latched onto that fact, trying to fix that hole in our story. Both their heads flew in my direction, and I narrowed my eyes into Henry’s. “So much. All the time.”

Was I laying it on too thick? Judging by McCarthy’s warning nudge, he seemed to think so.

“No you don’t.” Henry didn’t miss a beat. Probably because he didn’t want to think about the possibility, any more than I did. “You’re full of shit and you know it. Just. Give. It. Up.”

But he must’ve known that wasn’t an option. We’d both been born with the same ego, inherited from our father dearest. There wasn’t a way in hell I was going to admit this was fake. I’d rather die before I’d do so from the embarrassment, anyway.

“We just were.” I gestured into the room behind us. We might as well have been, with how close we’d been standing. Henry followed my gaze, but his response was as immediate and confident as the last one.

“No you weren’t.” His eyes slid back to me. I hated the little curl of his lip when he knew he was right. And I hated the way my nose twitched when I knew I wasn’t.

There was a single beat of silence between this moment—where I was just as convinced as Henry that I wouldn’t be kissing McCarthy—and the next, when I was an inch away from doing so.

If I had to explain how and when McCarthy had managed to turn me on my heels, or when and how I had managed to wrap my arms behind his neck, I wouldn’t be of much help.

We acted in perfect sync without ever having said a word, exchanged a glance. The whole thing was a blur, right up until my lips were a hair’s length from his and I felt myself hesitate when my back hit the wall behind me. Right up until I could feel the heat of his breath on my lips, and realized his hands had found themselves on my hips as if it was second nature.

The fact I saw Henry storming off in the corner of my eye didn’t keep me from instinctively closing them when McCarthy overcame the inch between us.

The cloud of anger evaporated with the sound of his breath hitching against me, with his hand gently curling around my face. With his lips, finally on mine. For a weak moment, I really believed this was the reason we had them in the first place. And mine parted without any conscious effort of my own, hand untangling behind his neck to get lost in his hair.

Yep, definitely not 3-in-1 shampoo.

It was probably ten seconds before I came up for air—not enough time to warrant how I felt. Flustered, turned on. A little needy. McCarthy let a low, muffled sound of disapproval slip past his lips that almost made me go in for round two. He cleared his throat, probably hoping it would cover the accidental noise, but I was hyper aware of every single sound and motion coming from him, including the unevenness of his breath, that made an unwanted wave of more surge through my body.

Nope. Nopenopenopenope.

“That wasn’t a good idea.” His voice was barely a whisper.

My breath still stuttered in my throat, I felt glued in place. Maybe a part of me didn’t want to move away from him at all. Which was absurd.

I knew his gaze was still burning into the side of my face, when I finally looked down the corridor. Henry was gone, but I hardly cared—had known. Had known and done it anyway.

Not a good idea.

For many reasons, it was probably the worst idea I’d ever had.

1. He’s Dylan McCarthy Williams.

2. I just kissed him.

3. And it kind of felt too good to just… forget.

So why wasn’t I regretting it? I swallowed when I looked at him again, right about my suspicion that his eyes had never left me.

CHAPTER 17

We walked home in silence.

Henry probably took off while McCarthy still had his tongue down my throat, and I was too sober to pretend whatever had happened didn’t… happen. So I’d left him standing in the hallway, ready to march home by myself. It hadn’t even been a full minute before McCarthy caught up, leaving with me and without saying goodbye to a single one of his friends. He probably shouldn’t have done that, but I wasn’t mad about the company.

Yes, it surprised me, too.

McCarthy broke the comfortable silence that lingered in the dark street first, about five minutes in.

“Was it that bad?” His shoulder bumped mine jokingly, the gentle motion almost throwing me off my heels. If it weren’t for his hand immediately curling around my waist to keep me steady. Of course.

My head snapped in his direction to find a sly expression on the pink lips that had been so soft and welcoming—

“Awful,” I confirmed quickly, shaking my head to cut that inner voice off, before my cheeks could heat up. “Absolutely terrible.”

Letting me out of his grip, he snorted in amusement. We continued down the road.

“Agreed.” He nodded thoughtfully. I only glanced his way because I knew I’d spot the bad attempt at a smile he was trying to hide, and I kind of wanted to see it. “Very poor effort from your side.”

“From my side?” I rested my hands on my hips, coming to a halt to scowl at him. Half because I wanted to sell my faked outrage, half because my feet were killing me and I didn’t think I could walk a single step further in those shoes.

“Yep.” He popped that “p” so self-assuredly, my eyes practically rolled out of my head. Then I shook it in amused disbelief.

“Right.” In response, I rolled my “r” as condescendingly as I could. He laughed, then kept moving. And though I was in so much pain the second my feet moved off solid ground, I followed him like a lost puppy.

“I am right.”

“Sure,” I snickered. Giving up the shoe battle, I looped my arm through his—putting all my weight on him—before letting out a loud, satisfied sigh with the relief that it brought.

He didn’t bat an eye at it. Or me. Just laughed softly and asked, “You good?” with that sarcastic undertone I wouldn’t recognize him without.

My first response was another groan, signifying the No that slurred past my lips a moment later. “My shoes,” I complained, “are killing me.” To emphasize, I dragged him to a stop again, only to wiggle my heeled boot in front of him.

McCarthy’s brow rose in amusement when he looked back at me. “If you keep stopping like this, I swear we’ll arrive after my alarm rings,” came his reply. “Which is at six in the morning.” His voice carried a playful annoyance, and without a word of warning, he dragged me across the sidewalk, coaxing loud insults and complaints out of me. When he pushed me into a seat, I shut up almost immediately. Another sigh of relief fluttered through the air as I leaned into the hard, wooden bench he’d planted me on.

“What are you doing?” I asked curiously, all previous anger dissipating. My head tilted as he started fumbling with his shoes beside me, and the sound of my voice guided his eyes to mine. Almost like he couldn’t help it.

Something about that view, of him looking up at me through those dark lashes, his brown hair—almost black in the darkness—flopped into his forehead and his brows raised… it did something to me.

Something I couldn’t think about further.

“I’m giving you my shoes,” he said matter-of-factly. Just like that. No laugh, no explanation. Just McCarthy taking off his shoes and giving them to me.

“What?” I asked—perplexed would be an understatement. “You really don’t need to—”

“Shut up.” He said it without even looking at me––right as he slipped out of his sneakers.

I think I preferred that side of him. The side that told me to shut up and didn’t catch me off guard with random acts of kindness. At least I knew what to do with that version of him.

Kiss it, apparently.

“You keep on wobbling in those shoes and we’ll never make it home.” He placed his pair in front of me.

“I can walk barefoot.”

McCarthy snorted. “I’m not letting you walk home barefoot.” He acted like it was the most absurd suggestion. Like he wasn’t about to do so himself.

“Why not?” I blurted. “It’s a good idea, actually.” I leaned forward to take my own shoes off, sure I didn’t want to take him up on his offer. It was simply too nice, and I didn’t know how to deal with that.

But his hand flew to my wrist, and I immediately hesitated. My grasp lingered on the heel of my shoe, ready to slip it off, and I made sure to keep my eyes on the pavement. Because I knew he was right beside me. The scent of his cologne prominent in the air. Everything around me screamed Dylan McCarthy Williams, and I didn’t think I could take seeing him, too.

“Pressley,” he said, a note in his tone that was unfamiliar. “Put on the damn shoes so we can get home.”

So I did.

My heeled boots dangled from McCarthy’s hand, his white socks turning darker with every step we took. Beside him, I was still wobbling, but in his shoes (which felt at least twice my size), instead of mine.

And though it was a pain in the ass to do so, there was no literal discomfort that came along with it, and I preferred that. As we walked, I wondered if he accidentally ended up on my left side or if he somehow knew about the sidewalk rule.

The comfortable silence that followed was one of my favorite things about McCarthy. The fact we didn’t have to keep forcing conversation, that we could just shut up around each other, without a lingering awkwardness.

“Why do you hate me?” I asked plainly, genuine curiosity in my voice, and without the accusatory tone you’d expect in a loaded question like that. I actually wanted to know. Who wouldn’t be a little curious?

McCarthy scoffed. I could feel his head turning in my direction, though my eyes stayed on the road in front of us. In the distance, some cars rushed past our small college town as we steadily approached my apartment building. I’d gotten used to the size of McCarthy’s shoes, and only limped half as badly as I had in the beginning, when he’d made fun of me for it.

In return I’d called him Bigfoot.

“I don’t hate you,” McCarthy snarled, the sound less irritating than it usually was. “If anything, I hate your brother. And I pity you for how long you’ve been having to deal with him.”

“Well.” I shrugged, kicking a pebble into the strip of grass to my right and almost losing his shoe in the process. A glance at him confirmed he’d seen the entire thing. His grin was deep, but at least he had the decency to look down, while he tried to get it under control. I quickly cleared my throat, eyes ahead again. “Same difference. Why do you hate him?”

“Have you met your brother?”

I snorted. Loudly. And I immediately regretted it as the sound travelled through the empty streets further than I’d expected. Though, as my head turned in his direction, cheeks tinting a light pink, his lips had already split into a wide grin, and he was no longer apologetic about it.

Before I could double down on my answer, McCarthy came to a halt. He held out my shoes, and I only recognized the redbrick building beside us as my own when he nodded toward it. “You’re welcome,” he teased as I took them from him, stepping out of his sneakers simultaneously.

This time, I rolled my eyes, though that smile never left my lips. Despite the sarcastic remark he probably expected, I meant it when I said: “Thank you.”

He probably didn’t know how to deal with that any better than I had with his shoe trade, and I told myself that maybe we were even now. Unfortunately, I knew we were far from displaying an even amount of kindness.

A thank you didn’t match up to walking barefoot, just so I could wear his shoes. Not by a long shot.

“Seriously,” I tried again. “Thank you.”

Nope. Still miles behind him. He remained silent. “All right, then.” I nodded toward the door of my building as if he didn’t know we had arrived. “I’ll see you Monday?”

He nodded. His hands disappeared in the pockets of his jacket. “Just get in and I’ll be on my way.”

Ugh. Stop. Being. So. Nice.

“Thanks.” At that point I felt stupid. I hurried to find my keys in the small bag I’d brought with me, to get out of his sight before another “thank you” (that wasn’t even close to measuring up to his kindness), slipped past my lips.

Scrambling inside, I turned back only when I’d made it into the elevator. My gaze met McCarthy’s, just as he was about to leave. Unsure what to do, I gave him another smile through the glass entrance separating us. Another one that I meant, too.

To my surprise, he returned it without missing a beat.

Thanks, I mouthed one last time.

For good measure.

CHAPTER 18

Along the way, our morning coffee at Daisy’s became somewhat routine. Only that this week, McCarthy had cancelled. The email hadn’t given away much. Something came up. Wouldn’t make it in time. I hadn’t replied, and my fingers definitely hadn’t been itching to type a passive-aggressive response.

Not that I was curious to know what had come up.

Not. At. All.

We hadn’t been alone since The Incident five days ago, which was what I’d decided to call it in my head. Mostly to keep from thinking about what it had actually been: a kiss. A good, damn near perfect kiss.

When I knocked on his office door the following Wednesday, the eighth rose peeked out of my brown messenger bag. Apparently, he still found that to be as hilarious as ever.

I’d gotten used to the sarcastic “I’d rather not”, that he’d shout through the closed door whenever I knocked, but I didn’t wait for it this time. Itching to get back into that room for reasons unknown, I pushed open the door. That was my first bad decision of the day.

Because that’s when Shaw looked down at me—in the literal sense. I stuttered to a halt. Maybe if I didn’t move at all, I’d blend into my surroundings enough to be spared his wrath. Despite the muted colors I wore—a tight black long sleeve that disappeared into wide, brown tailored pants; belt around my waist matching the darker brown of my messenger bag —and despite my utter stillness, he still stared condescendingly over the bridge of his crooked nose. Perhaps the olive trench coat hanging over my arm had been a mistake? Shaw’s stoic expression didn’t waver, his blue eyes boring into my own.

“Oh my God,” I exhaled loudly, noticing the amused twitch of McCarthy’s lip at my flustered state. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect anyone to be here at this time—” Redundantly, my eyes jumped to the clock on the wall above the offices’ connecting door, where it read 2PM on the dot. I knew it would.

“So why’d you knock, Miss Pressley?”

“I—”

“If you think Mr. Williams has no other obligations as my TA, other than tutoring you, there’s no reason to knock, is there?” Shaw’s brow rose. “Especially if you don’t have the decency to wait for an answer.” That delivered the final blow, and judging by the pleased expression on his face, he knew that.

I gulped, feeling various insults rise in my throat, while the desire to throw all of them at him grew exponentially. “Sorry,” I croaked. It was all I could say without adding a “cranky bitch” at the end of my sentence, and I was lucky I had as much restraint as I’d just shown.

Shaw turned away from me without another word to face McCarthy standing behind his desk. Immediately, he wiped the smug expression off his face, and in return, I raised my middle finger at him behind Shaw’s back.

“In any case.” The professor cleared his throat. “We were done here, weren’t we?”

McCarthy nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on this.” He lifted a stack of papers in emphasis and paired the gesture with a courtesy nod. Shaw gave me one last, lingering look of pure evil before disappearing into his office.

“You asshole.” The words flew out of my mouth, head turning in McCarthy’s direction with lightning speed. I was pretty sure that was a smile on his lips as he let himself fall into his chair, shrugging.

“What was I supposed to do?” he claimed—like phones, and calls, and texts didn’t exist.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I went on, theatrically throwing my hands up in disbelief. “Give me a heads-up, maybe?” I huffed as I sat in my own chair, bag slipping out of my grip and to the floor. A portrayal of my defeat. “Text me, call me. Fucking email me, if you have to.” Annoyed, I added: “You knew just fine how to do that a few days ago.”

I should not have said that. As I watched his lips quirk into a surprised, yet teasing grin, regret filled every fiber of my being.

“Oh.” His head tilted as he took me in. “You’re talking about Daisy’s.” As he leaned back in his chair, a satisfied sigh left his lips. “Have you been wracking your little brain about me? Why I wouldn’t make it? What must’ve come up?”

An incredulous sound left my lips—I couldn’t quite identify it myself. “You think entirely too highly of yourself.”

He didn’t even acknowledge my words when the smile on his lips grew wider, making way for the dimple in his cheek. “Did you—” He gasped. “Did you miss me, Pressley?”

“Oh my God,” I groaned, head falling back. “I did not miss you,” I clarified. To myself and to him. “I have not been wracking my brain about you and I do not care why you cancelled or what came up.”

McCarthy snorted, went on without a care in the world. “Don’t worry, princess. I wouldn’t dare cancel on you if it weren’t of the utmost importance.” His gaze levelled with mine, the nickname rolling off his tongue in a snicker. “Coach wanted to speak with us before class. About the upcoming Brown game.”

“I don’t care.”

“Right.” He underlined the cockiness in his voice with a wink. “By the way,” he added. “If you want me to spontaneously notify you about who might be in my office at which time and for what reason—” I went to interrupt him again, but McCarthy raised his voice playfully. “I should probably have your number.”

My body deflated at the valid argument, though that didn’t keep me from rolling my eyes. I hesitated for a moment, sighed when I gave in, stretching my arm across the desk for his phone. It only took a second until I held it in my hands, unlocked.

“Don’t sign me up for any weird spam with this,” I threatened with a grumble, typing in my number begrudgingly.

“Or what?” Judging by the smug expression on his face when I handed him the phone back, he was enjoying this a little too much.

“Or I’ll have you killed.” The sweet smile on my lips didn’t match the icy, serious tone in my voice. McCarthy chuckled—actually chuckled, and it was kind of cute—as he threw his head back in amusement.

“I’d like to see you try, Pressley.”

“Pearson product-moment correlation?”

I wasn’t exaggerating when I said this was probably the hundredth time that phrase had come out of his mouth today. Thinking positively, which I’d been told to start doing often enough, I was pretty sure an hour ago I’d never heard of the term before.

Progress, right?

Still, that didn’t help much when I was supposed to define it. With so many new words in my vocabulary, they were all scrambled and mixed together, forming one giant statistical mess in my head. The odds of getting the definition of a Pearson product-moment correlation right were pretty slim.

I groaned, my head falling back and my eyes shifting off McCarthy and onto the ceiling. He’d given up his seat on the opposite side of the desk, saying he needed to walk off his frustration. Fine by me. Until he’d decided to lean against my side of it for a more… intimidating approach.

His words, not mine.

One foot hooked under the other, his arms crossed, he stood against the relatively small table. Convincing him and myself that I had no problem being this close to him, I positioned my chair right in front of him. It didn’t leave much space between my angled knees and his extended legs. I could catch a glimpse of his hopeful expression as I looked at the ceiling.

How he still had any hope left after this, I didn’t understand. I had given up a long time ago. Still, I tried my best as our eyes connected again. I’d promised myself as much. I owed it to Mom, at the very least.

Pearson product-moment correlation.

It’s kind of like high school English class—memorizing terms and definitions. I’d been great at that. It had been the only subject where I hadn’t been standing in my parents’ shadow. Something I’d been better at.

Better than Mom and her algorithm-equation-brain, and perhaps even better than Henry with his lack of creativity, which did not benefit him when it came to building mnemonic forms. Another thing I’d been great at.

Only now, instead of defining cinquain poems and sonnets, McCarthy was asking about a certain type of correlation. Which meant some kind association between…

“Measures strength.” I began, wary. But he nodded. “And direction of association between two variables?” I half-guessed, half… didn’t?

To my surprise, McCarthy’s face didn’t fall in disappointment at my words, like it had countless times today. He didn’t roll his eyes, or opt for a teasing comment, before asking the same question again. Instead, a wide smile crept across his features. He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the table behind him.

“That’s it!” He smiled so widely his words were almost muffled. “Well done.”

In some distant corner of my mind, I noted that his praise felt good. Like I’d accomplished something by making him proud. I couldn’t help the smile that took over my entire face until I noticed it was there, and until I grasped that the reason for it was his smile.

It dropped as soon as the realization did. My lips fell into a straight line, and McCarthy mirrored my gesture with no hesitation. When he cleared his throat, his attention diverted for what seemed like the first time since he’d taken his position against the desk.

“We should probably end this on the only positive note we’re gonna get out of you today,” he suggested, eyes scanning the room dismissively. The shift in attitude made me squirm in my seat, nose flaring at his sarcasm.

“Ha-ha.” I didn’t want to admit he was probably right. “Have a little more faith in me, McCarthy.”

Perhaps the way to master (or at the very least, not fail) this class, was to stop thinking about how great a statistician Mom had been, and consequently, how awful I was in comparison. Instead focus on what I’d been better at (e. g. memorizing).

McCarthy hummed lowly. “The problem isn’t my faith, princess.”

There was that nickname again. The one that wasn’t supposed to make my stomach flip and my lips twitch. It was an insult, after all. A dig at everything that screamed privilege about me. So I just glared at him.

“You still think this is going to end well?” I had to suppress a scoff because, really, we’d been doing this for a while, and I was nowhere near a passable grade. Exams were fast approaching, too.

McCarthy just shrugged. “Of course.” He said it so casually, so convinced, he almost had me. “If you fail, it means I’ve failed,” he reminded me, a beat of silence following before he added, “And I don’t do that.”

He was right, of course. If there was one thing bigger than my ego—which was clearly failing me at the moment—it was his. And when McCarthy said he wouldn’t fail, he wouldn’t.

My eyes lingered on him for a little while longer, taking in his five o’clock shadow and the sharp features on which it was growing. His lips were parted slightly, a pretty pink and a little puffy, probably from gnawing on them whenever he’d waited for me to answer a question. His brown eyes roamed the room as if he didn’t spend hours in here every week, and as if he hadn’t already burnt every detail of it into his mind. He made a point out of not looking at me, and I kind of enjoyed just watching him in silence.

That snapped me out of it.

I wasn’t successful when I cleared my throat to banish the thoughts of his pretty face and prettier lips. Instead, I was reminded that they’d been on mine just a few days ago.

Enough.

I shot up in a motion so fast, my body needed a second to catch up. The sound of my chair scraping against the wooden floor filled the room before his head snapped in my direction.

And there he was again. Unintentionally all up in my face. So close to me. So, so close. Every effort to keep my mind from going there, went out the window. His pupils blew wide, though his breath was steady against my nose.

Unfortunately, my breath stuck painfully in my throat, and I knew he noticed when the corners of his lips curled, ever so slightly. He caught them almost immediately: expression back to normal. Cold. Stoic.

“Hey, listen—”

“Look—”

We started simultaneously, cutting the other off. A nervous laugh rippled through my throat, and I wondered what the fuck was going on with me and since when I nervously giggled. Because of a man, of all things.

“That… thing on Friday,” he started again, a little hesitant. I wanted to laugh because he called it a thing and I called it an incident and I was just about to bring up the same topic.

He tried to gauge a reaction, any reaction, when a beat of silence followed his words. His brow furrowed, but I stayed quiet, just nodded.

“Big mistake, right?” His tone took on a casual note. He even tried to force a laugh I could see right through. And it hit me like lightning. He was nervous, too. Dylan McCarthy Williams, the picture of irritating nonchalance: nervous. I never thought I’d see the day.

That alone was enough to keep my spirits lifted despite the nature of this conversation. After all, he was right.

“A huge one,” I assured him. Because apparently it made me nervously laugh and care when he cancelled. I couldn’t have that.

“And it can’t happen again,” he continued, brown eyes finally on me again. They travelled up and down my body once, making him swallow thickly. “Right?”

I shook my head. “Never.”

My chest rose and fell heavily underneath my top, and there was a twitch in his stoic expression. His eyes roamed my face, restlessly taking me in until they connected with mine again.

He didn’t say a thing. Just looked at me.

And then, it happened again.

One hand curled around my waist while the other cupped my cheek so lightly, hesitantly, you wouldn’t think his lips were exploring mine the way they were––his tongue begging for entrance the way it was. A rough groan slipped past his lips as mine parted, and the sound alone seemed to make it all worth it.

In one swift motion, McCarthy turned our intertwined bodies, my legs pressing into the desk he’d been leaning against. When I scrambled on top of it, our lips barely disconnected, and he was standing between my thighs mere seconds later, pulling me closer, all heavy breathing and scorching touches.

My hands found themselves in his hair. He stifled a groan when I pulled it.

I felt like I was on fire—maybe like I’d already burned to the ground. Every lingering touch, every trace of his finger, every sound he groaned into my mouth made me burn. For him. With him.

And every time his breath fell against my lips, every time he pressed his lips against mine when I was about to pull away, showed me how much he wanted this, and how little truth there’d been to his earlier suggestion.

It can’t happen again. What a liar.

When he pulled away, that same need for more I felt low in my belly played in his eyes.

“I signed a contract,” he panted against my lips—like he was trying to remind himself of the fact. Of every reason why we’d put ‘No Sex’ in capital letters on the damn thing. “So have you.” His hands cupped the back of my head, thumbs still on my cheeks. He swallowed hard, like it took everything out of him not to connect our lips. He kept me in place so I couldn’t either. “Do you tend not to honor what you sign, Pressley?”

No, I thought. I can’t find it in me to care, when all I can think about is you.

But if he wanted to play it this way, we could. If he really intended to honor that part of our agreement, the least I could do was make it as hard for him as possible. Make him break before I could.

I snickered against him, bringing much-needed distance between us that I didn’t like, regardless. My lips curved. “Are you sure this is a game you want to start, McCarthy?”

Somehow, he knew exactly what I meant. “Playing it with you would be an honor.”

CHAPTER 19

???, Wednesday, 8:55 PM

> Congratulations! You’ve won a $ 1000 gift card of your choice. Go to (link) to claim now.

I was well on my way to block the spam number, cursing McCarthy for doing exactly what I had told him not to do, when a second text followed.

???, Wednesday, 8:55 PM

> And take your boyfriend out for a nice dinner with it after his game on Sunday.

I rolled my eyes, and snapped that smile off my face.

ME, Wednesday, 8:56 PM

> fuck you

> I’ll be there

ME, Wednesday, 9:22 PM

> for contractual reasons, of course

MCCARTHY, Wednesday, 9:22 PM

> Of course.

Wren was only half annoyed when I’d asked her to join me. In fact, she agreed without any form of bribery. By her own free will, she was cheering in the stands, hands thrown in the air when McCarthy scored the 1–0 against Brown.

I was more surprised by my own holler that followed the goal.

I settled quickly, though a smile played on my lips as I watched the HBU boys tackle the striker with a group hug. I couldn’t hear their own cheers and yells over the boos of the crowd that was eighty percent Brown students. It made sense—being a good two-and-a-half-hour drive from campus, made sure there were hardly any of your own students there.

It didn’t matter, though. We were still beating their ass in the pouring rain. Home or not.

At halftime, the score remained the same and we went into the short break with a 1–0 lead. I let myself fall back into the seat Wren had pulled me out of when the first goal of the game was scored, and sighed. My heart beat too fast for comfort and I felt exhausted as soon as the adrenalin of our performance stopped pumping through my veins.

“Look what I brought!” Winning must’ve had some kind of effect on Wren because her spirits were unusually high.

Her shoulder-length, split-dyed hair was messy when I turned, cheeks red from the cold, and the yelling in an attempt to overpower the negative Brown energy she’d told me she sensed. In her hand, as if it was the only thing that would ever bring her joy, was the Polaroid camera I got for her birthday last year.

The black color matched half of her hair, as well as the dark HBU hoodie she was proudly wearing. My eyes snapped to her again, promptly mirroring the grin on her face.

“I want to remember beating Brown’s ass in their home stadium for the rest of my life,” she said, making sure her voice was loud enough to be picked up by the crowd around us. A rare, victorious grin played on her lips when she emphasized we were beating Brown’s ass.

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t suppress the smile on my face. I loved seeing her so care-free, so happy. Whether that was built on somebody else’s misery (Brown’s), I didn’t care. I never had. I never would.

Maybe I should’ve gone to more of these games with her.

A sudden tsunami-sized wave of guilt rolled through me at the thought. It came out of nowhere, and was so unexpected I almost took a sharp breath in surprise.

Wren shook the camera in her hand once more, snapping me out of my ‘I’m-a-horrible-friend’ realization. Impatiently she requested, “Would you?”

I nodded when I took it from her, lining up the shot before Wren poked her tongue out, eyes squeezed shut in a smile, waiting for the flash that came several seconds later.

“So you’re keeping a record of rooting for McCarthy?” I teased, letting the camera fall into my bag and shoving that guilty feeling down my throat. I replaced it with the only coping mechanism I knew: sarcasm.

Snatching the photo from my hand, she grimaced. “Don’t even start,” she muttered, though humor lingered in her voice. “He’s always been on the team. I’ve always cheered for the team. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t laugh if he fell on his face.”

I couldn’t help the amused snort. Wren continued. “Remember when he got that fistful from the random goalie one time? In the middle of the game?”

Obviously, I hadn’t been there, so I shook my head.

“God,” she sighed, reminiscing in what I assumed to be the good old days for her. “What I’d do to be able to relive that moment.” I could hear the smile on her face, even before I turned back to her.

I hoped my huffed laugh sounded like I found the anecdote just as funny. For some unknown reason, I did not.

“What happened?” I wondered, suddenly oh-so-interested and, again, wondering why I didn’t go to these games more often.

Wren shrugged as she fell into the seat next to mine. “God knows. I wasn’t focused on the specifics of it.” It looked like she was watching the scene play out in front of her mind’s eye right then, and the pleased smile on her face was concerning.

But she was happy, and even if it was my fake boyfriend’s misery she was happy about, so be it. I didn’t care about him.

Or why he’d gotten punched in the face.

HBU won 1–0. As per McCarthy’s prediction, Henry didn’t let a single shot get through their defense; most of the time, he was acting like a goalkeeper himself, minus the hands. A few roars of victory rattled through the stands. Though mostly, the sound of defeated sighs, curses and boos surrounded us.

My attention was entirely on McCarthy. Wren cheered twice as loud beside me, and I clapped with a wide smile on my face, but neither contributed to keeping my eyes off the guy.

Despite the temperatures, and despite the rain, the entire team’s shirts came off the second the whistle announced their victory. McCarthy jogged from his position in front of Brown’s goal all the way to our own, casually, though with glee filling every single one of his bouncy steps.

I only realized I was staring at him when his head turned in my direction, and our eyes met instantly. He didn’t even have to search the stands. After all, he’d known where to find me. He had spotted me as soon as the teams had gotten onto the pitch. His eyes had been flying through the stands, and I’d made it easy for him when I lifted my middle finger high in the air, a slick smile on my face. He’d blown me a kiss in return.

Now, his eyes remained on me similarly. That winning smile graced his lips, dimple on full display when he caught my attention already on him. His head tipped back in a laugh I couldn’t pick up on—but wished I had—before he winked at me.

I rolled my eyes. Wanted to force my lips to act accordingly. Failed at that—miserably. So my smile stayed put as I continued clapping, and my gaze followed him all the way to the other side of the field. Wren’s voice drew it away from him. “How are we getting home?” She sounded distracted, eyes on the field, still clapping.

Neither of us felt up for a two-hour drive at nine in the morning, so we’d carpooled with Laila (who I finally figured out was Michael’s cousin, not sister) and her friends. Knowing there wouldn’t be space for both of us to get back, because she’d told us said cousin would ride home with them. She’d told us again, and again, and again. All we’d said was: future-us will figure it out. And I despised past-us for it.

I sighed. “How are we getting home?”

Wren shrugged.

Great.

“You could’ve clapped harder.”

“You could’ve played better.”

“I didn’t hear you cheer once, Pressley.”

“You never will.”

I ended up in McCarthy’s car, if you couldn’t tell. The run-down black Jeep wasn’t what I’d expected him to be driving, though I liked its charm. Compared to my G-Wagon, it had character.

It took almost thirty minutes to convince Wren to take the only seat left in Laila’s car. Once I’d succeeded, I turned in McCarthy’s direction, ready to humiliate myself. Of course, he’d watched the entire thing unfold in amusement.

He’d leaned against his car, unbothered by the pouring rain, and his brows raised expectantly. I knew he wouldn’t let me off the hook without the words coming out of my mouth. He wanted to hear them. From me.

So I asked him to give me a ride. And he said yes, instantaneously.

“Admit it,” he continued teasing now, eyes on the road. One hand held onto the steering wheel, the other fell around the stick lazily. Yeah, that’s right. McCarthy was driving manual. “That was one hell of a goal.”

It had been one hell of a goal; I could admit that. Just not to him.

“It definitely… went in,” I agreed, nodding thoughtfully.

He was smiling so hard, biting his bottom lip to try and keep it from showing. Unsuccessfully. My eyes quickly shifted when his tongue poked the inside of his cheek in continued amusement, lightly shaking his head.

If only to distract from every inappropriate thought currently in my head, I rummaged through the bag I brought. I inspected my keychain as if I hadn’t been carrying it with me since I was nine years old. I felt the soft material of the scarf I’d decided to take off when McCarthy started blasting the heating. And I dug deeper, simply to keep myself busy.

Busy, busy, busy. Don’t look at him, I warned myself. It’ll only remind you of… The Incident.

But there it was. What I’d been trying to drown out, forget it ever happened. Very successfully, might I add. The thought of his lips on mine; the scent of his cologne lingering in the air; the feel of his thumb drawing distracted circles on my cheek, while his hand gripped my waist. All things I barely even thought about anymore. Couldn’t you tell?

I wasn’t oblivious to the burning of my cheeks, and I could imagine the color of them just as well. I quickly shook my head.

Busy, busy, busy.

I grabbed the next thing I caught between my fingers. And I whipped out Wren’s Polaroid camera before knowing what it was––before even realizing I’d forgotten to give it back. And I short-circuited for the second time in McCarthy’s presence.

“Smile!” My voice was eerily high as I held the camera up, pointing the lens at me and the man to my left. His head flicked in my direction, brows furrowing in the fraction of a second he took his eyes off the empty road. I didn’t wait for him to comment. The reason for this was distraction, after all.

Looking at the fully developed picture several minutes later, I wasn’t sure how well that had worked out for me.

How great I looked hardly kept my attention for longer than a second. With McCarthy’s wet hair all messy, and his damp shirt stretched across his biceps, I didn’t feel very distracted from anything at all. The way he looked at me instead of the lens didn’t make it better.

I forced my eyes shut, stifling a frustrated groan, and instead let go of a huff. In another desperate attempt at distraction, I clipped the Polaroid onto his rearview mirror and carefully watched his reaction.

“That kind of defeats the purpose of it,” he commented matter-of-factly, eyes continuing to flicker to the photo. His brow rose, and he threw his next glance my way.

I shrugged. “Don’t be so boring,” I teased. “You’re going to die one day, McCarthy. If it’s gonna happen this way, at least I’ll be the last face you see.”

The thought of him dying was less pleasant now than it would’ve been six months ago. It made my insides clench and tugged at my heartstrings in a way I didn’t want to interpret. It almost made me want to take the photo back. Instead, I added, “Nothing really matters.” Because it didn’t.

A laugh slipped past McCarthy’s lips, teasing and ironic and beautiful.

“Except money, right?” A challenging tone played in his voice, and he side-eyed my reaction curiously, carefully, as if he was trying to provoke me—just enough. I assumed this was another one of those instances where he forgot he’d grown up with just as much money as I had.

I shrugged, not giving him the satisfaction of successfully winding me up. “Money matters less when you’ve always had it,” I said. “You of all people should know that, McCarthy.”

He gasped, pretending to be shocked. Amusement lingered in his expression.

I couldn’t help the frail smile on my lips at his reaction. “Don’t get me wrong,” I quickly added, rolling my eyes before I turned in his direction, catching his gaze. “It’s great. Probably the best thing that’s happened to me. But I didn’t work for it, it’s always been there. You know?”

“How very self-aware of you,” he snickered, sarcasm etched into his tone. He casually shifted into a higher gear, gaining speed. “It’s heartwarming to hear you’re aware of your privilege. I didn’t know you had it in you.” More sarcasm, then silence.

“Well.” I shook my head. “You didn’t work for it either, did you? We’re in the same boat. Whether you like it or not.”

“Right.” He dragged the word out, his brows rising in amusement again. “Only that I worked three summers in a row to buy this car, and the only reason my dad is paying my tuition is so I wouldn’t take a scholarship spot away from someone who actually needs it.”

“So that makes you a better privileged rich kid than me?” I didn’t mean to sound irritated, though my ability to package my delivery into the appropriate amount of sarcasm took a toll whenever I got annoyed. And I was well on my way there.

McCarthy huffed, his eyes stayed on the road. “Arguably, yes.” He looked pleased with himself, probably noticing he’d succeeded in getting under my skin. Again. “Anyway,” he pressed on. “Speaking of the best thing that’s ever happened to you, money can’t really be on top of that list. Can it?” All irony was blown out of his voice and features, and I was a little amazed by how swiftly he changed topic. It gave me whiplash.

“What?” I snorted. “Are you expecting to hear your name?”

“Will I?” His grin was goofy, unguarded, when he dared a glance my way, and I was horrified to feel my own lips twitch into a smile, despite the fact I wanted to be annoyed with him. I forced my gaze to the road.

“In your dreams, maybe.”

“Yeah.” He hummed. “Most definitely in those.” My eyes snapped back onto him. Like he didn’t just say what he’d said, he continued before I had the chance to comment on it. “What about family, friends? Aren’t they up there?”

He’d have to have lived under a rock for the past seven years to be unaware of my family’s… fate. About the fact I didn’t really have one. Sure, Henry was still there. But barely.

I laughed in slight amusement, shaking my head. “Are you… trying to get to know me, McCarthy?” Fake bewilderment took over my entire face, and it was hard to keep up when his lips stretched into a grin. Again.

“And what if I am?”

It was a good question. What if Dylan McCarthy Williams was trying to get to know me? I didn’t have an answer to that one just yet. So I shrugged, and thought about his initial question.

“Family?” I clarified humorlessly, eyes out the window again. “The one that died when I was fifteen, or the one that I’m currently conspiring against?” It’s not like he didn’t know. If you followed soccer the way McCarthy did, you were probably mourning Dad’s death when it had happened. You might still remember where you were when you found out. Felix Pressley was enough of a legend in his field.

But there was a gravity to the words––my confession. Something McCarthy couldn’t have begun to comprehend. I only did when they’d slipped out of my mouth ten seconds ago.

I’d been so busy plotting and planning the perfect revenge plan, I’d completely lost sight of the bigger picture—of the fact my brother was the only family I had left. And that we were not on good terms. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be, if he kept walking through life like an only child, only remembering he wasn’t when I inevitably became an inconvenience. He kept acting like he cared, only when he saw something in my life he deemed worth fixing, and then crossed all boundaries in order to do so.

My eyes closed, and I feared if I said another word, looked at the wrong person at the wrong time, it might all come crashing down. The dark reality that I couldn’t say family mattered most, when it never had to them, either.

If it had, maybe my parents wouldn’t have decided to spend Thanksgiving in the Bahamas. Maybe they wouldn’t have gotten on that plane, wouldn’t have flown straight into the turbulence that made sure they never got to step off it again. Maybe I wouldn’t be dreading the day others gave their thanks.

And then, maybe Henry wouldn’t have grown up trying to compensate for the lack of control he’d felt that day by focusing on nothing but control. Maybe that way, he wouldn’t just think about himself, and his career, and his future, but actually stop to consider the people he’d lost on the way. The fact that he’d probably lost a little bit of himself on that way, too.

“What about Wren?”

I swallowed thickly, eyes remaining closed despite the urge to look at him when the suggestion left his lips. “She’s family, isn’t she?” he asked, thoughtful about the silence that had passed.

When my mood had gotten gloomier, close to our first Thanksgiving together, Wren had put the pieces together relatively quickly. Like most people, she’d known who my parents were, what had happened to them. Unlike most, she hadn’t mentioned them before I did. And even if she hadn’t been familiar with the exact holiday they’d died on, one quick Google search would have let her know all she needed.

So it hadn’t been rocket science to figure out why I was closing off to people. Why I’d spent my days under the blanket, reading or texting or crying. Very quietly. Apparently just not quiet enough, because next thing I knew, she’d packed a bag, thrown half of my closet into it and announced she’d be waiting for me in the car. No room for ifs, buts or whys: no room for arguments.

We’d known each other for roughly three months when she took me to spend Thanksgiving with her family. For the past three years, she’d insisted on doing so for every other holiday, too.

Christmas? I was there.

Easter? You guessed it.

Fourth of July? Yup.

Her parents hadn’t questioned my presence once. From the moment we’d arrived, Delphia and James had welcomed me with open arms. Nobody asked about my bad mood or why I had locked myself in their guest room. Nobody forced me to eat with them. Instead, if I hadn’t shown up for dinner, there was always a plate waiting, right by my door. Most of the time, I did eat with them, but when I didn’t, there was understanding.

They understood me. Valued me. Maybe even… loved me, a little bit.

In three years, they had shown me what family meant more so than most people that had been in my life forever.

“Doesn’t have to be blood, for it to be real.” McCarthy must have been aware of where my thoughts were leading me. His voice was calm and kind, when he interrupted them. “You can choose. You always have a choice.”

When my eyes opened and slid to him slowly, his face was as soft as his voice had been. Features relaxed, kindness in his eyes. He offered me a smile just as genuine once he noticed my gaze on him, a gentle nod accompanying the gesture.

Understanding, I thought. That’s what he was giving me.

CHAPTER 20

The kitchen was littered with dough-covered bowls, flour and smelled like heaven when I came home from class the following Monday. It was a worrying sight. The last time I’d seen Wren bake like this, she had gotten a C on her final and caught Jason cheating on me, within the same hour.

Wren was a stress baker if I’d ever seen one. So the tray full of chocolate chip cookies and the dozen red velvet cupcakes were concerning, to say the least.

Sliding a third batch of something into the oven, she paused when she noticed me. Calculating each and every word, movement—even the way I breathed, because this was a delicate situation, if I’d ever seen one—I tentatively asked, “What happened?”

She unfroze, the tray rattling as she slid it all the way in, the oven door thudded when she closed it, and then Wren emerged from behind the island, back still facing me.

“Do you like him?” Her voice had an airy tone to it, eerily calm as she asked the question. Casually, she dusted off her white apron before taking it off, and placing it on the counter like she was a contender on MasterChef and had just been eliminated.

“Who?”

Wren turned on the spot to lean against the counter. Her hair still sat perfectly, even after a serious case of aggressive stress-baking. There was flour on the tip of her nose, and if I hadn’t been so confused, I might have thought it was cute. Her brows lifted.

“You’re not dumb, Athalia.” In other words, take a wild fucking guess.

I almost snorted at the suggestion. “McCarthy?” I asked. The only thing keeping me from laughing was Wren’s blank expression.

“Dingdingding,” she muttered sarcastically. “The one and only.”

“What about him?” My words were still as calculated as before, and I was on high alert as soon as his name had slipped out of my mouth.

“Let me paraphrase.” She nodded thoughtfully, her voice amused. “Are you two fucking?”

My eyes widened, I choked on air, and I swear I almost went into cardiac arrest trying to recover from the endless coughing. At the same time, I shook my head so quickly I felt dizzy. My eyes shot in Wren’s direction as soon as I could breathe again.

“What the fuck?” My words were no longer calculated.

Wren shrugged, her narrowed eyes were the only crack in the unruffled facade she tried to put on. “Why would you say that?” I added.

“Heather and I had lunch today,” she said casually. Heather—my brother’s best friend with the big mouth, that usually worked in my favor. This time, it didn’t seem that way.

I’d known them to be friendly, so I wasn’t too shocked by the revelation. I only said, “Oh,” before she went on.

“She’s one hell of a talker, isn’t she?” Wren was playing with me at this point. “Just talks, and talks, and talks forever. She doesn’t even need a prompt to go on for hours. And she says just… the funniest things.” Wren arched a brow. “Doesn’t she?”

“Like what?”

She ignored my question, and her eyes diverted for the first time. “Are you?”

I shook my head again. “Obviously not.”

“Right.” She snickered. “So you just kissed him?” She pushed herself off the counter, collecting the four glass bowls differing in size and beginning to wash them out. She turned her back to me again, and somehow that made thinking easier.

“How do you know about that?”

The water stopped for a second, the first bowl clinking when she maneuvered it into the dishwasher. “Heather talks,” she repeated, as if it was obvious.

And Henry talked to Heather. So for Heather to be talking to Wren, it meant—

“Don’t be so smug about it,” she muttered in the kitchen, not even looking at me. I was still standing in the living room, and I was looking smug, because it meant despite my doubts, the plan was working. The next bowl made its way into the dishwasher, louder than the last. “So?”

“The point of this is for them to think we’re—” For some reason, it felt wrong to say the word. So I just cut myself off, shrugging. “You know?”

Wren couldn’t muffle her laugh, but I didn’t think she’d tried. “Fucking?” she offered. “Screwing? Fooling around? There are so many words for what you two are supposed to be doing.” The third bowl made it into the dishwasher, clinking, rattling, cutting her off. It sounded like she broke the whole thing before shifting her attention onto the last one. “You’ve only ever been prude about these things with J—” She seemed to change her mind, grimacing. “He who shall not be named.”

I snorted at the unexpected choice of words. Then, I fully understood the meaning behind them and immediately fell quiet. Wren nodded as if she knew exactly what was happening in my mind, so I pushed it to the furthest corner of it.

“No,” I said with conviction. “I don’t like McCarthy. We haven’t fucked.” My nose crinkled with the word, but Wren’s observation rang through my mind, and I quickly went on. “Why do you care so much?”

The last bowl was dropped into the dishwasher harshly before she looked at me again, a whirlwind of emotions on her face for the first time. I flinched at the sound, and the sight.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She laughed, humorless. “Maybe it’s because I care about you, Athalia. Have you ever thought about that?” She sighed loudly, her eyes shifting again. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Again. I don’t want to pick up those pieces. Again. I just don’t want to see you like that.”

“You’re overreacting,” I spat, and I didn’t even feel sorry for it. “For any of that to happen, I’d have to care about him in the first place.” Which wasn’t what was happening.

“You do, don’t you?”

My reply came quick. “No.”

Wren wasn’t the type to get all up in your face when she was angry. Instead, it was the hand curling around the edge of the kitchen counter so hard her knuckles turned white, the added color in her cheeks, her flared nostrils: all signs she was well on her way to losing it. Not that she ever would.

“I know you,” she said, releasing the counter to dry her hands. “I know when you care, I know when you don’t. I know when you lie, and I know when you tell the truth. I know—”

I cut her off. “You don’t know everything, Wren.” Because you didn’t tell her everything, echoed in my mind. “And it seems you hardly know me at all, if you think that’s what’s happening.” I didn’t know if I was getting angry with her, or myself. Either way, my voice became louder, more fierce with every word.

I honestly wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told her about the kiss. At least the first one would’ve been safe territory, part of a plan that seemed to be working perfectly. A little too well, if my best friend was starting to doubt how fake this arrangement between McCarthy and me was.

I probably just didn’t want to think about it more by voicing the truth out loud. If I wasn’t talking about it, I could pretend it hadn’t happened. Right? I could probably pretend it hadn’t been that good a kiss, too.

Wren sighed again, eyes on me. Her head tilted, and something sad, pitying played in her expression. “You have awful taste in men, Athalia Payton Pressley.” I blinked at her. “I’m your friend. You talk to me about every peck at every party, and you obviously chose not to disclose this one, for some––well, the obvious reason.” Her brow rose. “That’s all I’m saying—I thought I was your friend,” she repeated. Faked indifference washed over her when she headed for her room.

If there was one thing worse than a fight, it was running away from it. I’d always been the type to face conflict head on. To solve it—to want to solve it, immediately. My ex-boyfriend had been the kind to run away from it, to want to wait a day before he could talk it out. I think that might’ve been the worst part of our relationship.

Someone walking away made me panic, made me think that if we didn’t solve it now, I’d feel this shitty for the rest of my life—that we might not get the opportunity to fix it later. So the next words were unhinged, uncalculated, raw, panicked me. Anything to continue this… fight? Right here, right now.

“I thought we were friends,” I sneered. “But clearly, you’re more interested in acting like a jealous girlfriend.”

She paused in her steps. Stopped only for a second, before thud. Then, click. And my best friend had disappeared into her room.

CHAPTER 21

It didn’t take long before temperatures dropped and there were hardly any leaves left on the trees. The end of November was slowly sneaking up on me. With everything going on, with my busy McCarthy schedule, I almost didn’t notice.

But it became harder to force myself out of bed every morning. Not just because the anniversary of my parents’ deaths was fast approaching, but because Wren wasn’t there to take my mind off it this time around.

She’d barely said a word to me since our argument. When I entered a room, she simply left it.

Still, she was the one overreacting. She’d been the one to blow a harmless kiss way out of proportion because she—what? Hated McCarthy? I couldn’t find it in me to initiate a conversation when she was the one acting petty.

One thing I couldn’t deny, though—when I’d woken up with a fever this morning, I would’ve liked to ask her for a cold cloth.

Reading 103 F on the thermometer, I sighed my first happy sigh in a while, knowing it meant I had every right to stay in bed and mope. I wouldn’t have to worry about Wren dragging me out of it, because Wren wasn’t speaking to me. So I didn’t waste a second, threw myself back into my covers this morning, and slept on and off for a solid seven hours. I would have felt great if I weren’t so sick.

My body ached, I felt cold when one touch to my forehead told me I wasn’t, and I could hardly muster enough energy to think about getting up, never mind actually doing it. But I should get some water, at least. Perhaps something to get the fever down? Painkillers, that wet, cold cloth I’d been thinking about?

Just making that list in my head exhausted me enough to keep me in bed for another five minutes. I pointedly ignored the voice telling me Wren would probably know what to do. And that just a few days ago, she would’ve gotten anything I needed without my having to move an inch. I heaved myself out of bed, a pained groan accompanying each movement. I wobbled when I stood, swayed when I steered for the closed door, and felt exhausted by the time I reached it. Quickly, I threw my hair into a high bun to keep from sweating underneath it, wiped my forehead as if I was about to run a marathon, and then opened the door.

I think I would’ve screamed if I could have managed it.

There, on the brown leather couch in the middle of the room, sat my tutor. My fake boyfriend. My brother’s nemesis. Even without my contacts or glasses, I recognized him. As unbothered as ever, a book from Wren’s shelf in his hands and his socked feet sprawled across the sofa.

Is this what fever dreams feel like?

McCarthy’s head whipped in my direction. If he noticed how awful I looked, he didn’t let on. “Ah,” he sighed, closing his book with a thud. “She’s awake.” His eyes raked over my silk pajama shorts and the matching top, then quickly returned to my gaze. “Long night?” Sarcasm laced his tone. I thought I might’ve imagined a flicker of concern cross his features.

“What are you…?” I trailed off, perplexed and overwhelmed and—

“It’s Wednesday,” he pointed out. He looked at the watch around his wrist, though I had a feeling he knew exactly what time it was. “Three o’clock. An hour past our… date. You’re really messing my schedule up here.” And even then, it took me a few seconds to realize he meant our tutoring session.

God, I’m really out of it.

“I don’t think I give off the vibe that I could handle an hour of your blabbering right now.” As the words slipped out drily, I leaned against the doorframe, then threw a questioning glance down my own frame to emphasize the words. “Do I?”

I tried not to think about what I looked like. I told myself it was fine. I was sick, and this was what sick people looked like. But in the back of my head, I couldn’t help how vulnerable it made me feel. Growing up in the public eye, what I wore––the kind of message I wanted to portray with what I wore—became important the day my parents had died. And the message I’d wanted to convey was I’m fine.

McCarthy snickered as he stood. “I can see that.” Another flash of concern in his features I might have imagined. But with the way his eyebrows knitted together loosely, how he swallowed thickly as he came to a halt in front of me…

The back of his hand rose to my forehead without another word, his eyes on mine. And I almost backed out. I knew how gross I felt and I didn’t want him anywhere near that, but I didn’t object. I just stood there.

If he noticed my sweating, he didn’t show it. “You’re burning up, Pressley,” he muttered, eyes narrowing with… more concern? Probably not. His hand fell from my forehead to cup my cheek. Gently, quickly. “Seriously burning up,” he said as he lowered it.

“What can I say.” My eyes shifted from his burning gaze, probably not shivering from the cold for the first time today. “I’m just that hot, I guess.”

“Literally.” A hint of a smile tried to force itself onto his lips, but failed when he shifted his eyes quickly.

“And metaphorically,” I added.

McCarthy huffed, head tilting with a nod. “And metaphorically,” he repeated, a little quieter as if he was agreeing. Noticing, he cleared his throat. “Well, you know what they say,” he quipped, full of the energy I was missing again. “Hot girls let their fake-boyfriends nurse them back to health.”

Before I could even begin to object, I was in his arms bridal-style, and before I could object to that as well, I was on the couch. McCarthy disappeared into my room, without so much as a questioning glance for permission.

Coming back out, he held all three of my throw blankets: the one from my bed, the one hanging over the back of my chair, and the spare one that I wouldn’t have found, even if I had tried.

“What are you doing here?” I asked again, distracting myself from the fact Dylan McCarthy Williams was tucking me in. My voice was barely a whisper, though he heard it effortlessly, eyes searching mine.

A hint of a smile formed on his lips, but his eyes diverted before it had the chance to grow. “You know.” I didn’t know. “Checking whether my only student is purposely skipping my carefully crafted lessons.”

I laughed halfheartedly. “So you just thought you’d break into her apartment?”

“Well.” He tried to suppress his grin. “She’s also my girlfriend, and I’m a very clingy man.” His expression turned serious, the hint of a smile disappearing. “You should really lock your doors when you’re home, Pressley. Anyone could’ve walked in here.”

Once I was tucked in safe and secure enough to wonder if I could make it out by myself, he crouched beside me with a questioning look in his eyes. “Now where do you keep your medicine?”

I shrugged, deliberately keeping my eyes on the high ceiling. I knew he’d be right there if I were to turn. If I could smell anything, I’d probably be able to detect that minty scent from his gum. Meanwhile, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth today. Gross.

“Probably the bathroom,” I guessed. It’s where I would’ve checked if he hadn’t shown up.

Not that I would’ve been able to maneuver myself around the entire apartment the way he did now. Three steps and I’d be exhausted enough to fall back into bed. It would’ve taken me hours. Literally. McCarthy, on the other hand, was back within minutes. Tylenol and a glass of water in one hand, a damp, cool cloth in the other. He almost looked like a knight in shining armor, the way he walked over to me.

He sat cross-legged on the green-and-white checkered carpet beside the couch, placing all his findings on the coffee table to his left, and only handed me the glass of water. “Drink some before you take anything,” he ordered gently. Uncharacteristically, I listened. And immediately regretted it. “Did you just do what I told you? Without arguing?” McCarthy gasped. “Unbelievable. Maybe you should be sick more often.” He hummed playfully. We both knew he didn’t mean it, but that didn’t keep him from going on. “If it makes you so much more compliant.”

“I hope this is contagious,” I grumbled back, a scowl on my face. McCarthy just plopped the pill into my empty hand with a snicker.

“I’m immune.” He winked, getting off the floor with a low groan. “My sister gets sick all the time. So, whatever germs you’re spreading—been there, done that. My immune system will persevere.” His tone was casual, almost mocking, and I’d give almost anything to see the dumb grin that was surely spreading across his face right now. But he’d disappeared into my kitchen, and I didn’t want to peek over the armrest to check.

“Sister?” I wondered, my head falling back when I took the pill, with the least amount of water I could. “I didn’t know you had one.” That never made it onto the little fact sheet we’d exchanged at the beginning of this.

Some seconds ticked by in which he probably nodded, forgetting I couldn’t see him before he replied. “Yeah,” he breathed out. The sound of drawers opening and closing accompanied his words. “Well—” He cut himself off, sounding distracted, smiling again. I could hear it. “Four of them.”

“Four sisters?” I felt dumb just repeating every word he said, but I was sick, and I’m sure he understood. A laugh rang through the apartment.

“Diana, Denise, Dakota, Delilah,” he listed, an undertone in his voice I couldn’t place. He went on unprompted now, and my eyes, previously directed toward the ceiling, closed. I was unconcerned with what he was doing in my kitchen. All I halfheartedly focused on was his voice; how softly he spoke, how calming it was.

“Diana’s the eldest, just finished grad school. Then, Denise: gap year in Europe and never came back.” An amused huff accompanied that statement, and I nodded in understanding.

“I love Europe,” I mumbled, turning on my side without ever opening my eyes.

McCarthy went on. “After Denny, my mother was blessed with this fine specimen,” he joked, and my lips formed a grin that I was glad he couldn’t see. “I was seven when Dakota was born, and Mom said I wanted her gone immediately. I can’t blame me, she’s a pain in the ass even now.” He snorted.

Nothing but the sound of his voice hung in the air. It was either eerily silent or I’d drowned everything else out just to hear him more clearly. He was closer now; maybe steps had accompanied his words. I wouldn’t know.

“Delilah’s only twelve.” Finishing his summary, he was right by my side again.

When I opened my eyes just to check if I was right, his deep dimple, white teeth and smooth-shaven face immediately filled my entire field of vision. His lips were spread into a wide smile, one that was most definitely directed toward the sisters he’d just introduced. One filled with love, adoration, longing to be back home with them. I just couldn’t look away.

“They sound like they’re all much better than you,” I slurred, my voice barely above a whisper, with him so close.

He sighed. “They are.”

“You sure you’ll be fine? With my germs?” He was so close, there was no way I hadn’t fully breathed all of them into his face. Poor guy.

“Is that… concern?” His eyes widened, playful shock in his features as he spoke. “Now, who would’ve thought? Athalia Payton Pressley. Concerned. For me.” He was having a field day with the idea, grinning widely, brows raised as he dissected my reaction carefully.

I was only focused on the way he’d said my full name. And that I kind of wanted to hear him say it again.

“Never,” I retorted instead. “I just know men and the flu do not mix well. Always so whiny. As your girlfriend, I don’t want to have to deal with that.” Although my voice sounded weak, I knew I managed to get my point across when he snorted in amusement once more. He didn’t say anything else. Instead, McCarthy turned to the coffee table, then faced me again with a plate in hand.

“I’m not hungry.” It shot out of me, eyeing the two plain slices of toast suspiciously. The thought of eating was unbearable enough. Actually eating seemed ten times worse.

“That’s too bad.” A lazy smile found its way to McCarthy’s face. “Because you have to eat, princess.” His eyes flicked from my face down to the culinary masterpiece in his hand.

I shook my head, ignoring the teasing nickname that had more of an effect on me each time he used it. My stomach fluttered, my cheeks probably lit up. I was grateful I could blame it on the fever today.

McCarthy sighed. “It’ll just get your stomach working a little bit. No strong flavors, no smell,” he tried. I shook my head harder. “You won’t feel sick.”

Balancing the plate in one hand, he reached out slowly, hesitantly, questioningly—unsure if this was okay, even when he was already tugging that loose strand of brown hair behind my ear. His hand lingered on my cheek gently, a single stroke of his thumb across it. And there went my stomach again. If the food wouldn’t make me feel sick, he was well on his way to doing it himself with his nicknames and lingering touches. “I promise.”

A promise meant more from him now than it had a few months ago.

Then, I would’ve thought his presence—him nursing me back to health—was a fever dream. A nightmare. Now, I was quite glad he was here. Secretly.

So I listened. And I ate it, even if it was just a few bites.

He made a joke about my compliance again. I scowled at him. He grinned. I smiled back.

He grinned, I smiled back and absolutely no one was around to see it.

When I woke from my prolonged couch nap, McCarthy was gone. And my bed had new —matching—sheets, the window was open, and a sticky note hung on the vase of McCarthy’s flowers, most of them dried out by now.

I knew you liked them, it said. Doodled in the corner a small rose.

CHAPTER 22

With my fever dying down, unfortunately, I had no excuse to keep me from catching up with the classes I’d missed. Surprisingly, I’d been doing fine for the past hour. Like the model student I was—MacBook on my lap—I sat in the living room trying to wrap my head around the material from the last accounting lecture. Really! I was concentrated, focused, motivated.

Until the doorbell rang, which was when I jumped off the couch and ran toward it. Anticipation thumped through my veins at the opportunity for distraction. I buzzed the door open, not even bothering to ask who it was—not caring that I wasn’t wearing pants. The massive hoodie I’d found in my closet on the quest for a comfy study outfit covered enough.

All right, maybe I wasn’t quite as concentrated and motivated as I thought. But an hour of accounting was enough. For now.

I flung the door open, and my smile didn’t even waver when it was McCarthy who stepped out of the elevator. A paper bag dangled from his hand, and his brow wrinkled slightly when he saw me.

“You—?” Confusion hung in his voice, finger circling his face to point to what was sitting on mine. I rolled my eyes behind the round glasses.

“Yes, McCarthy. I’m blind. I have four eyes. I suddenly look so much smarter,” I sighed in defeat, noticing the teasing smile forming on his lips. “Let’s get it over with.” Mockingly, my arms opened wide, bracing for impact. Of what, I wasn’t quite sure.

Though, instead of hurling insults, mockery and jokes my way, his hands positioned themselves on my shoulders—my arms slowly falling back beside my body—before he turned me sideways. A second later, he squeezed himself past me and into my apartment.

“You look adorable,” he mocked, already on his way into the kitchen, walking backward to keep his eyes on me. “Much less threatening. I could get used to it.” Another smile tumbled onto his lips. “What about your brother?” He circled his own face once more, to clarify the question.

“Got Lasik surgery a few years ago.” I shrugged, trailing after him as if this was his apartment, not mine. I quickly shook my head. “What are you doing here?” I finally asked as he stopped by the island. “Again.”

Triumphantly, he held a brown paper bag up in the air, smile on his lips like he’d just won a cup. “Thought you might need some fuel,” he said. “What with all the catching up you must be doing.”

His eyes flicked through the apartment, finding my laptop on the ground from when I’d happily jumped at the first opportunity for distraction. Which was him. “And all the statistics we’re about to do,” he drawled happily.

I grimaced. It wasn’t even a conscious decision, it just kind of happened. I did have to catch up, but it was last on my list. For obvious reasons.

“Not to worry.” He laughed when he noticed how off-putting the idea was. “I didn’t come empty-handed. It’s a fair trade. Indian takeout for an hour of statistics? You did miss tutoring on Wednesday.”

My eyes darted to the paper bag. “Indian?”

That’s when I smelled it. The fried goodness of Bhatura bread. McCarthy didn’t know it was my favorite; it hadn’t even been on my factsheet (although, thinking about it, it definitely should have been). Judging by the victorious smile on his lips, it wasn’t just a lucky guess, either.

“Is Wren okay?” It shot out of me, panic setting in. I didn’t remember the last time I’d seen her. Technically, yes, she was avoiding me. But hypothetically, what did McCarthy have to do to get this information out of her?

My panic forced a laugh out of him. Loud, and unapologetic. For a second, it made me forget what I was so worried about. “Wren is fine.”

I shook my head quickly, not understanding. “But you got this from her? Wren Inkwood told you about my go-to order? She—” I cut myself off with a deep breath, eyes still wide, panic still as prominent. “Did you blackmail her? Torture her? What—?”

“She came home when you were sleeping off that fever the other day.” Amusement was still prominent in his usually harsh features, teasing the dimple that would appear if the corners of his lips curled up just another tenth of an inch. “I happened to still be there. We talked. No coercion needed, no harm done.”

“You’re lying,” I deadpanned.

“I would never.”

“You—”

He cut me off, just by taking a few steps to stand right in front of me. My head craned upward to keep my eyes on his, telling myself that funny feeling in my stomach came from the uncertainty of his words, not the proximity of his tall frame.

Wren wouldn’t step within a ten-foot radius of this guy. She’d probably see him sitting in her living room and walk right back out the door.

My eyes narrowed in on his when he didn’t back down. “You’re lying.” I wasn’t backing down either.

“Am not,” he muttered. “Scout’s honor.” This time, his grin reached the dimple I’d been so eager to see a moment ago.

“You’re not a scout,” I reminded him. “So that means nothing to me or to you.”

His head fell back when he laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, before it sent a wave of giddiness through mine. “Fake boyfriend’s honor,” he amended.

His hand lifted like he was swearing an oath, and he gave a smile I’d never seen before. Sincere, honest, almost boyish, and it made me want to throw up with how perfect it was. Just for me. I decided to drop it. For now. Instead, I focused on ignoring the tumult in the pit of my stomach, and the urge to find his words kind of cute.

“So how was the game?” That was a good distraction. Though the fact I’d brought up soccer by my own free will concerned me. I guessed anything was better than noticing how nice his hair looked today, how well his clothes fit him.

In response, he grunted. That smile fell off his face, and he dropped our eye contact to move toward the couch. He sat in front of it, rather than on it. I didn’t know why, but I followed suit.

“Could’ve been better,” he elaborated. I hadn’t offered a response to his grunt, though I knew what it meant well enough.

While the highs of soccer—of any sport, I assumed—were high, the lows were all the lower. Dad used to be in a bad mood for days, and now I wondered if he knew how unprofessional it was. So, the thought of losing anything had been frowned upon growing up, and the topic alone made me uncomfortable, even now.

“Oh,” I offered, a little awkwardly. How did one deal with this again?

McCarthy snorted in amusement. “Stop,” he laughed, waving me off dismissively. “It’s fine; happens to the best of us. You don’t have to pretend to feel sorry for me.” As an afterthought he added: “Or that you care, at all.”

His shoulder bumped mine, and I was relieved by how casual it was. Though the smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes, until he said, “Just be there next time?”

“Why?” I asked, then added, “Apart from the contractual obligation and all that.”

McCarthy shrugged, eyes shifting to fish our orders out of the takeaway bag. The rustling of it was loud enough for me to almost miss his muttered words, about lucky charms and winning. But I didn’t.

“Don’t lie, you missed this,” McCarthy teased. “A-B tests, statistical significances…”

I groaned, my head falling back against the couch. Sitting cross-legged, my bare knee almost touching his outspread leg, we hadn’t moved. This was a big apartment, sure, but we’d been eager to start eating, and didn’t waste any time finding a place with the appropriate amount of distance between us. I hadn’t even put on pants.

Either way, I had not missed this. If anything, it was what had kept me in bed a day longer, pretending I couldn’t start catching up the day before, to no one but myself.

“So much.” I flashed him a smile that said the opposite and reached for the rest of Bhatura, ripping off a piece. Sarcasm laced my words before I took a bite, and added, “I couldn’t imagine doing anything more fun with you.”

And it wasn’t supposed to sound like that: kind of sexual, inviting… flirty. It shouldn’t have sounded like that. My eyes immediately shifted, scrambling for another piece of bread.

Did it only sound like that to me?

The daring glance I made as I leaned back only confirmed his lingering gaze, a glint of amusement and something playing in his eyes. Once it caught, I didn’t try to look away. It would’ve cost me a hell of a lot of willpower, and I’d rather save that for when I actually needed it.

With the way the energy in the room shifted, electric and continuing to charge the longer our gazes held; I’d probably need it soon.

“Hmm,” he hummed, and I was grateful when he glanced through the room pretend-thoughtfully. He would take the tension right out of our situation with a bad joke or a mean comment that I couldn’t be sure he really meant anymore. And I was grateful, because it would take my mind off… The Incidents.

From his lips on mine and those strangled sounds of his— ah, fuck. I just did it, didn’t I?

“I can think of a few things.” He shrugged. And the words sounded so casual coming out of his mouth, I hadn’t fully grasped their meaning until one, two, three seconds ticked by, and he playfully looked my way again. “Can’t you?”

This time, my stomach actually flipped. With all the memories of past things, and incidents, lingering touches and random acts of kindness. There was nothing I could do about it.

Trust me, I tried.

I searched his face for even just a hint of mockery, but the way his tongue poked the inside of his cheek to keep him from smiling didn’t look mocking at all. The way he looked at me wasn’t ridiculing in the slightest. It was genuine, daring, a little teasing, though not in the way I was used to.

Trying to laugh it off didn’t work. I was embarrassed by the attempt, which sounded awfully close to a nervous giggle. When my eyes opened, they immediately locked onto his brown ones again, his face just as inviting as it was before.

“You can?”

The words just slipped out. And fuck, if they didn’t sound as sexual, inviting, and flirty as those that had gotten me into this predicament, I didn’t know what would. My tone naturally adapted that slight drawl—the one I used to get free drinks at bars, or past a bouncer—and I batted my eyes in that same way behind my glasses. Those tricks were usually under my control. It didn’t feel so much like it now.

McCarthy’s lips spread into a smirk, slow and dangerous. “Absolutely.”

All it took was a stuttered breath, the hint of a nod, that made me land on his lap in the blink of an eye. His hands on my waist brought all the wrong memories back as he maneuvered me on top of him, and I sucked in a sharp breath. It took everything in me not to acknowledge the situation I found myself in.

Straddling his lap, my breath heavy against his lips, inches from mine.

I still wasn’t wearing pants.

Wide-eyed and not at all in control of the situation, I looked down at him, swallowing thickly when his grip around my waist tightened. I squirmed when his thumb drew circles on my bare hip. I swear I almost lost it right then, and his smirk spread into a teasing smile.

“You know why I’m here,” he said.

And I thought No. I had absolutely no idea. If someone asked for my name right now, the only one that would make it past my lips was his.

He was everywhere, all consuming. Dylan McCarthy Williams had me wrapped around his little finger, and if it hadn’t have felt so good—so right—maybe I would’ve tried to fight it.

All I did know was that I couldn’t just feel his hands on my skin or his breath on my lips anymore, but him underneath me, pressed tightly against the waistband of his jeans. There wasn’t anything in the world that could’ve stopped me from adjusting myself, from searching for just a little more friction, with a tortured moan on my lips.

His head fell back with a groan, the sound rumbling through his chest and right between my legs. He swallowed thickly when his eyes fluttered open again. Through thick lashes, he looked at me like I could give him the entire world.

I expected fireworks and tingling and the heat pooling between my legs to thank me when he seemed to finally close the distance between us, his eyes ten shades darker and his breath heavy. I didn’t expect his forehead against mine, his breath right on my lips as he kept them from connecting with his. He shook his head, eyes closed.

“‘Pearson product-moment correlation’?”

I thought I must’ve heard him wrong. My breath still stuttered in my throat; I still felt him hard underneath me. So why would he—“Define it,” he struggled to say against my mouth.

“What?”

Instead of explaining, he asked, “You want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you, right?”

I nodded. Quickly.

Was my eagerness embarrassing? Yes, absolutely. Would I regret it tomorrow? Among other things, probably. Did I care? No. Not at all.

McCarthy mirrored my gesture. “Good,” he whispered against my lips. A smile took over his face, eyes still closed when he repeated himself. “Good.”

His forehead pressed against mine. “You give me the right answers, I kiss you.” His hands dropped from my waist, lower, lower, until they finally cupped my ass. He groaned once more, throbbing underneath me before almost pleading with me when he said, “And give them to me fast. Please.”

My brain was scrambled and my thoughts messed up: I was sure I imagined his words. It was hard just thinking straight, with his all-consuming presence underneath me, his hands roaming my body and his lips inches from mine. How was I supposed to know anything that way?

His hand trailed down my bare leg, his apparent objective quickly forgotten. It was instinct. The way my hips rolled against his with a strangled sound. His next breath was sharp. “Athalia,” he snapped.

The sound of my name passed through me like a bolt of lightning. Energy buzzed through every vein. I felt hazy when I nodded in response. “Fast,” he reminded me. “Please.”

“What was it again?” I huffed, eyes closing instinctively as my forehead fell to his. “What—I mean—What did you ask?”

God, I was a mess.

“Pearson product-moment correlation.”

“Okay,” I forced out in reply, trying my best to focus. “Okay.” I’d gotten that one right the last time. Minutes before his lips had been on mine, his hands on me and his body between my thighs, similarly to how it was now. I groaned, frustrated.

“Pearson product-moment correlation.” I repeated against his lips, feeling his heavy breath on mine as he nodded. I swallowed heavily. I thought. “It measures the direction… and strength of association between two variables.” I’d never been more eager to get something right.

And it was. I could tell by the way McCarthy placed tender, open-mouthed kisses in the crook of my neck before sucking the skin just enough to make my head fall back with a desperate moan. He managed a nod in between, a muffled Uh-huh breathed against my neck, before he brought his lips up to my ear.

“What about the null hypothesis?” he muttered against my skin, his voice just as desperate for me to get this right. “Can you tell me about it, princess?”

I racked my brain for the answer once more, ignoring the flashes of him showing up around every corner, and the way my heartbeat picked up at that godforsaken nickname. My head fell into the crook of his neck as I thought. trying hard—so very hard—to get it right.

“It’s a hypothesis.” Duh, I thought. But McCarthy nodded, the hand cupping my ass squeezing tightly. A moan slipped out of me, my hips moved against him, and his breath hitched in sync with mine.

“That’s right,” he muttered, encouragingly and sweet. “And what kind?” He kissed my neck again, his tongue rolling against my skin whenever he wasn’t sucking it lightly.

“It’s—” I cut myself off with another moan when he found a particularly sensitive spot on my neck, though I tried my best to see my answer through. “It’s the one we’re trying to disprove,” I choked out. “The one that says there’s no significance between two variables.”

McCarthy groaned against my skin, bucking his hips upward—his way of telling me I was right again.

“And the—” He exhaled loudly, eyes opening to look up at me. Heat resided in the usual calm brown of his eyes, pupils blown so wide, the color was almost nonexistent. He let his head fall against my chest in exasperation, landing right between my breasts. “The alternative hypothesis?” Between each word, he planted a kiss against the fabric of my hoodie, the next one a little higher than the last, until he reached my neck again.

“It’s the opposite.” It shot out of me. “Of the null hypothesis. So—” I sighed once more when he sucked. “It says that there is a statistical significance.”

“Good girl.”

It was enough to send another wave of heat between my legs, and it seemed to have the same effect on him. I felt it. His kisses traveled further up my neck—sucking and nibbling my skin—before his face hovered in front of mine, lust and desire and a thousand other things in his gaze. I don’t think I looked any better.

Then, he grinned, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. “This was by far my worst idea,” he breathed out, his voice little above a whisper as it sent goose bumps down my body. “And to think I had so many more questions to ask you.” His hips bucked upward again, and a strangled whine escaped my lips at the prospect.

I just wanted him. Needed him. There was no other way to explain or sugarcoat it. I shook my head, and I think by the way his mouth crushed mine, he agreed with me.

A surprised but pleased moan parted my lips, his tongue immediately finding mine in a rush of excitement, desperation, need. It was like we’d each been molded for the other; like we’d been supposed to be doing this from the moment we’d met—that’s how right it felt.

Panting against my lips, with the sound of his strangled moans, stifled groans when I rocked my hips against his hard cock, I was surprised I noticed anything around me other than him. Yet something in the back of my head—something I was so grateful for—was conscious enough to hear the sound of the elevator doors opening outside. It could’ve been the neighbors across the hall, sure, but something within me—something I was equally as grateful for—knew that it wasn’t.

My body tensed against his, enough for McCarthy to bring distance between us. “What’s wrong?” Worry flooded his previously hungry eyes, his brows drawing together.

Then, he heard the key rattling in the door, just like I did. And a second later, in a joint effort, I flew off his lap and onto the floor beside him.

We couldn’t have looked more suspicious if we’d tried when Wren stood in the doorway five seconds later. My cheeks burned feverishly, McCarthy tried to casually cover the obvious bulge in his pants. There was nothing casual about his angled leg or the wince that slipped past his lips when he tried to move.

Wren’s eyes darted between us, clearly surprised to see the man in her living room. She was probably as pleased to see him as she was pleased to see me: not at all. Her nose twitched as the door closed behind her. Jesus, I felt like a hormone-driven sixteen-year-old who’d just been walked in on.

Though her presence made me think of something other than the fact she would’ve probably found us sprawled across the floor naked if she’d come home five minutes later. Which was part of the reason for my red cheeks.

We talked. No coercion needed, no harm done.

My eyes narrowed. But McCarthy was busy looking anywhere else, and Wren’s expression was as unreadable as always. After a few seconds of her silent observation—which was the most attention she’d given me since our argument—Wren moved into the kitchen. My gaze followed her until she dropped her tote bag onto the island. The fact she was rushing to unpack her groceries was obvious. Still, I could feel her eyes burning into me from behind the island.

Act normal, Athalia.

I tried. I really tried.

But when I looked back at McCarthy, it seemed almost useless. I wanted to ignore how painfully obvious his tousled hair was, and I hoped Wren missed how rapidly his chest was still rising and falling. I also prayed I didn’t look half as bad.

Not that he looked bad. If anything, this Dylan McCarthy Williams was my favorite one so far: flustered, quiet, turned on.

Feeling my eyes on him, he turned toward me, and a quick reminder of what we’d been doing just five minutes ago punched me in the gut when our gazes met. Hard. I almost winced with how fast my stomach spun. But I recovered.

You good? I mouthed, eyes flicking to his little problem. Although, from what I could tell, it wasn’t all that little.

In return, McCarthy shifted in his position, grimacing with an exaggerated smile before he mouthed back What do you think? His gaze swept over my body once, trying not to linger on the spot where thick fabric was replaced by the bare skin of my thighs.

His voice was raspy, strained and low when the words left his mouth, only for me to hear. And they made my roommate’s interruption just so much more cruel. “I’ve been struggling since the second you opened that door in nothing but a hoodie, Athalia.”

“I’m wearing underwear. And socks.” The long ones I’d wear for early summer tennis games.

I shoved the flattery of the confession to the back of my mind. Though it was hard to ignore the way my heart fell through the pit of my stomach and between my thighs, beating steadily at the way he said my fucking name.

McCarthy snorted, rolling his eyes. “Not making it any better.”

This was dangerous.

Every fiber of my being longed for him, pleaded with me to give in. Desperate and needy, and it so wasn’t like me. In fact, it was so unlike me, I was beginning to think Wren’s entrance was divine intervention. Sleeping with him wouldn’t be a good idea. We both knew it, even before the thought had ever crossed my mind.

There was a whole clause dedicated to it, in that neatly written up contract of his.

#3 No Sex

Short and sweet. I should stick to it—we should.

He’d seemed a lot more determined a few weeks ago. When he’d still been going on about honoring that part of our contract.

CHAPTER 23

McCarthy definitely didn’t make honoring anything easier when he realized showing up at my place unannounced was a thing he apparently liked doing now.

“You’re back.” I blinked at him. But I couldn’t be mad when I knew his presence would keep me from diving headfirst into finals’ revision. With the end of November fast approaching, so were they. “What are you doing here?”

He gasped in faked offense, shaking his head as he squeezed past me without waiting to be asked in. I couldn’t explain it, but I kind of liked how familiar it felt. I didn’t even make a face; just closed the door behind him, like it was the most normal of things.

“I’m offended. Truly.” His brow rose in amusement at his own words, twirling around to look at me. “Can’t a fake boyfriend just visit his fake girlfriend, without any ulterior motive?”

I snorted in amusement. “No.” Brushing past him, I thought it best to relocate this conversation to my room. I knew Wren was home, and we still hadn’t spoken a word since our fight. I didn’t want to risk making it worse.

And McCarthy’s presence would.

“Not when you’re supposed to be oh so busy on Friday nights.” My brow rose challengingly.  If he thought I’d forgotten about the mysterious plans he had every Friday— which had kept us from scheduling our weekly date on said day—he was dead wrong. “You don’t usually have time for me today. Remember?” I teased, hoping my tone revealed as much.

McCarthy shrugged. “I made time.”

And the words came so casual, so nonchalantly, that I almost took them as such. As if it was no big deal, making time for me. Though, it felt like it was. Kind of.

“So,” I drawled, pausing by my bedroom door to let him step past me. He did so without hesitation. “There must be an ulterior motive for that, then.” I concluded my theory after I closed the door, throwing myself into my chair, and spinning it once.

I watched his eyes fly across the desk right by my door, cluttered with flashcards and notebooks. Against the opposite wall stood my bed, matching sheets courtesy of McCarthy—after he’d changed them when I’d been sick. A pale pink throw hung over its foot. He’d been in here before though, so his gaze didn’t linger.

“You got me.” His hands raised in mock guilt when he looked back at me. “My ulterior motive is to be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“Seeing as you’re my first and only—”

“That’s not a valid reason. But do tell me more about being your first and only, Pressley. I’m all ears.” He smiled. I caught a flash of dimple when I turned to roll my eyes at him.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Our gazes crossed, held, and the way he wouldn’t look away made me feel dizzy. I waited for him to say something—anything—but he didn’t. Just kept looking at me.

The next time he spoke, he’d moved on from whatever blip that had been.

“The kid I’d usually teach piano to on Fridays is sick.” He dropped that piece of information too casually for my liking. And he moved on before I could question, admire, swoon at the thought; before I could react to the image of him with children, at all. “And I thought you might need some distraction…” He trailed off as his eyes searched my room for nothing in particular, lingering on the mess on my desk. “And by the state of that.” He nodded toward it, before his eyes found mine again. “And you—”

I deadpanned a “Thanks” before he could finish that sentence, head tilting in amused annoyance. If I looked like I hadn’t showered in three days—hadn’t left my apartment for anything other than lectures for just as long—it was because I hadn’t.

“My intervention is very much needed. That’s not an insult, Athalia. As always, you look perfect. Just exhausted,” he added. His eyes shifted as if he hadn’t just said what he’d said.

“I wouldn’t call unshowered and messy perfect, but to each their own, I guess.”

“I’m not having this debate with you.” And apparently that was that, because a second later he asked, “Have you eaten?”

“Haven’t had time.” I hadn’t even had time to think about food. I made a face in his direction, lips splitting into a grin as he met it with his own grimace. “Feel like ordering something?” My tone was hopeful. Unfortunately he thoroughly disappointed me when he shook his head, conviction behind those brown eyes of his.

“No,” he said flatly, pushing himself off the door. “Let’s cook.”

Before I could let him know that we couldn’t possibly cook anything with air and water—which were probably the only two things Wren and I had in our home—he slipped out of my room and made his way to the kitchen.

I didn’t rush to follow him. He’d catch on to the missing ingredients soon enough. Leisurely, I sighed as I got out of my chair, stretching before even taking a step in the direction he had disappeared in. It was only when a joyful, dragged out “Perfect,” echoed through the apartment—one that didn’t sound at all sarcastic—that I became interested in what he was doing. I poked my head out of my room, to find him neck deep in one of our cabinets.

He must’ve sensed my presence. “I’m not going to lie—” His voice was muffled from inside the cabinet. “I expected a little more.” Emerging from its depth, he held a package of pasta in my direction victoriously. “But I can work with this.” He made sure to hold steady eye contact before throwing the cardboard my way, lucky that I stepped closer just in time to catch it.

I couldn’t help but comment on the fact he’d already disappeared wrist-deep into our fridge. “I’m glad you’re so comfortable here, McCarthy,” I muttered in an amused tone, overcoming the last few steps to the kitchen before placing the leftover pasta on the island. When he turned around, he presented his infamous dimpled grin.

“Me too.”

I tried not to swoon over it, instead sighed with an eye roll—the only way to divert my gaze without looking suspicious. Mumbling a few more words into the depth of the fridge, he turned around with a finality that made me kiss the idea of takeout goodbye. “How does vodka sauce sound?” And that sealed the deal.

“Great. If it’s half vodka, half sauce.” I blinked up at him innocently, my smile just the same. And I took pride in the way the corners of his lips quirked at my words, finding myself enjoying the picture of it too much for my own good.

“Interesting.” McCarthy turned back to the fridge, fished whatever ingredients we magically had at hand out of it and placed them on the island behind him. Then, he did the same thing with our pantry and alcohol cabinet.

In the end, the island filled with few fresh ingredients: various spices; leftover heavy cream from Wren’s baking adventures; an unopened tube of tomato paste (where did that come from?); olive oil; some kind of grated cheese, and a bottle of vodka.

“You don’t have fresh garlic or onions, so we’ve got to improvise,” he said, nodding to the garlic and onion powder among the spices I didn’t even know we owned.

I wandered around the island, coming to a stop on his side of it, curiously eyeing his findings. “I’ve never even touched a tube of tomato paste, so God knows how that got in there.” My lack of cooking knowledge clearly humored the man. Though he seemed rather confident around a kitchen, didn’t he? “You cook often?”

He snorted, then shrugged. “As much as necessary.” He dove into the cabinets under the stove headfirst, happy when he found the pots and pans. “Some people want to be able to care for themselves, princess.” A smug tone played in his words. “Not rely on a delivery guy—what?” He interrupted himself with a gasp, rubbing the back of his head.

Throwing the kitchen towel I’d just whipped across his head onto the counter, his eyes snapped up to me with a smile on his lips. “It’s true,” he insisted, still sporting a teasing grin.

Defeated, I sighed. “I know.” My eyes shifted back to the ingredients, going through them once more, in the hope it would keep the oncoming wave of guilt away for as long as possible. Though, I felt it coming. Three, two, one—

“Athalia.” His voice was suddenly all serious, something comforting in the low notes, something soothing in the way he said my name as he rose from a crouch to his full height before me. His thumb hooked underneath my chin to tilt it his way, touch feather-light, and the kind smile on his lips was the last thing I’d expected.

It seemed he was going to say something important, something comforting, something that would keep that oncoming wave away for a while longer—perhaps until the next comment that made me intensely aware of my privilege to the point of… discomfort? He cleared his throat. “You have boiled water before, right?” He tried hard to keep his lips in a tight line.

I groaned. “Yes, McCarthy.” My tone still carried some humor. “I have boiled water before.”

“And cooked pasta?” That statement was a little more hesitant than the water observation—probably more of a question.

“Yes,” I confirmed again. “I have cooked pasta.”

“See!” He pointed out as if he struck gold. “You’re better than my sister, then.”

“Which one?”

Filling one of the pots with water, he looked over his shoulder with an amused gleam in his eyes. “All of them.”

Somehow, knowing that despite all his sisters, he seemed to be the one to help his mother cook; that he’d been the one to whip up a quick meal for them when she’d get home late, and that he knew his way around the kitchen, was… nice. It was just so nice.

“How come?” I wondered.

McCarthy shrugged, figuring out our stove without a single questioning glance my way. “You didn’t think my sisters took full advantage of having a brother?” he asked in amusement. “A couple of years ago they didn’t want to move out because it meant doing their own chores.”

Baby Dylan being coerced by his sisters to do their laundry, the dishes and cook for them whenever his mother wasn’t there—maybe even when she was. I couldn’t help the single laugh slipping from my lips at the image. McCarthy nudged my shoulder in faked offense.

“That’s not funny,” he proclaimed, oblivious to the wide smile on his own face when he dumped a teaspoon of salt into the water.

“No.” I shook my head so quickly my vision blurred and my smile was so deep, my cheeks began hurting. “No, it’s not funny at all.”

“That’s a lot of vodka.” I sat on the counter beside the stove, my legs happily swinging in anticipation of what already smelled heavenly.

McCarthy’s eyes narrowed into mine at the comment, snapping the bottle in his hand upright. “You said half—”

“In that case,” I interrupted quickly—glad my only job in this, was giving useless commentary and driving McCarthy up the wall with it. “It’s not enough.”

His shoulders slumped, lips parting to let go of a frustrated sigh. Though the amusement in his features lingered when he looked back at me.

“Is this payback for all the times I’ve been annoying?” He placed the bottle back beside the stove, moving a few inches to his right to casually position himself between my legs. Despite my elevated state on the counter, his head still hovered above mine. My lips curled into a smirk as I blinked up at him innocently. “If so, I think you’re overdoing it a little.”

A laugh slipped past my lips. “Oh, am I?”

“I think you are.”

“I think I’m doing just enough—could probably bump it up a notch.” I adopted a thoughtful expression, caught off-guard by the carefree laugh of his that followed my words.

“You,” he began, face inching closer to mine ever so slightly, “are a pain in the ass if I’ve ever met one, Athalia Pressley.”

“Funny.” A teasing tone played in my words, not backing down even when there was barely an inch still between us. “I was just thinking the same of you.”

He grinned at that. He grinned so widely I wanted to squeeze his cheeks grandma-style and admire that dimple for the rest of my life. He squinted, the joy in his features and the way his nose crinkled… new.

I swallowed hard, the air suddenly thick. The pasta bubbled happily in the pot beside us, tomato sauce making the place smell like an Italian restaurant. A good one. One of those on the Lower East Side. But it wasn’t the steam making my hands feel sticky, and it wasn’t the warmth of the stove either.

It was him.

The way his eyes fell to my lips unapologetically, like he wanted to remember the way they’d felt on his. Like he wasn’t desperately trying to forget how well they—we fit. It’s what I was currently busy with.

But forgetting the way he’d felt below me, forgetting those little sounds he’d make if I were to just bury my hands in his hair now, trail kiss after kiss up his neck, until I found that spot just below his ear… it seemed impossible. Instead I remembered that when I’d found it last time, he’d moaned my name before almost taking me on my living room floor.

My vision blurred when my eyes snapped up to his again, the possibilities swimming between us palpable. If I just moved—

A loud hiss interrupted what would’ve turned inappropriate in a matter of seconds. Startled, we jumped apart.

My head flew toward the noise, a loud laugh escaping my lips when my eyes fell on the pasta water boiling over the pot, hissing as it dripped onto the hot stove. McCarthy jumped into action, lowering the heat and taking the pot off. He glanced in my direction, a mildly bewildered look on his face until he noticed my unwarranted amusement.

“Fuck,” I muttered between two laughs.

Something about it made him laugh, too. Because a second later we bent over in synchronized laughter, McCarthy struggling to hold the pot upright in his hands. The focused look on his face as he balanced only made me laugh harder. Which, in return, made him laugh again.

It was a vicious cycle. One I participated in gladly.

Despite the hiccup, dinner tasted as good as it had smelled. And while I was washing my hands in the bathroom, a realization ran through me.

This was a date. Wasn’t it?

We’d had plenty of them. One a week for the past month, at least. Sometimes more, if there were special events my brother was attending. Though none of them were real, and I wasn’t sure if this one was, either.

When you pretended to date someone for as long as we had—when you saw them every day, spent time with them every other, held hands, looked at them lovingly, laughed at their bad jokes—lines began to blur. In this case, even with my contacts in, I couldn’t see that line anymore. I couldn’t figure out when it had disappeared either.

Was it before or after he’d rewarded me for the right answers with a kiss?

I sighed in frustration, my cheeks burning from the memory alone. I gave myself one last look in the mirror, shook my head at the added color in my face, and trotted out of the bathroom, back to the kitchen.

Perhaps the line had gone shaky the second he’d started to appear in my apartment. Where no one was around to sell whatever relationship there was supposed to be between us. He still showed up. I still let him come in.

Again, I reminded myself that this wasn’t just any real relationship. In fact, it wasn’t real, and it wasn’t a relationship: nothing was what it was. Nothing that sometimes ended in locked lips and a palpable need for more.

Before I could banish those thoughts, the sound of an animated conversation did it for me. I was just about to turn the corner into the open kitchen when Wren’s voice, followed by McCarthy’s, brought me to an abrupt stop.

When I said animated conversation, I must’ve mistaken it for passionate argument. Right? I expected the worst when I stepped into their field of vision, though neither of them even noticed my entrance. Good. Gave me more time to observe.

Facing each other from opposite corners of the kitchen island, Wren held a bowl of pasta he must’ve offered her. More importantly, her usual McCarthy scowl was missing. Only an apprehensive look lingered underneath what seemed like genuine interest in what he had to say.

We talked. No coercion needed. No harm done.

Maybe he hadn’t lied after all.

“I haven’t seen it live yet,” McCarthy admitted. Wren immediately interrupted with that giddiness in her tone she only sported when it came to one thing. The Lin Manuel Miranda mug I noticed on the counter had probably started this conversation about her favorite musical. I groaned. Internally. After all, I still wanted to eavesdrop.

“Honestly—” She cut herself off with a spoonful of pasta. “It’s on a whole other level live! You’re really missing out.”

“I know.” His head fell back in frustration, and the movement was what made him notice me from the corner of his eye. “Athalia,” he acknowledged, turning toward me with a smile. “Hey.”

Wren stiffened. So did I.

“Anyway…” She scrambled, balancing her cup and bowl in one hand, phone in the other. “Thanks for… this.” She raised the pasta in McCarthy’s direction clumsily, almost losing a single rigatoni. Our eyes met, and I almost fooled myself into seeing the hint of an apologetic smile on her lips before she passed me, then disappeared in her room.

Dumbfounded, I blinked at McCarthy. “Did I just—” My eyes trailed after Wren again, then back to him. “Did you—” I shook my head. “She talked to you. Voluntarily,” I added.

“I don’t know how voluntary it is when I’m standing in her kitchen, but yes, I guess.” He shrugged, passed me my bowl from the island when I was close enough. “You tried getting along with my best friend. The least I can do is—” He nodded toward her closed door.

Only that it wasn’t just McCarthy she was supposed to have a problem with—I had been added to that list. This had been the longest we’d been in the same room since our fight. And it was only because she hadn’t noticed me earlier.

My head fell against his chest with a sigh. “I’m ready for that glass of wine now.”

CHAPTER 24

“I think I’ve been doing well today.”

“Not well enough.”

“Well enough to deserve a little credit.” My brow rose with my statement, staring down McCarthy across the opposite side of his desk. A break was justified after a correct-answer-streak of seventeen, right?

“I have been giving you credit,” he pointed out, almost offended I’d suggest otherwise. “What more do you want me to do? Call you a good girl whenever your answer’s correct?”

Tempting.

It looked as though he didn’t mean to say that, given our history of… Incidents. Immediately on high alert, his attention slipped from my eyes to my lips, back up to my eyes. Twice. If I hadn’t been so focused on him, too, I might’ve missed it.

I hummed in amusement, a slight smile on my lips that could be interpreted as teasing. “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I’m sure there would be a clause in that contract of yours that forbids it.” Never mind that he’d said it before. Just last week.

“Now you’re not giving yourself enough credit, Pressley.” His eyes gleamed with something behind their dark exterior, and he shifted in his seat to lean his forearms on the desk. “Most of the rules in there were your suggestions. Including, but not limited to, the one you’re so eager to break.”

I followed his every move as he got up. The sound of his chair scraping across the wooden floors sent goose bumps down my spine for some reason, and my heartbeat picked up all on its own as he made his way onto my side of the desk. How tall he hovered over me once he leaned against it was as intimidating as it was attractive. I stood in a matter of seconds.

Rolling my shoulders back and fanning my hair out, I cleared my throat. “You didn’t have to agree to every single one of my suggestions.” I could admit when a comeback was half-assed. My voice hardly carried any of the conviction it usually did, and if I said my words weren’t just above a whisper, I’d be lying.

If I were being honest, what I said was merely what made it past my lips first. How could I waste any time thinking of a hilarious comeback when he was right there? Looking at me like that. With his eyes on mine, a teasing smile on his lips and his tongue flicking across them.

At my words, he huffed in amusement. His head tilted, dark hair swaying slightly. “I didn’t?”

His fingers brushed mine then, gaze not wavering as he interlaced them to pull me closer. I did so in a stumble, bracing myself with my hands against his chest, before they found their place behind his neck quite effortlessly. His other hand came up to my cheek, brushing whatever hair was in his way behind my ear; his touch so gentle you’d wonder if we still disliked each other at all.

“I think that’s a lie,” he whispered. “And I think you know it.”

I tried hard not to laugh, teeth digging into my bottom lip to keep from grinning widely. I shook my head, letting it hang low to get away from his gaze. Even then I felt it on me, and when my eyes opened again, teeth releasing my lip, something in it darkened.

“Careful now, McCarthy,” I sighed against him. “You might lose whatever it is that you started.” Not long ago. In this exact room. “You’re the one who wanted to play, remember? All you have to do is say the words.”

McCarthy swallowed thickly, his gaze following my finger as it absentmindedly travelled down his chest, his stomach. His eyes flicked back up to mine.

“Five minutes.” They weren’t the words I’d expected, but I could work with the way his lips landed on mine, all the gentle touches and lingering looks forgotten. Because the force with which we collided was far from delicate and sweet. It was rough, longing—far from gentle.

He turned us quickly, effortlessly; helping me get on top of his desk, and fitting perfectly between my legs when I spread them. The air filled with suppressed groans, and heavy breathing as he shook his head against mine. “Ten minutes,” he corrected himself; so eager, that half of it was mumbled into my skin.

His head dipped somewhere between my neck and shoulder, nibbling, sucking, kissing my skin, as if he might never get to do it again. And my head fell back in a low moan, hands pressing on the desk behind me. “Ten minutes, and we get back to what we’re here to do,” he panted before his lips were on mine again.

My restraint snapped. Any thoughts of can’t and shouldn’t and that contract neither of us seemed to care about anymore left my mind to make more room for him. And how much I wanted this.

His hands fell to my waist, one of them dipping lower, to my thigh, caressing it in light circles that were going to be the reason I’d combust. The dark tights I wore were thinner than they should’ve been in November, though right about now, I’d never been happier with my choice of outfit. Because it felt as though there was no barrier at all that separated my bare skin from his hand. The sound of approval that came from his lips directly onto mine was enough of a confirmation that he felt the same way.

It catapulted a jolt of pleasure through me. His low moans were enough to make me feel the heat pooling between my legs. Combine that with the way his hand inched up my thigh until it disappeared underneath my skirt—and I didn’t know how I was still sitting upright. It was only when he reached where I needed him most, that he hesitated, creating a little distance between our lips. He looked at me intently, questioningly.

My breath was heavy, his chest rising just as rapidly, inches from mine. And I squirmed underneath the missing friction, trying my best not to look too desperate—and failing miserably at it. His eyes flicked to the clock in the room.

“Eight minutes,” he muttered when his gaze fell on me again. One brow rose challengingly. “We can do that. Can’t we?” Instead of waiting for an answer, his finger brushed across my panties, the motion so unexpected, my already parted lips released a moan that was entirely too loud. “That’s all I needed to hear, princess.”

Somersaults were an understatement for whatever happened in my stomach. The nickname. His hand between my thighs. The prospect of what was to follow. The anticipation alone almost made me throw up—in a good way… if that made any sense at all.

His lips were on mine again a second later, his finger gently—why was he opting for that now, of all times?—sliding along my covered entrance. Down and back up once, before he put a sliver of distance between us again. His fingers were still teasing, so close to me I could feel them, despite the actual touch missing entirely.

McCarthy’s gaze darted across my face quickly, taking in every twitch of my brow, noticing every shade of red in my cheeks. “Are you sure about this?” His tone was rough against me, face still close. I’d only have to lean an inch toward him to connect our lips again. It was tempting, though instead I nodded.

“Very sure.”

His hand curled around my thigh, fingers trailing along the skin, moving up until they reached the hem of my tights. “I don’t want you to regret this,” he said in a hush. But I could tell at this point, perhaps he was trying to reason with himself more than me. And maybe he was right. Maybe it was a bad idea, but I’d be damned if I wasn’t determined to see it through now.

My head tilted. I hummed, swallowing a frustrated groan when the pad of his thumb dipped between my thighs again. I could only get out, “That entirely depends on your performance, doesn’t it?”

His low laugh was muffled by his lips crashing onto mine once more, the vibrations traveling all the way to my stomach, causing more havoc and destruction. “I guess it does,” he agreed, focus elsewhere. With his fingers hooking underneath my tights’ waistband, he groaned. “A little help?” he managed to request, and it was all I needed to hear.

Without thinking of the consequences, I fell back against his desk, hips bucked so he could slide them far enough down my legs. Books, papers, whatever other important materials had been scattered across the table didn’t matter. Not to him, not to me.

His gaze swept across my sprawled form, and he slowly slid the fabric down my ass, over my hips. Taking his sweet time with it, watching every minuscule reaction of mine, as if he needed to burn the image into his mind. As if the agony of his torturously slow movements was displayed in my every feature, and he loved seeing it. Wanted to remember. Probably wanted to make me remember, too.

I sat up as soon as I could, lips back on his. He let himself be swept up in the fluid motion of our tongues intertwining, the sound of our heavy breathing all there was. Though he quickly caught himself, determined to see whatever plan he had through. Gently, one hand between my thighs, one on my chest, he pushed me back onto his desk. I’d be an idiot not to comply, and I was looking back up at him a second later. His smile was genuine. Wicked, and sweet and appreciative. Dark, too.

He glanced toward the clock. “Close your eyes, princess.” His voice was barely above a whisper, yet demanding all the same.

Again, I’d be an idiot not to comply. McCarthy hummed in agreement of it.

And despite everything that had happened until this point, despite the fact he’d made me feel better than anyone had managed to do with just a few inappropriate touches, this was where it really started. Where he came alive and devoured me whole.

His hands disappeared under my sweater within seconds, scrunching it up with no regard for the fact it had cost a fortune. I didn’t care either, because a moment later, his finger trailed across my exposed nipple and after another, his lips puckered around it.

My eyes shot open, simply because I hadn’t expected it: not his lips around my nipple, not the loud moan that escaped me. He chuckled against my skin, one finger coming up to his mouth when he looked at me.

“Remember what I said about these walls?” he asked. “Try to keep quiet for me.”

I mouthed a sorry, let my head fall to his desk again, and my eyes closed as the next wave of pleasure rolled through me—his mouth devoting itself to my other nipple. This time, I managed to swallow the sound that crept up my throat, sighing deeply and arching my back. With his body almost entirely on top of mine, I could feel his hard length against my thigh. The thought alone was too much now, and another moan slipped from my lips—this one quieter.

It was hard to keep it that way when his finger began circling my clit over my panties. Hooking underneath them to tease just enough, then letting the hem snap back against my skin. His other hand placed itself over my mouth then, and for a second I wondered why. Though, when he finally hooked his fingers underneath the fabric, pushed it to the side and made sure it stayed put, I knew why. And when he finally touched me, I knew it had been a good idea, too.

The moan that came from my lips would’ve been unavoidable, though now it wasn’t more than a muffled whine. His finger circled my clit, the way my own did when I was by myself. His lips still teased my nipples, drawing such heavy breaths out of me, I felt I might faint. Still, I kept quiet as best as I could, and it seemed he could sense my efforts.

“Good girl,” he breathed against my exposed skin. His pace didn’t waver as he began placing sloppy kisses down my stomach. It turned in anticipation, as soon as I realized he wasn’t going to stop halfway down. Instead, he began placing kisses on my hipbone, further down until he spread my legs and buried his head between them. Kiss after kiss, closer to my core, until he hovered right in front of it. Stopping only for a moment, his breath against my exposed skin sent shivers down my spine. I had no chance to recover before his tongue provided an entirely different kind of pleasure.

This time, it was my own hand that shot over my mouth, trying my best to muffle my moans, as my back arched off the table again. He chuckled against my core at the effort, the vibrations of it continuing the string of muffled noises coming from me. For a while, the only sounds in the room were my muted moans, whimpers, and cries as his tongue varied in speed and pressure. And then, when his second hand slid down my thigh, no warning before two fingers pumped into me, I was done for.

“God,” McCarthy grunted against my clit. The sound was heavenly. “You’re so wet for me.”

I let my back arch off his desk once more, waves of pleasure continuing to drive me closer to an orgasm I hadn’t expected. My hands were playing with his hair, tugging at it whenever his fingers found that one spot.

And after a while, they found it over, and over, and over again. “Please don’t stop,” I murmured. Pleasure was written all over my face as I lifted my head to look at him for the first time. And fuck, was it a sight to behold.

It didn’t take more than a glance of him between my thighs, his hair a mess and his eyes connecting with mine, for my chest to tighten at the same time as my core did. “Fuck,” I hissed, falling back.

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” The only answer that made it past my lips was a broken moan, though he got the message. His pace stayed consistent, and I was so, so grateful he was listening to what my body was telling him. This is good. Don’t stop. Just keep going.

And he did. He did it perfectly.

My teeth bit down harshly on my lower lip as the wave of relief washed over me.

And all with a minute to spare.

No wonder McCarthy was such a frequent topic among girls in party bathrooms. Should I be impressed?

My eyes slid over to him on the opposite side of his desk, busy reading through the practice quiz he’d made me take, like he hadn’t given me the best orgasm of my life prior to it. Completely unbothered, the epitome of contentment.

When it seemed like he’d reached the bottom of the last page, my eyes shifted. No need to stroke his ego further. I tried hard to seem just as unbothered. But cool, calm and collected wouldn’t be the words I’d use to describe myself right about now.

My heart skipped a beat whenever I so much as looked at the wrong parts of him. His lips, his eyes, his fingers—everything reminded me of what he’d done to me on the very desk we were now sitting at. Less than half an hour ago, at that. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to walk into this office without thinking of McCarthy between my legs.

Life was cruel. Unfair.

As I sighed gently, my gaze drifted back to him without any conscious effort, expecting him to still be staring at the papers in his hands, granting me another opportunity for my wandering mind to remember. Instead, my eyes met his, and they widened just slightly in surprise. His lips twitched, brows rising, as if he hadn’t just been caught staring.

“What?” I asked, irritated by nothing at all, except his unshakable confidence.

McCarthy shook his head in amusement. “Just waiting for you to get back to us.” Placing my quiz on the desk between us, he took the opportunity to halfheartedly sort through the mess my sprawled body had caused earlier. “What is it you’re thinking about?”

By the tone in his voice, there was no reason for him to ask. He knew.

“You.” I smiled as wide as I could make it, the corners of my lips dropping a second later again. “And how long it’s taking you to go through a few answers that are most likely correct.” They probably weren’t, but my eyes narrowed into his anyway. “Makes me think you’re distracted, McCarthy.”

His tongue pressed the inside of his cheek, to keep himself from breaking into a full-on, dimpled grin. “I might be a little preoccupied,” he admitted, though not without his gaze sweeping across my body so quickly, I almost missed it.

I asked him the same question he’d asked me. “What is it you’re thinking about?”

And he gave me the same answer I’d given him. “You.”

Though the smile on his lips didn’t drop like mine had, I half-expected him to ridicule the statement in the same way—to add an “And how wrong these answers are” or “And how you still don’t know what you’re doing here.” But he didn’t.

Me. Just me.

Now I was the one smiling, my gaze roaming the room casually. If I had dimples, they’d be on full display. There was no point in hiding it, either; I’d just look even goofier.

McCarthy cleared his throat. “This is pretty good,” he said, and my eyes jumped toward him to find the practice exam in his hand again. “Still a few kinks to work out, but overall, I expected much, much worse from you.”

“I believe a good girl is in order.”

“Get out of here,” he begged with a laugh, head shaking in a way that only made me smile that much more. “Please.”

And it sounded like a plea for his own sake. Perhaps because he’d felt that same pulsing need flush through him at the memory of what had happened just half an hour ago, and he wanted to ignore it the same way I did.

CHAPTER 25

Three days until Thanksgiving.

Students and professors alike were getting ready to leave campus for the long weekend. Lectures had become a burden for every party involved. We could all feel it.

And I’d come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t be spending the holiday with Wren, this time around. I knew if I asked, she’d take me. No matter the circumstances, she’d be there for me if I needed her. I think.

But Wren was petty, and I was stubborn. So she didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask.

Maybe some space would be good for us, even. A few days where we wouldn’t awkwardly run into each other in the kitchen or tiptoe through the apartment, until we got to our rooms to avoid the other.

Look who’s acting like she’s my girlfriend now.

Space. Friendships didn’t need space, did they? They were supposed to be effortless, come natural.

The prospect of a lonely Thanksgiving was scary, though.

Two days until Thanksgiving.

Technically, the anniversary of my parents’ death had passed already. The twenty-second was like any other day in November, filled with classes and homework and finals prep. Seven years ago, though, Thanksgiving had fallen on the twenty-second. And it’s the holiday I associated with them. Still, the influx of articles about them at this time of year didn’t help. Neither did the Twitter hashtag, supposed to commemorate my dad or the condolence letter Mom’s company sent every year.

It felt worse this time.

Maybe—probably—because November was usually the month where Henry still felt most like my twin. We’d never speak about them, but he seemed to hover closer in November. He’d reach out, ask if I’d been okay. We were both still hurting, just coping with the pain differently, so it was easy to forget. November made us remember.

It didn’t seem to do that for him this year.

But the fact he’d been more invested in my life since McCarthy was worth it. Right?

One day until Thanksgiving.

I assumed most students had left campus by now. Wren’s open door, lights off as if to rub her absence in, suggested that she had, at least. I tried not to let that bother me. She could’ve offered and hadn’t. Then again, I could’ve asked—and I didn’t do that either.

I hadn’t touched my phone since the last article sprung me out of nowhere, yesterday. Who’d be prepared to see a picture of their dead parents smiling? Mom waved into the camera; Dad looked at her, as they stood on the steps of a private jet together, over ten years ago.

Just thinking about it still made my stomach turn, made my hatred for the press grow. Hey, let’s use the picture of a couple that died in a jet crash in which they’re standing right in front of one way before their accident.

Vile. But it brought clicks and attention and money. That’s what the world revolved around, right?

A harsh knock startled me out of my thoughts, and I emerged from under my blanket with a furrowed brow. I had no intention of answering whoever was currently abusing the apartment door, though I was curious, nonetheless. The knocks became more forceful the longer they went unanswered; speed picking up and intensity growing steadily. Whoever it was, they really wanted to get in here.

For a moment I wondered about the likelihood of a reporter or paparazzi trying their shot at an exclusive with a grieving billionaire’s daughter. I almost laughed at the thought of the public seeing me like this: red, puffy eyes, untamed hair, wearing an oversized hoodie and underwear from the day before (hey, no judgment—I’m grieving).

But what I heard then was so unexpected, and so far from my vivid imagination, I froze, and felt my entire body heat up at the prospect. His voice was so familiar by now, I recognized it through the walls and doors still separating us.

I scrambled out of bed faster than I would on a normal day. The fact I was out of bed at all, not hiding under my covers and crying, was huge. Just in case, I patted my cheeks lightly, drying whatever wetness might’ve stained them otherwise, and opened the door.

Yup, it was McCarthy all right. Wearing casual black suit pants and an oversized, olive sweatshirt, under a black coat.

Eyes darting to his, something in his expression shifted as his gaze flew across my features––probably noticing the redness around my nose; probably noticing how puffy my eyes were.

“Are you still sick?” he wondered, his voice… quiet, somehow hopeful. When I shook my head slowly, he didn’t hesitate.

The six foot something giant, who was supposed to hate me and hadn’t said more than a few friendly words to me in the heat of the moment—he threw his arms around my body as if he’d been born to do it. His scent engulfed me, his embrace tight, warm, protecting. Most of all it was… needed. The realization made me tremble as I slung myself around him.

“Thank you,” I muttered into his chest. I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me, but I assumed the way his hand came up to play with my hair was a response. I took it as such.

McCarthy took a deep breath, placing his head on top of mine. “I’m so stupid,” he breathed out. “I should’ve been here yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. I should’ve—” He cut himself off, bringing the tiniest bit of distance between us. His hands cupped my face lightly. I hated that my eyes glistened when I looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, the gesture halfhearted. He should be the last person to feel sorry for anything. We didn’t even like each other, for God’s sake. Still, here he was. Bothering to check up on me before he…

I cleared my throat. “So you’re heading home now?” I couldn’t explain the small smile that crept onto his lips, and my eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?” I doubled down.

“Come on.” His hand slipped into mine so casually, I didn’t really notice. He dragged me into my room, and if he was judging the state of it, I couldn’t tell. “When was the last time you looked at your phone, Pressley?” That teasing undertone in his voice was back, and I never thought I’d be so glad to hear it. It brought a sense of normalcy: a reminder that there were days before and after the grief. It was a distraction from the fact they had died in the first place. And it’s exactly what I needed.

“I turned it off when—” Well, the high of distraction slipped out from under me, just like that. I swallowed thickly, my head shaking. “Just turned it off,” I corrected with a shrug, nodding toward the dark screen on my bedside table.

Although I’m sure he could tell there was something off about the statement, he let it be. “That explains why you’re neither packed nor dressed. And why you’re wearing your glasses.” He seemed to think about his statement. “So get changed, pack.” He was silent for a beat, considering. “But leave the glasses on.”

Leaving them on was a given anyway, with the number of tears spilled this time of year. My contact lenses would be flushed out too quickly to be worth the effort of putting them in, in the first place.

“What?” he teased during my silence. Rolling his eyes, he tried his best to act as if nothing was going on––as if my eyes weren’t glistening and my cheeks stained. I didn’t think he understood how grateful I was. “You thought you’d get to fake date me without the awkward meet-the-family Thanksgiving dinner? Where’s the fun in that?”

Oh.

Oh no.

“I don’t—” I cut myself off. “We shouldn’t—”

“I’ve gotten clear instructions, Pressley,” he said firmly, heading for my closet and finding a duffel bag on the top shelf. “And even I hadn’t: I’m not leaving you. You owe me, remember?”

Clear instructions?

He turned around, holding the bag out to me. “I’m calling in your debt. You’re coming with me.”

I was officially lost. Maybe that’s why I took it from him.

Thirty minutes later—during which I’d packed (threw a random array of clothes into my bag), showered, and got dressed—we were sitting in McCarthy’s black Jeep, four-hundred miles between us and Washington D. C. A good mix of road trip appropriate songs played through the car’s speakers, and I was, surprisingly, just glad to be somewhere that wasn’t my deserted apartment.

I’d noticed the Polaroid picture on his dashboard the second I’d gotten into my seat. He wasn’t even in the car when I recognized my wide smile and his wet hair, his eyes on me. Despite my dumb grin, I didn’t mention it.

“Hey, uh—” I cut myself off with a huff, head cocking in McCarthy’s direction to find his eyes steadily on the road, only glancing my way to show he’d heard me. “Thank you,” I breathed out. Again.

Why is this man giving me so many damn reasons to be genuinely grateful?

“For all this.” As I gestured around the car halfheartedly, my eyes didn’t waver from his frame in the driver’s seat.

He shrugged, unable to hide the smile that was beginning to tease the corners of his mouth. “Now, if someone would’ve told me a month ago that this—” He gave me an incredulous look. “Was really happening, I would’ve convinced them it could only be part of my elaborate plan to dump you in the middle of nowhere to see how you’d cope.” The laugh that rang through his car overshadowed the low music coming from the speakers, and an involuntarily smile spread across my face.

“Well.” An amused snort accompanied the word. “I would’ve told them the only way I’d be in here is unconscious. Now look at me, fully awake and in control of all my actions.” Almost all of them. If I could just get my lips back into a straight line.

McCarthy snickered in amusement, eyes flickering toward me again. He was quiet only for a beat, then: “Hungry?”

Usually, I was too preoccupied crying, sleeping, or moping to make eating a priority this time of the year. And McCarthy had ambushed me before I’d even made it out of bed today. The reminder made my stomach rumble, and it was answer enough. He pulled off the interstate, into the first fast food place he spotted. “You still owe me, remember?” The car slowed as he pulled into a parking spot.

I did remember. His first text pretending to be a spam number, then inviting himself to be taken out by me. Once again, I wondered why those trivial details had stuck with me.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I pretended, though already searched for my wallet in The Tote Bag by my feet.

He stopped me in my endeavor quickly. His hand curled around mine, slowly guiding it out of the bag, snatching my wallet from it and throwing it onto the backseat.

“Seems you’ve forgotten your wallet at home,” he gasped in surprise, like he hadn’t just taken it from me. “Shame.” A grin grew on his lips. “My treat. What do you want?”

I shook my head in amusement. “Surprise me.”

When he came back through the swing doors, he held two bags in one hand and drinks in the other, gesturing wildly for me to open the driver’s door. With a huff, McCarthy fell into the vehicle. “Never let me make food choices for you again.” He complained, dropping the larger of the two bags in my lap. “I feel like I bought the entire menu.”

“I can see that.” I grinned, already rummaging through the bag. When my eyes flew to him, half humorous, half disbelieving, he popped a single fry into his mouth with a satisfied smile on his face.

“I got you a hot chocolate.” He nodded toward one of the cups in the holder. “And thought we could share the strawberry smoothie. Do you like strawberries?” The furrow in his brow as his face contorted into one of light concern (in case I didn’t like strawberries) and interest (hoping that I did like them), finally made my smile burst.

“Yes.” My cheeks hurt and my nose crinkled. “I do like strawberries.”

A puff of air escaped his mouth, the smile on his lips returning in grateful relief. “Good.” He nodded, eyes shifting. “Very good.”

Falling back into the seat with a handful of fries in my mouth, I sighed contently. Despite it, I was getting sick and tired of thanking him over, and over, and over again for doing unexpectedly nice things for me over, and over, and over again.

“Thank you” slipped past my lips anyway.

Putting the car in reverse, he placed his arm on the back of his seat to get a glance over his shoulder. His gaze passed over me to the rear window before bouncing back onto me as if he couldn’t help himself. Then, he winked, and I knew I was in trouble the second I didn’t cringe at the gesture. My stomach gave a nervous flutter instead.

I was moving into fairly dangerous territory, and nothing could stop it.

His eyes lifted back onto the road when I cleared my throat. “And stop being so nice to me,” I added as an afterthought. He glanced at me with a self-satisfied grin, and it only grew when I took another sip of the smoothie.

“Why?” he asked, mouth full.

“Because my gratitude is getting to your head, McCarthy.”

He snickered in amusement, the sound paired with another side glance as he shook his head. “And I know where my being nice is getting you.” His gaze raked up and down my seated frame. The three seconds he took the longest he’d allow his eyes to be off the road.

“Where?” I laughed lowly, pointedly ignoring I knew exactly which part of me it was getting to. “Your childhood bedroom?”

His head fell back into the seat with a low laugh, happy and carefree. Music was playing in the background, and he tapped his finger on the steering wheel to the beat.

“Yeah,” he laughed, amusement still lingering in the sound. “Exactly.”

CHAPTER 26

Entertaining ourselves on the long drive had turned into 5 questions, 10 seconds—an impossible game Wren had come up with, in our first week together.

I’d been drunk, coming home from my first college party, energized off the high of free booze, socializing and meeting Jason. Not at all tired, I’d found my new roommate in bed with a book in hand. She’d only given me a lazy smile when I bulldozed through the door, louder than I should have at two in the morning. On a whim, I’d challenged her to 21 Questions, to get to know her better, and Wren quickly turned it into 5 questions, 10 seconds.

Nobody answers 21 questions honestly, she’d explained. Though with five questions in ten seconds, you hardly had time to answer at all, never mind make up a lie. The stress alone made you blurt out the inevitable truth.

It was my turn to ask. “Favorite fruit?”

“Apples.”

“Least favorite girlfriend?”

“Ella in Kindergarten.”

“Favorite girlfriend?”

“You.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t.”—A lie, perhaps?

“What did you and Wren talk about?”

Another great thing about the game? After some trivial questions that would let the other’s guard down, answers just started tumbling out of them.

McCarthy’s lips parted, ready to spill out the answer just as quickly as the last few. He caught on in the last moment, and a sly grin took over his features. His eyes flicked in my direction, only for a second, head shaking in disbelief.

“That’s a low blow, Pressley. Even for you.” He wagged his finger at me in amusement, then brought it up to his mouth and pretended to lock it and throw away the key. It kind of defeated the purpose when he said, “My lips are sealed.”

I grinned. “Worth a try.” I blew a strand of my curtain bangs out of my face, leaning back into the passenger seat. “What did poor Ella do to you?”

McCarthy huffed as I reset the timer on my phone. “Even at our young age, she was a very demanding woman.”

“I’m a demanding woman.”

McCarthy snickered. “I know.” His eyes slid toward the countdown. “Ready?”

I nodded, pressed start, and he fired his first question at me. “Favorite movie?”

“Moana.”

“First celebrity crush?”

“Young Leo.”

“Favorite snack?”

“Sour Patch Kids.”

“Why do you need to get back at your brother?”

“Since our parents died—” By the time I’d cut myself off, it was already too late.

It was like we’d been ignoring the elephant in the room and it finally stepped on us.

The silence that lingered after mentioning my parents only lasted around three seconds, but I looked at McCarthy like a deer in headlights. I didn’t even notice the phone timer buzzing in my lap, until he blindly reached for it and turned it off.

I scoffed at myself, a humorless ghost of a laugh. I’ll give it that, this drive had been a good distraction from the mess my actual life was in. The life that didn’t include McCarthy, who took me on road trips, made sure I ate and was about to introduce me to his whole family over Thanksgiving.

Suddenly, dead parents, fucked-up sibling dynamics and crumbling friendships were all the more prominent. My mood plummeted and my stomach twisted with an uncertain dread.

“Is that something you want to talk about?” he asked. “Your parents?”

Until now, I didn’t think it was. Not with him, anyway. My eyes shifted, scanning the signs we passed, the trees alongside the road, as I mulled over his question—his offer.

I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to show him the part of me that wasn’t all snappy comebacks and sarcastic jokes. The one that was still broken, would probably always be—a little bit.

“I know it’s always helped me,” he added thoughtfully, his voice even and calm. “Talking about things, I mean.”

And he was right. At least according to my therapist, he was. Stephanie had always insisted that talking was the key to handling this. Burying and suppressing would only make things worse.

Clearly, Henry hadn’t listened to her.

My gaze swept over the guy behind the steering wheel. His eyes on the road, relaxed but alert. “We’ve still got a long drive ahead of us,” he said, glancing at me. “And I’d love to listen. If that’s something you want.”

I blinked at him, let out a breath. McCarthy was a good listener; I knew that much. And he had offered.

So once the floodgates opened, I told the poor boy everything. More than he probably wanted to know.

“So your parents both went to HBU?” he asked during a short pause in my rambling. I nodded. My eyes set on the passing scenery as we steadily approached civilization and left the long, winding highway behind.

“It’s where they met,” I elaborated. “My dad wrote his thesis at HBU during his semester abroad. They basically begged him to.” I scoffed at the memory, the legacy behind his name lingering. “For the soccer thing.” My head cocked in McCarthy’s direction at the mention of the sport, though his eyes were still on the road. “They knew he’d go pro the second he graduated—his parents were adamant that he needed a degree, and HBU wanted his name attached to them. Back then, their soccer team wasn’t anything special.”

“Because they didn’t have me,” McCarthy joked, and the corner of my mouth twisted up at his words, accompanying my eye roll.

“Surely,” I drawled, exaggerating the word before shifting my gaze outside once more. “I guess they didn’t have you, but once Dad agreed to his full ride semester, they had Felix Pressley. He became captain, led them to victory in his senior year and the rest is history, I guess.” The rest being: Felix Pressley becoming a soccer legend by the time he was twenty-three; playing for the British national team until Henry and I were five; then “retiring” to play in the States, where he’d been valued at 70 million dollars.

“And your mom?” His question wasn’t hesitant. Mentioning my mother so casually, I forgot I was grieving her for a second.

That was new. Unfamiliar. Kind of… nice. Of him.

I almost thanked him again, just for treating the subject like any other.

“Naomi Yung had a flourishing business, by the time she entered her junior year of college,” I said, reiterating the thousands of headlines and articles in a booming voice before dropping the humorous tone. “First one to focus on deep data instead of just big data, offering applied statistics to—” I cut myself off. McCarthy hadn’t asked for a deep dive into my mother’s life’s work. “She graduated with honors. Her bachelors and her masters. By the time she’d left university, DeepStat had acquired their largest competitor and she was a multimillionaire. Self-made.”

“Hold on,” McCarthy said. “You’re telling me your mom was a… statistician?”

I laughed, no humor in the sound. “Originally,” I agreed. I knew what he was getting at, so I pointed it out before he could. “Yet here I am,” I scoffed, defeated and burned out and realizing what had been sitting on my chest for so long. “Failing Statistics, of all things. Hating soccer.” And disappointing the only two people I didn’t want to disappoint. “They’d be disappointed if they were here to see, wouldn’t they?” I swallowed thickly, realizing how heavily the question hung in the air.

The sound of squeaking brakes interrupted what should’ve been an awkward silence. My head snapped in his direction. The seatbelt dug into my chest, holding me in place. My eyes, wide, found his.

Did we hit an animal? A person? I searched for the reason for his abrupt stop, panic taking over my body, pulse thumping through my skin.

But nothing. Just a dark intersection, entirely empty. The traffic light illuminated the inside of his car in a cool green, turning to harsh red as we sat in silence. I looked back at him, meeting his gaze in a startle as another realization hit—that this had been the first time I’d let it all out. That it happened to be McCarthy I was letting it out to.

My breath hitched painfully in my throat, a little shocked, definitely scared and the embodiment of insecure. If there was one person who shouldn’t see me in any of those states (and most definitely not in all of them at the same time), it was Dylan McCarthy Williams. Wasn’t it?

If that were true, I wondered why his jaw shifted, and his brow creased as he scanned me in the red light. His eyes flew across my face in rapid speed, concern in his tense features as the same emotion flashed through them.

I’m sorry, I meant to say. I didn’t mean to unload that on you. But the words stuck in my throat, my heart somersaulting in my chest, and it only got worse when his lips were suddenly on mine, body leant across the console meant to be separating us.

Another gasp flew out of me when our lips connected, this one surprised and low and kind of pleased. There was nothing primal or hungry in the way his lips moved against mine this time. No eagerness to go further, no impatience. Just color rising to my cheeks and stomach flutters as I realized that this was it.

That I’d never been kissed so tenderly. So sweetly. So reassuringly.

A kiss had never said so much—more than all the words, in every combination, could ever do.

And when he inched away from my lips, his forehead against mine and his breath a little heavier against the tip of my nose, I wondered if I’d ever recover from this. From him. From the little devil on my shoulder telling me: Dylan McCarthy Williams was it.

His eyes opened, hand still lingering on my cheek as his thumb rubbed feather-light circles. “If I ever hear you say something like that again—” he began, his voice so quiet, I had to concentrate on every word he said to catch it all. His head shook lightly against mine, eyes closing again. “You’re a once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman, Athalia. You get done what you want to get done, when you want to get it done. You don’t have to live on your parents’ schedule, and you don’t live in their or your brother’s shadow. You’re your own person. You know that, don’t you?”

All I knew was that I didn’t know what to say. That he’d rendered me speechless and fucking teary eyed.

I huffed against him in light amusement, forcing a similar sound out of him. “I’m sorry,” I finally got out, sounding less strangled than I felt. “I didn’t mean to unload all this on you. I should deal with my own shit before—”

“Shut up,” He created another inch of distance between us, his other hand coming up to hold my face. “I’ll deal with your shit as much as you’ll let me. I want to. Just like I want to hear everything you have to say, everything you want to tell me. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

Oh God.

I leaned in to kiss him this time.

A little sloppier, more distracted by the taste of his lips and the way he explored me, rather than the funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. His hands moved into my hair, pulling one strand behind my ear before disappearing into it completely. I couldn’t help the satisfied sigh that slipped past my lips in the tenth of a second they weren’t on his.

The sound drew a low groan out of him that only made me want him more. Closer. So much closer. The thought alone drove me further across the console, heat pooling between my legs as I pushed him back into the driver’s seat. I struggled to unbuckle my belt with one hand, when everything within me just wanted to focus on him.

Him, who teased my lower lip, biting it gently before my low moan encouraged him to do it harder. Him, whose uncontrolled breathing against my parted lips sent a shiver of need down my spine. Him, who occupied every corner of my conscious mind.

His honey-brown eyes; the dark mess atop his head, that was parted in the middle today, but usually hung messily across his forehead; the way his pink lips would curl into a smirk before eventually breaking into a grin that very rarely revealed his dimple.

A loud honk stopped me in my pursuit of his lap.

My eyes opened, breath hitching in my throat as we shot apart. The interior of his car was no longer glowing red, was instead illuminated by the deep green of the traffic light and the headlights of the car behind us.

McCarthy cleared his throat, startled as he struggled to clear his mind enough to shift into first gear. He quickly found his footing again, holding up an apologetic hand to the driver behind us as he got the Jeep rolling with a small squeak of wheels against tarmac.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, glancing my way as he rolled through the residential streets. He seemed familiar with his surroundings now, more comfortable taking his eyes off the road for a second longer to look at me. The teasing tone in his voice told me he was rather pleased about it.

In a lapse of all judgement, I confessed, “I really want you.” I almost sounded desperate, the way my voice broke toward the end of the sentence, and I was shocked to discover I wasn’t embarrassed by it at all.

“What?” If only for a second, his flustered state was obvious. It almost made me smile.

In my hazy mind, he was around every corner. I was distracted. Really, truly distracted for the first time around Thanksgiving. Surprisingly, it felt better to think about Dylan McCarthy Williams than my dead parents. So, I leaned into the feeling of it.

“I really, really want you,” I repeated, sounding more casual about it now. I enjoyed the way he gulped, the way his eyes slid back to the road in a hurry, and the way he couldn’t help flicking them across my frame again, a second later.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, shaking his head before it fell against the seat. “You can’t say shit like that when I’m about to pull into my family’s driveway, Athalia.” As if on cue, he did.

It’s hard to believe we’d been on the road for over six hours when he signaled left, then rolled up to a gate with a family crest at its center. It opened automatically before we’d even come to a halt, allowing McCarthy to drive up the gentle incline.

He stopped in front of four garage doors, embedded into a small hill on which the mansion stood, accessible via a prom-worthy staircase. Something I was envious of and the reason I’d always preferred our summer house in the Hamptons to the New York penthouse we’d grown up in.

The other car standing in front of the closed garage door was a white BMW, specks of dirt sprinkled across its sides and bumper. I wondered which one of his sisters it belonged to.

Were they all here? What about his father? McCarthy hadn’t really mentioned him. He hadn’t mentioned much about this weekend at all, actually. And I should’ve probably used the last five minutes of this drive to find out what I was getting into, instead of telling McCarthy how much I wanted to have sex with him. Jesus.

I had no other choice but to ignore his last words, because the second he turned off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt, a young girl shot down the stoned staircase and toward the black Jeep. Delilah.

Any plan to brief me on his family—black-listed topics, names I shouldn’t mention, things I should prepare for—flew out the window. As soon as the man beside me noticed his little sister, his door swung open, and the girl was in his arms no more than five seconds later. I couldn’t help the smile on my lips when I watched him with all his six foot something, looking up at the twelve-year-old as he crouched in front of her.

I slid into my coat as soon as the late November air hit me, then closed the door behind me hesitantly. The sound awarded me their attention, their smiles so hauntingly similar, there was no doubt about their shared genes.

“Hey,” I greeted, waving at the girl a little awkwardly as I approached them, nerves suddenly flooding my system. I’d never banked so much on the opinion of a twelve-year-old. God, I hope she liked me, though. I hope they all would.

“Hello.” She smiled brightly, coming up to me in big, confident strides. Her skin was a little darker than her brother’s, her hair curlier and bouncing with the few steps she took to get to me. Without hesitation, she held her hand out for me to shake, and gave a smile so bright, every ounce of doubt and worry about this long weekend disappeared. “I’m Delilah, so glad to finally meet you.”

What McCarthy lacked in politeness and manners, this girl seemed to bring to the table. She gave me a little nod as I shook her hand, and before anyone else had the chance to say something, another unfamiliar voice boomed over the driveway.

“Dylan McCarthy Williams!” An older woman—her hair a pale blonde—roared as she appeared at the top of the stairs to her house, pointing an accusatory finger at her son. She held a pair of oven mitts in one hand, and shook her head at the two empty paper bags he was carrying. “You better not have stopped for fast food when I’ve saved you both a plate of lasagna.”

His grin deepened as he jogged up the stairs, probably even more so when he threw his arms around the woman at least seven inches shorter than him. He gasped. “How could you accuse me of something so cruel, Ma?” He laughed into the embrace, sneakily handing the bags off to another girl, who’d appeared behind them.

Her dark hair was sleek, some freckles covering her tan skin across the nose. Comfortable-looking bunny slippers decorated her feet and a fluffy robe covered her tank top and shorts. “For me?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice at the prospect.

McCarthy nodded, still in his mother’s arms and not seeming like he was planning to move. “Just for you, Dakota. ’Cause you’re my favorite.” Behind him, Delilah gasped in outrage, while Dakota’s smile grew, hastily opening one of the empty bags, the smell of our food probably still lingering inside.

McCarthy burst into a loud, carefree laugh when she threw it at his head, exasperation in her groan. While his sister began complaining, various insults coming from her lips and accusatory fingers being pointed, his mother’s attention slid to me. I only noticed because I’d still been looking at him. This entire time. Had I been staring? I tried to smile at her as casually as I could.

She shook her head in amused disbelief, sending me a goodhearted eye roll at her son’s behavior, only to whip him across the back of his head with the oven mitts a second later. My smile turned genuine. He deserved it. Probably.

“So you beg me to let you bring a girl to Thanksgiving, then skip the introductions?” she said. Her eyes shifting off me, she brought some distance between herself and her son.

“Not a girl, Mom,” Dakota snickered, wild amusement in her tone. “The girl.”

Natalie shook her head again. “I cannot believe I raised you.” Her tone playful in its accusation.

McCarthy’s attention slipped away from his sister at once—not without throwing a silencing glare her way—but amusement and joy still glimmered in his eyes when they landed on me.

I ignored the word begged pointedly. I didn’t even let myself think of it.

“Nothing’s being skipped,” he said quickly, then shot another look at his mother. “And no one was begging. If I remember correctly, you jumped at the opportunity—”

“Because you’ve been talking about her for—!”

“Dakota!” His voice was harsher when he shushed his sister. She leaned against the door frame, watching the situation with obvious amusement. His outburst only made her shrug, eyes moving to me with a wink before she headed back inside.

Clearing his throat, McCarthy overcame the few steps between us. “Sorry about them,” he muttered into my hair, the sound traveling into the pit of my stomach where it awoke… something. His hand found the small of my back, then gently nudged me inside the house.

“I heard that, young man!” his mom noted from behind us in a sing-song voice, and I couldn’t help the muted snort that escaped me. My head quickly shook, craning upward to find him already looking at me.

The tip of his nose was tinted a deep red from the cold, cheeks a little lighter in their color. He was smiling—at me, with me, all of the above: I didn’t know. He just smiled, content and carefree and happy, before he properly introduced me to his mother.

“You should’ve gotten rid of that Jeep a long time ago, Dylan.” Mr. Williams was the spitting image of his son, just that his hair was grey, his skin a little wrinkled and darker. They resembled each other right up to the unamused, lazy tone in their voices.

“Thanks for the input.” McCarthy’s attention shifted away from the lasagna on his plate, though he didn’t turn to look at his father, who was sitting on the couch behind him with a newspaper in hand that he wasn’t looking up from, either. The similarities in their manners were almost comical. Then, McCarthy’s lips turned up into a wide, faked grin, eyes on me as they rolled. “I’ll consider it.”

His father sighed, head shaking. “You won’t,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if they’d had this conversation a thousand times before. “At least park it in the garage, so we don’t have to look at the godawful thing whenever we leave the house.”

As if to sweep the tension out of the air, their older-looking golden retriever rushed into the room. I’d fallen in love with Rose in about two seconds, in which she’d only just managed to jump up my leg. Now, she scurried around the dining table in search of any food that might have fallen off our plates. The way she looked up at me with her big brown eyes, I would’ve sacrificed my entire meal.

McCarthy had made sure I wouldn’t get the chance to excuse myself and hide in his room to mope some more. Not in a cruel, forceful way— but less than an hour at his place, I was so involved in conversations, and too interested in listening to them, that I forgot I should be grieving. I’d learned and understood more about McCarthy in that hour, than I had in the entirety of our arrangement.

“This,” I pointed to the rest of the lasagna on my plate. “Is delicious, Natalie.”

She hummed in contentment, pleased by my words as her eyes slid to McCarthy beside me. “I’m sure you would’ve enjoyed it more if this guy hadn’t stopped by some awful fast food place earlier,” she said pointedly, her eyes rolling again, before she sent me a warm smile. “I’m glad you like it, Athalia.”

McCarthy’s head snapped in his mother’s direction at her accusation—a gasp escaping his lips as he shook it, dark hair bouncing with the movement. But he decided against arguing when he found her attention on me.

“It’s really good, Mom,” he agreed instead, nodding grandly and trying to keep her eyes off his fork, currently digging into the rest of my meal. He didn’t succeed, of course.

But Natalie just shook her head once more, hands in the air as if she was giving up before she stood. “Good luck,” she sighed in a weirdly endearing way.

“So,” Dakota popped into the chair her mother had been in two seconds before. “When are we doing baby photos?” Her question caught me off-guard, though I wasn’t about to complain about embarrassing childhood pictures of McCarthy. Think of all the stories, all the compromising information I was about to get out of this weekend.

“As soon as we can, please.”

Dakota seemed pleased by my quick and eager reply. McCarthy shot me a look of betrayal, mouth slightly parted before probably figuring he shouldn’t have expected anything else.

“We’re never—” he was cut off by Denise, his Europe-travelling older sister.

“Did someone say baby photos?” She stood behind Dakota’s chair, her hands placed on the backrest, excitement lingering in her voice. Her curly hair was in a bun atop her head. “I’m pretty sure Diana still has that video from Aunt Kiki’s wedding—” She turned her head toward the living room, the words sounding more like a question as she directed them at their oldest sister, Diana.

“I do!” It came from the couch not a second later, and Denise was halfway to her sister by the time she’d finished that sentence.

“His first drop of alcohol,” Dakota filled me in quickly.

“When I was fifteen,” McCarthy added for context. His head landed on the table in playful annoyance. “No baby photos,” he groaned before coming up for air. “No dancing videos, either.”

“Dancing videos?” Consider me officially intrigued.

Neither of his sisters took him seriously, only nodding in pretend-understanding before shaking their heads as soon as they looked back at me. My lips curled at the scene, feeling the guy beside me give up.

One last attempt when he said, “I mean it.”

“Sure you do,” Dakota agreed, sporting a fake smile too wide to be natural.

McCarthy glared at his sisters, then pushed away from the dining table. The way his chair scraped across the floor was loud enough for Mr. Williams to shout, “The floors, Dylan! Jesus,” from the adjacent living room.

“It’s getting exceptionally late, everyone,” McCarthy announced loudly. The clock only showed half past ten. Dakota’s brow rose at his statement like she knew that too.

I only just managed to accompany my awkward wave with a “goodnight”, before I half-followed and he half-dragged me out of the room and up the stairs.

CHAPTER 27

I felt like an art critic in a gallery when I looked around his room.

Dark wooden floors, windows cut low enough to almost reach it. Scattered on the windowsill were a few books, a single plant. Eyes wandering into the left corner, they fell on the most noticeable feature of the room—apart from the king-sized bed positioned with its headrest, against the center of the wall: the black grand piano in front of the second window of the room, carefully maintained with not a speck of dust on the dark surface. The leather bench in front of it was placed thoughtfully, making sure you had a spectacular view of the backyard when you weren’t looking at the ivory keys.

“What?” he asked behind me, amused by my critic-act.

I hummed, and accompanying the sound with a thoughtful nod, I stepped into the center of the room with my hands crossed behind my back.

“What?” It came again, voice much closer than it was before.

I knew if I turned, I’d be staring right at him—his chest—with only a few inches separating us. It was tempting, which was why I continued staring at the few books on the shelf against the wall. “Are you not pleased with your chambers, princess?” he asked mockingly. The amused breath he exhaled tickled my neck.

“My chambers?” I finally turned to find him just as close as I’d expected. My nose would brush his, if he weren’t so much taller. Looking up, my eyes narrowed as the question hung in the air between us.

“Well.” His head cocked sideways as he shrugged. “Yours for the time being.”

My gaze fell on the king-sized bed, contemplating for a fraction of a second that, theoretically, we’d both fit.

“No—” I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I can sleep in the guest room, or the couch—the floor is fine, too. Really.”

“Suddenly so humble. What happened, Pressley?” His lips broke into a smirk, a casual hand brushing a strand of brown behind my ear, before his finger hooked underneath my chin to connect our eyes.

Although I rolled mine at the statement, I answered honestly. “I don’t want to take more from you. You’re already doing all this—” I gestured around his room to emphasize. “And sacrificing time with your family. I really don’t want to intrude any more than I already am.” I wish I could turn away from his burning gaze; humility had never been my strong suit, admitting it even less. But his hand on my cheek wouldn’t let me, even if I’d tried.

“Athalia.” He dragged my name out playfully, sounding whiny. “I’m not sacrificing anything. You’re not intruding.” He snickered. “You’re not taking from me— I’m giving you the things I want to give you. Willingly.” He cracked a smile when he emphasized, “Willingly. Because I want to.”

Fuck. I’m in so much trouble. “And where will you sleep?”

“This is a big house,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

“I can sleep in the guest room.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His head fell back in light amusement before his eyes found mine again, still only inches away. “It’s a shame I’m, like, ten inches taller, seventy pounds heavier.” I was about to disagree strongly with the ten inches, because it was more like six or seven, when he went on. “Which means you don’t stand a chance—”

A surprised squeal ripped out of me. Dylan McCarthy Williams had thrown me across his shoulder. “McCarthy!” I gasped before a loud laugh followed. His hands held me steadily by my waist and thigh, fingers digging into the skin at the sound.

Before I really knew what hit me, he maneuvered me onto his bed, laughing and squealing and playfully hitting him on my way down. My fingers clung to the neckline of his pine-green sweater, dragging him with me.

McCarthy laughed, surprised, bracing his hands to either side of my head to keep from crushing me underneath him.

His chest rose unsteadily above mine as my laughter slowed. The corners of my lips lowered as our situation dawned on me—his body on mine, the wide smile I’d caused, and his twinkling eyes, that hadn’t wavered from mine once.

And I just kissed him. Because I didn’t know what else to do, and this—laughing and enjoying each other’s company, my fluttering stomach—was more intimate than any physical touch could be. I wasn’t used to it, wasn’t sure if I wanted to be. However, kissing him, his lips on mine, bodies flush, had become familiar.

Somewhere between fake kisses and statistic books, he had become familiar.

I enjoyed the way his breath hitched, and the low groan that immediately flew against my lips as they connected. I liked the way my body fit his, how we moved against each other so effortlessly. I loved what my touch did to him. And I loved what his did to me.

“I’m going to hate myself for this,” he groaned against me, putting an inch of distance between us. The sound that escaped me was pathetic. “But I need to go—”

“Where?” My lips trailed along his neck, placing gentle, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, feeling his pulse beating against me.

“The guest room,” he reminded me, sounding strangled. I emerged from the crook of his neck to look at him, amusement glinting in my eyes.

“You can stay here.” The suggestion felt natural. “With me.”

McCarthy snorted as he shook his head. “No,” he huffed. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Why?” His head fell back, repeating the word, as if the answer was obvious. “Because you’re here.”

“And?”

“And.” He sighed, wet his lips as his eyes found their way back to mine. “And.” The word lingered as he shrugged, looked at me with pleading eyes like it was obvious.

“And?”

“And you’re you, Athalia,” he finally said. “You’re you, and I’m me.” His lips moved to my ear, my eyes closing at the proximity of him before he spoke gently. “And I don’t have the amount of willpower it would take to keep me away from you. Because I really, really, really want you, too.”

It wasn’t lost on me that he’d added another really to my earlier statement.

His voice had dropped to a whisper, his warm breath tickling my ear with every low word he murmured. I couldn’t take any of it. The sweet, masculine scent of him engulfing me whole, the way I could feel the outline of his body hovering directly above mine, some parts touching, while the most important ones were not. The overwhelming urge to kiss him, needing him to touch me—needing to touch him.

“So have me.” My heartbeat felt louder than the words themselves. For a moment I wondered if I had said them at all. But then he groaned and tried his best to suppress the low sound. His head fell into the crook of my neck, defeated, done—muttering a “Fuck,” as he went down.

“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” he said, beginning to place kiss after kiss on my bare skin, working his way up my neck, until his eyes hovered directly above mine. “I’m trying to be a good person here, and you’re making it so fucking difficult.” His lips connected with mine again; hungry, ready. And I wished the sensation would’ve lasted longer than a few seconds. “But not tonight. I’m not sleeping with you when you’re grieving. Vulnerable.” And with that, he lifted himself up, effortlessly rolling off of his king-sized bed.

I felt my perfectly distracted state slipping further away with every step he took. By the time he reached the door, reality almost had me in its clutches again. And I wanted to scream for him to come back, wanted to shout it from every rooftop in town. Really, I did. Instead, I sat there in silence, watching him consider me carefully for another second before turning to leave.

My breath hitched, not quite sure whether his objectively sweet rejection stung more than the fact I was supposed to be grieving in the first place. Or maybe, that it was only his considerateness that had reminded me.

“Dylan?” My whisper was so quiet, I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me. I honestly wasn’t quite sure if I’d said anything at all.

My eyes stung, my throat closed up, and I couldn’t keep that sharp intake of breath to myself, either. No air made it past my lips regardless—that’s how shallow my breathing had become.

Dying, I thought. I was dying.

Another sharp intake of breath, still shallow and superficial and not delivering enough air into my lungs. And somehow, he was right there. Back at my side.

“Athalia,” I thought he said; the thrumming of my heartbeat, the sound of my strangled breathing was louder than his voice.

“I’m—” I began, though could hardly say the word without another sob, another short breath cutting me off. “I’m having—” a panic attack. I’m having a panic attack, I wanted to say. I’m having a panic attack, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here for this. I’ll be fine; all things I wanted to say. I couldn’t even open my mouth. Just sob after sob after sob, blurry vision, and lack of air.

“I know. Panic attack—I know.” His words reeled me back to the present moment, even if only a little. I wasn’t quite sure when his hands had found themselves on my shoulders, when knowing and realization had etched into his features. Compassion. “Your brother used to get them all the time,” he murmured, gently moving his fingers against me. I think he only continued talking so that I’d have something to focus on. “Before tryouts. Before our first games. It’s probably why he can’t stand me—Hey, focus on my voice, Athalia. You can hear me, you can see me. Right?”

I nodded again, the gesture followed by another sob, that was cut off by yet another strangled attempt for air. I couldn’t focus on what he’d said—that Henry apparently struggled with the same thing, and that McCarthy must’ve been there to get him through them, like he was there for me now. Henry hated him because he’d seen him vulnerable, not because of whatever mundane reasons he’d given me.

I couldn’t focus on that when I couldn’t even focus on my breathing. “I—”

But he shook his head quickly, worry making its presence obvious. Brows knitting together, lips in a tight frown.

“No need to explain,” he said quickly. “Deep breath,” he instructed. “Just one.” He did it first, exhaling loudly and slowly in a way I wish I could. But I tried my best—a wavering, shaky attempt he seemed to appreciate nonetheless.

“Another one.” He nodded, did it again. “Focus on me—although I know you hate doing that.” The teasing undertone in his words, the familiarity of it, made something in me loosen. I tried to take another breath—less shaky. And another one—less strangling. Until the floodgates opened, and air filled my lungs. My breathing became quicker––a little too fast to be steady.

“Better?” he asked, and when I nodded, although just faintly, he wrapped himself around me like my favorite blanket. Like he’d never let go.

My chest still rose and fell unevenly, breathing still rapid, cheeks still wet. But my face was buried in his neck, my arms slung around his torso, and somehow, I felt okay. Not good, but okay. Bearable.

“I’m sorry,” I finally managed, lifting my head, and loosening my grip to look at him. He pulled me back, held me tighter. He did not allow even a slither of distance between us.

“Don’t say that.” And the intensity in his voice, the way he pleaded, took me by surprise “Please don’t say that.”

I blinked at him when he finally let me look at him, not quite sure what to say, now that my rambled I’m-sorry-you-had-to-see-that monologue was out of the question. His hand lifted slowly, gently wiping a fresh tear from my cheek as if it would make a difference—as if my entire face wasn’t red and puffy.

“I forgot,” I said, as if the realization had just occurred again. “I forgot they died. I forgot—and when you left, when you said all that, I remembered, and it—God.” I huffed, lowering my head as I shook it. “How could I forget my parents like that? Now, of all times?” When Thanksgiving was just around the corner.

McCarthy considered me for a second before he shook his head, and his hand found mine to squeeze it. “You’re allowed not to be miserable, Athalia. Even today. That doesn’t mean you forget about them—that doesn’t mean you ever will.”

My breath shuddered in my chest.

“But please allow yourself to feel joy. You deserve that. And they wouldn’t fault you for it.”

CHAPTER 28

It was past eleven when I woke the next day, tempted to stay in bed, forget that yesterday’s breakdown happened—forget that McCarthy had been there to see—and fall right back asleep, until this cursed day would pass.

But only for a second.

Maybe I didn’t want to be rude, after how kind and welcoming McCarthy’s family had been yesterday. Maybe I didn’t want to seem like a spoiled brat who took it all for granted. Waking up this late probably made me seem like one, regardless. Either way, my decision had absolutely nothing to do with Dylan McCarthy Williams, how I wanted to see him again or that I wanted to show him I was fine after last night.

No. Nothing at all.

Instead of the usual baggy-T-shirt-sweatpants combination I had dubbed my Thanksgiving attire, I put effort into how I looked today: first time that happened in seven years. A white collar peeked out from beneath my beige sweater, tucked into a brown plaid skirt, that seemed much shorter than I remembered, now that I’d be wearing it in front of McCarthy’s family.

I should’ve gotten them something—anything—to show my gratitude.

Why do I care so much about what they thought of me?

Apparently for the same reason I’d showered and done my hair, put a single wave in my curtain bangs, and let the rest of the brown layers fall down my back. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror, green eyes behind round glasses staring back at me.

Maybe I should have brought my contacts with me. Then again, my reasoning was solid. I predicted tears on Thanksgiving with the same probability as rain in London. It was why I’d opted against makeup today, too.

Downstairs, I walked in on McCarthy at the dinner table, playing Monopoly with his sisters. The pained expression on his face spoke for itself, but the few notes of cash laid out in front of him delivered the final realization. He was losing.

I’d never seen him lose anything.

It was his turn, brows drawn together slightly, concentrating enough that I could go unnoticed. “I have enough to buy this—” he thought out loud, letting the rest of us be part of his process. His finger tapped one of the two dark blue streets. “But then I’m literally left with ten dollars.” His groan rang through the room. My lips quirked as I watched.

“What can I say? Capitalism’s a bitch, little brother.” Denise hummed in amusement.

Dakota kicked his leg under the table impatiently, her eyes rolling. “Just buy the damn thing, Dylan. You’re holding up the entire game.”

“Fuck off,” he shot back halfheartedly, though he put the notes in the bank regardless, searching for the right card in the stack and placing a house on his field.

“You fuck off.”

I made my way toward the five of them, and McCarthy was no longer too occupied to notice me. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he drawled in amusement, eyes flickering back and forth between me and the board as he gestured to the chair beside him. “We’ve been up waiting for you to emerge from your coma since eight this morning. Even waited with breakfast.”

The smile on my face fell.

I wasn’t sure whether to snap at him for making them wait, or apologize to everyone for having to wait. I opted for avoiding eye contact and saying nothing as I sat down.

“Oh, come on, Dylan,” Diana snickered, hair cut short in a way that screamed ‘no-bullshit’; the same way her voice did now. “Don’t be a dick—you’ve been up for an hour, tops.” Before she even finished her sentence, my head swiveled in McCarthy’s direction, eyes twitching into a glare. His grin was wide, amusement etching into his features.

“Time is relative.” The wink that accompanied his words made me huff in disbelief. McCarthy mouthed a Sorry. Noticing my glare, an amused pout formed on his lips. “Old habits die hard,” he rasped, head tilting with the hum of his voice.

“Seems like it.” My grin was as wide as I could fake it. I spoke lowly enough not to distract his sisters, watching Delilah’s next move. By the look of it, she was in the lead, and I took the opportunity of their collective focus.

“Never took you for a risk-taker,” I noted casually, nodding at the property he’d bought as if I hadn’t just placed my hand on his thigh, and as if it weren’t trailing along the muscles underneath his grey sweats.

He tensed under my touch, jaw rigid and his eyes glued to my hand, following every single movement of it warily. He cleared his throat, glanced around the table. The grin on my face deepened, daring to inch my touch higher, higher—until he trapped my hand underneath his. It was double the size of mine, and forced me to stay in place, pressing it into his leg.

“Have some mercy on me, Athalia,” he muttered under his breath.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered sweetly, eyes batting open to meet his. When I stood up to circle behind his chair, he exhaled sharply the moment my hand fell from his leg. He wasn’t nearly as rigid once I placed them on his shoulders. “Old habits die hard,” I whispered from behind him.

His head fell back playfully as he tried his best to look at me. I raised my brows. “I’ll be helping your mom. Good luck, risk-taker.” With one last nod in the direction of the gameboard, I strolled into the kitchen.

By three o’clock I felt bad enough to ask where the nearest grocery store open on a holiday was. I really should’ve stopped for chocolate or wine or flowers on the way here. Shown some gratitude. Wasn’t that what this stupid day was about in the first place?

Nothing could stop me from getting to that store.

Nothing but my turned-off phone. Because there was no way in hell I’d turn it on today. The thought of accidentally stumbling across an article or a rogue condolence text—that was a little late for the actual date, but perfectly timed to make me spiral—was enough to tighten the knot in my stomach.

So leaving my phone off was a no-brainer.

I’d planned on quickly sneaking out the door without anyone noticing, then coming back with a nice wine or other goodies to make it seem like I had them with me all along. But with my phone temporarily out of order, googling the nearest store and using maps to get there wasn’t an option. Unfortunately, that only left me with one other: a tall, brunet boy I didn’t think I hated anymore.

“Can I use your phone?”

“For what?”

“Just need to check something real quick.” My eyes darted through the living room, taking in the way we all sat pressed together on one of the white couches, facing the TV. My voice lowered once more, and I was still following the football game on the screen, hoping that I didn’t look suspicious when I whispered, “And take it somewhere. Won’t be longer than half an hour.” Right? “I think.”

Curiosity curled the corner of his lip, the lopsided grin revealing his dimple. “You think?” he mocked. “And what is it you need to check, princess?” He bumped my shoulder with his. We were sitting close enough that he didn’t have to move much for that at all.

“Just—” I shrugged. “Something.”

“No.” He sounded way too satisfied whenever those words came out of his mouth. Today was no different.

A groan slipped past my lips, and unfortunately the sound wasn’t as low as our whispers had been. Every head in the room turned my way—including Rose’s, who had been sleeping peacefully on Denise’s lap.

Synchronized.

I saw McCarthy’s triumphant smile in my mind without having to turn.

“Dylan,” his mother whispered harshly before I could even begin to apologize. Her tone adapted that naturally ironic note that always lingered in McCarthy’s, too. “For the love of God, stop annoying your girlfriend. Please.”

My head snapped in his direction at the word, trying my best not to make the confused, prompting, please explain-look on my face too obvious to the rest of them. I was about to spiral into another one of my short-circuiting moments, seconds away from rambling that: no, I wasn’t actually his girlfriend and that, yes, he must’ve lied to you about it.

It sounded crazier when I put it like that.

“Mom,” Dakota playfully whined from the other side of the couch. I’d never been more grateful to hear someone else’s voice. Truly. She shot her mother a scolding look. “She’s not his girlfriend. I’ve told you that a million times already.”

“Well, he’s treating her like one. What am I supposed to think?” She threw her hands up in confusion. I was just glad the attention was on their bickering, and not on me anymore. The fact they were arguing about my potential relationship status with their son/brother didn’t matter. Did it?

“I told you it’s—”

“Yes, yes.” Natalie waved her off. “It’s complicated, confusing. I don’t know what’s complicated about the way he looks at—”

“All right,” McCarthy snapped, clearing his throat to steer my attention away. He hurried me up and away from the couch, Diana and Dakota immediately scooting over to sprawl across the previously occupied space. The latter was still arguing with her mother, though McCarthy pushed me out of the room before I could pick up any more of their words.

“You need to learn to use your inside voice, Pressley,” he muttered from behind me, coming to a halt in the hallway a few seconds later. “Now, what do you need my phone for?”

Turning around with a scowl on my face, it faltered when he already held the unlocked device out to me. A prompting look played in his features.

The next grocery store open on Thanksgiving was a good twenty-minute drive away. Which was how I’d ended up back in McCarthy’s Jeep, forced to accept his ride.

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know?” I huffed, grabbing a cart as we entered the store. He immediately took it from me, and I’d be an idiot to complain. “You should be spending time with your family.” I glanced up at him, startled to find his gaze steadily on me already. McCarthy’s head tilted, a single brow rising.

“Oh,” he quipped. “So you know how to drive a manual?”

He knew I didn’t. I could see it in the smirk growing on his lips, and the glint in his eyes.

“No.” I shrugged the statement off, though it earned me a hearty chuckle from him anyway. As I tried my best to ignore it, my focus shifted on the task at hand. “Is there anything else your mom still needs? For dinner?”

“Hop in,” he said, completely ignoring my original question.

At this point, I was convinced the only reason he’d come along was to make this more difficult for me. My head swiveled in his direction in annoyance, a low huff accompanying the motion when I realized he’d stopped a few steps behind me, his brows waggling with the rocking motion of the cart, nodding toward it with a cheeky smile on his lips. “Go on. Don’t be a wuss, Pressley.”

My brow furrowed. “I can’t just—” I gestured into the cart, gaze jumping back and forth between it and him, then through the store.

“Why not?” My attention was back on him. “It’s empty. And even if it wasn’t, you don’t know anybody here. They don’t know you.” The challenging undertone in his voice got me. “Now get in the cart.”

My annoyed sigh wasn’t at all genuine. Because for some reason, I wanted to get in that cart. And although uncomfortable, as soon as he began wheeling me around like his ninety-year-old wife who was unable to walk with her old age, I enjoyed it.

“All right,” I announced, turning back to meet his eyes with a childlike smile. “What can I get your parents, then?”

He hummed while considering, his eyes flicking through the store as he thought. “You know.” He nodded as if agreeing with his own idea, reassuring himself. “Mom’s always been fond of those little chocolate things.”

“Very specific, thank you.”

He rolled his eyes before they searched the aisles for the Chocolate sign. “You won’t know them.” He shook his head lightly, a teasing smile on his lips when he looked back at me. “They’re kind of—” He leaned closer with a secretive expression on his face, like he was about to share the nuclear codes with me. “Cheap.” A gasp followed his whisper, and he couldn’t help but laugh at his own joke.

“Oh no! My credit card is not designed for purchases under ten dollars.” Pretend worry filled my drawling voice, and he snorted from behind me. “Whatever will we do now?” As I turned around to face him, my head tilted with an eye roll.

“You’re annoying.” The way he said it was… kind. His voice soft and amused and like he’d never thought a bad thing about me in his life. Closing my eyes to keep my smile from tearing my face in half, I turned back around as he rolled me toward the little chocolate things his mother loved.

“So?” came his voice from behind, watching me reach for the box he had pointed out— twelve cranberry chocolates inside; very fitting for the occasion. “Do you know them?” The humor in his voice was obvious.

My eyes narrowed, turning to shoot him a glare I didn’t at all mean. “No,” I spat halfheartedly. “But I could have known them.”

“They don’t sell these at Whole Foods,” he snickered. “The chances are slim.”

“I barely shop at Whole Foods!”

“Because the next one is fifty miles away.” A laugh accompanied his words. One I couldn’t help but enjoy, no matter how hard I tried not to.

“You know me way too well, McCarthy.” I threw an obligatory glance over my shoulder as the cart was set in motion again. “How is that?”

“Reading people is one of my many talents.” I could tell that lying wasn’t one of those talents. But I let it go.

Twisting the box of chocolates in my hands absentmindedly, I asked, “What can we get your dad?”

“Nothing at all, if it’s up to me.” McCarthy tried to hide the truth behind his words with a joking tone, though in the past month it had become a lot easier to spot.

Throwing another glance over my shoulder, his hands flew up in mocked defense. “I’m just saying,” he huffed. “He’ll be there for dinner, then disappear in his office after the table has been cleared. For all I know, he hasn’t even noticed that you’re here.”

I turned in the cart completely to face him, considering the shift in his attitude. “You never mention him,” I started carefully, and McCarthy shrugged again, inspecting the aisles we passed, instead of looking at me.

“Well,” he sighed. Shrugged again. “Nothing worthy of mentioning. He’s basically as absent as yours—” He caught himself a little too late, wide eyes jumping to me in a startle at his own words.

“I’m so sorry—” It shot out of him, and he clearly felt bad enough to ramble on. “It’s just, he’s been basically absent, since he realized I’m more capable of kicking a ball than throwing one. He tries to pay for shit, I guess, but—not that that’s equal to your—You—” His head fell back. “I’m really sorry.”

Nerves played in his eyes when he looked back at me, and somehow I didn’t care much at all about what had slipped out. I liked how he spoke about my parents so casually, even if he’d mentioned what I was trying hard to forget.

“So he’d rather have you play football?” McCarthy’s brow creased as I ignored his apology, instead finding myself far more interested in the relationship between him and his father.

“Or work in a bank,” he said hesitantly, shrugging again. “Anyway.” His eyes roamed the aisles again as we approached the register. “No need to get him anything.”

“All right,” I conceded, not wanting to push it. “But how else will I get your entire family to love me?”

McCarthy considered me for a long moment, his brown eyes flickering across my seated state, hair in that messy middle part of his. He huffed, then his lip quirked up the slightest bit. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “You’re well on your way to be invited back for Christmas—and Easter, for all I can tell.”

I snorted in amusement, turning back to the front of the cart, which he was still using to push me through the store. “I really like them,” I noted. “Your family, I mean.”

“Good.” I could hear the smile on his face. “Because it’s all Athalia this, Athalia that—I wouldn’t know how to break the news if you didn’t.” The heaviness in the air was gone, and it was obvious he didn’t want to shuffle back to the topic that had been the cause of it in the first place.

I chuckled, finding the thought objectively sweet. “Just like you, then.”

Silence.

“No doubt about it.”

CHAPTER 29

Growing up in a four-person household—with usually only three of us eating, because Dad was out of town, state, or country—I was used to leftovers. Especially on Thanksgiving. Mom would give the chef the following weekend off, and we’d live exclusively off turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce for three days.

Glancing across the table (that definitely wouldn’t have any leftovers at the end of the meal), I was shocked to find it was the first time today that I’d really thought of my parents. Usually, my head would be filled with nothing but memories: of that one time Mom caved and got us fast food on Christmas Eve, or Dad winning the season and flying us out to Disney World to celebrate for an entire weekend. Those happy memories were rare––not necessarily because I’d had a terrible childhood.

More so because the bad overrode the good so quickly, it had been barely a year before all I thought about when I heard my parents’ names was the plane wreckage, the headlines announcing their deaths, and the way my aunt broke down on the phone, before having to tell us her sister had died.

Goddamn it. Hadn’t this been about distraction?

I snapped out of it with a shake of my body, tearing my eyes away from the few pieces of turkey left that I had unintentionally focused on. When my gaze flicked across the family, their conversation was still animated, which was a good sign.

I wondered if they knew about my parents—why I was here. I wondered how much they knew about anything. How much had McCarthy told them?

My head snapped in his direction at the thought, startling when I found his eyes on me already. I gasped under my breath, hand clutching my chest.

“Someone’s jumpy today.” He grinned, brows raised as he made the observation.

“Oh my God,” I muttered, letting out the breath I’d held in. “Don’t just sit there and stare at me,” I hissed in a whisper. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“By…” He thought of his next words. “Looking at you?” The grin was audible in his voice, and I didn’t have to look at him to know it was probably heavenly.

“Yes,” I snapped. “By looking at me with those big, beautiful eyes, and not saying a damn word—” My mouth shut abruptly, stopping my rambling before it could get worse.

I did just say that out loud, didn’t I?

It was a matter of seconds before he confirmed my fear. “Big and beautiful.” He hummed from beside me, clearly pleased by the slip-up. If I had been adamant about not looking at him before, imagine how pleased I was by the sight of Delilah’s mashed potatoes on the plate opposite mine.

“I was about to suggest you should lay off the wine for the night,” he drawled. “But if it’s going to be the reason for more compliments—” His voice trailed off.

I scowled, finally sending a glare his way. “It was half a glass.”

More than that had seemed too dangerous to try around strangers. Especially when I wanted them to like me. A lot. It was only after we’d moved into the living room—while watching Dakota (tipsy), debate Denise (flat-out drunk), on the significance of Taylor Swift’s entire discography—that I realized just how much.

“So your parents let her drink,” I assessed quietly, whispering the words to McCarthy as I nodded at the glass of wine in Dakota’s hand. He sat next to me; but I was fully invested in the two sisters, my attention not wavering from their argument.

“Are you kidding me?” Dakota’s eyes narrowed at her older sister. “Denise, how could you disregard ‘Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve’? Give me back my girlhood, it was mine first?” she sang, off key. “Seriously?”

I snorted, finally turning away from them when Denise sighed, “You’re sixteen, Dakota. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

McCarthy nodded when I looked at him, eyes flicking to his sisters behind me. “Only when she’s around Mom,” he agreed. “And nothing hard. Just beer, wine… that kind of stuff. Makes it much less appealing once you’re off to college, I can tell you that much,” he added with a laugh. His gaze shifted back to me, and a smile tugged in the corner of his lips.

I couldn’t look away. I don’t think I wanted to. “I love them,” I admitted, fully turning to face him. “I can’t help it.”

Another laugh. “I’m sure they love you, too.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

And I think something broken and shriveled-up inside of me was healing around them. Something that wasn’t used to big families, drama-free gatherings and arguing Taylor Swift’s top ten songs. When was the last time I’d been around something like that?

The thought should’ve been sad—I expected it to be, at least—but I smiled brightly, gut twisting and turning in the best way when McCarthy matched it. God, he was a great distraction.

Dylan McCarthy Williams could probably get my mind out of the gutter in a heartbeat, just by talking to me about the goddamn weather. Anything beyond that—his hands on me, lips on mine, bodies pressed against each other’s—would probably leave me feeling blissful for the rest of the fucking week. No matter which one it was.

The thought alone sparked something in me. A little fire that, if I wasn’t careful, would turn into an inferno so quickly, I wouldn’t even notice at first. Because as soon as I remembered the way he’d felt against me, the way he’d sounded, I couldn’t stop. I still had a contract to break. A game to win.

“Dylan.”

He straightened, as if hit by lightning, electrocuted by my voice, and the way those five letters sounded, coming from my mouth. “Hm?” he asked, blinking down at me, probably trying not to let his eyes wander to the hand I’d just placed on his thigh.

“Wine makes me sleepy,” I lied, still blinking up at him, holding eye contact.

“Does it?” His lip quirked. “Even just half a glass? Two hours ago?”

I nodded. “It’s white wine,” I explained, like that made all the difference. When I leaned in for the killing blow, my mouth right by his ear, goose bumps formed across his neck. His head turned to confirm the rest of his family was still occupied, but the movement made it so easy to brush my lips across his skin.

I placed a single kiss below his ear. He sucked in a breath. “You know where to find me,” I murmured. “If you change your mind about that contract you want to honor so badly.”

Without waiting for a reaction, I brought some distance between us to say my goodnights. It was past midnight at this point, and I was greeted with understanding hums and sleep wells, before I headed upstairs.

I couldn’t help the victorious smirk when I heard him say “Excuse me”, less than a minute later.

“Going to bed?” I asked from the top of the staircase, looking down as he climbed it. “Seems like a silly coincidence, doesn’t it?”

He jumped two stairs at a time until he stood on the step below me. I still had to look up. “Let’s call it that. A silly coincidence.”

“I’ve got another one.” I shifted closer, rested my hands against his chest. His breath faltered as my fingertips slid up his body, then behind his neck, my arms crossing.

“Oh yeah?” he rasped.

And it’s what finally made me snap.

The words brought heat to my cheeks and something deep in my stomach twisted, then uncurled in relief when I finally overcame the hair’s breadth between us. I swallowed his sigh of similar relief once his lips moved against mine, eager and curious.

“What’s the other coincidence?” he asked, between one kiss and the next, moving us away from the staircase. My back flattened against the wall behind me.

“A room down the hall, with a bed so big—” I tugged him back down to me by the collar of his shirt, top two buttons open, before I finished my sentence. Even with his lips back on mine and my legs wobbling with need, anticipation and a million other things, we’d made it to that room in what felt like a heartbeat.

We only separated once the piano bench dug into the back of my legs, and there was a moment in which I knew I’d either fall or sit. So I did the latter and stumbled onto the bench.

I swallowed thickly once my eyes lifted up… and up and up, until they connected with his.

“I’m—” He cut himself off, like the past five minutes were as much of a blur to him as they were to me, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten himself in this position, either; me, almost level with his crotch.

I blinked up at him, and I couldn’t help the hand that moved and the finger that slipped behind the waistband of his pants. Just lingering. “Did you change your mind?” I asked, embarrassingly hopeful. “About the contract? About honoring it?”

A bolt of realization flashed across his features, and he huffed, though not genuinely. My next breath got stuck in my throat when he bent down, crouching to my level.

“I want you to know this,” he said, his voice firm. “I might’ve started this little game, but I never claimed I’d win. I never said you couldn’t get me to lose, just by looking at me for a little too long. There’s nothing—” Slight hesitation etched into his words, but he overcame it by taking my face in his hands, holding me gently. “Fuck that contract,” he said. “There’s nothing I want more than touch you, to feel you again. My head between your thighs, your body underneath mine—” He exhaled a strong breath, his hand falling behind my neck, fingers disappearing into my hair. “God, to hear you moan my fucking name.” His head shook as our eyes connected, undeniable lust in his gaze that I could only mirror. “Every time I’m in my office, I can’t help but think of you. It’s taken a toll on my productivity.”

My breath caught in my throat when he trailed his other hand along my skin. Like he was carving me from marble, he followed every contour of my bones, dragging his thumb across my lips. His fingers continued down my neck, slipping under my top, touch so feather light as he circled my collar bones, the goose bumps on my skin were inevitable. “So I don’t think you understand how much I want you, Athalia.”

“You can have me,” I promised, fueled by nothing but my own need and the way his hand had dropped to my bare thigh, right below the hem of my skirt. “If I can have you, then you can have me. I want you to have me.”

His gaze dropped lower, head shaking with a rough laugh. “You have me,” he said before connecting our eyes again. “Jesus Christ, Athalia. You’ve had me. I’m at your mercy. Putty in your fucking hands—”

I didn’t let him finish his sentence.

With the first swipe of his tongue, he took every rational thought off my mind. Replacing it with the sensation of his fingers dancing up my leg, his breath against my lips and his words replayed in my head—over and over and over again.

McCarthy dropped to his knees, shuffling between my opened legs. I reveled at the contact; the way he felt between my legs and the way he groaned when the heel of my foot pushed him closer.

His hand inched up the hem of my skirt. Breathing heavily, he asked, “Can I—?” And I barely managed a nod, a broken moan, before I felt the pad of his thumb against my clit, nothing but a flimsy piece of fabric separating my skin from his.

“Fuck.” He held my eyes with his. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed those little sounds.” I was trying my best to contain them, to keep quiet the way I had in his office. But he dragged his thumb down my entrance, then pushed it underneath my panties, and I couldn’t help myself. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he hummed against my skin. “There you go, princess.”

My hands dove into his hair, following his gentle encouragement; the softness entirely contrary to the way he pushed my panties to one side. The way his fingers hovered right where I needed him most. “This all right?”

“More than,” was all I managed. “Please—” Do something, I wanted to say. But his finger pushed inside me before I could, and he realized with a stifled groan how wet I was for him.

I failed at keeping quiet once more, only hoping these walls were thick. One glance at least confirmed we’d managed to close the door in the heat of whatever got us here. McCarthy got back to his feet, keeping his fingers still, bent over my body on the piano bench. Our gazes held for one, two, three seconds, and I squirmed underneath his touch.

Anticipation thrummed beneath my skin, my stomach tightening with every moment he refused to move his fingers. I held my breath. Just when I was about to combust, when I thought the anticipation would honest to God kill me, he curled his middle and ring fingers buried inside me. And began moving.

And it almost killed me just the same.

His pace steadied, whispered encouragements and curses making it through the haze in my mind. “I love seeing you like this,” he groaned. “You look so beautiful when you’re about to come for me.”

And I was about to, wasn’t I? Five minutes in a room with Dylan McCarthy Williams and I was ready to burst at the seams for him. I refused to think about why, instead focusing on how he seemed to interpret every twitch of my body, every sound from my mouth perfectly.

His thumb stroked my clit, moving in sync with the fingers still pushing in and out of me. My head fell back, and my eyes found his. The way he looked down at me, one hand bracing on the bench, the other occupied with getting me closer to what I knew would be an amazing orgasm, pushed me over the edge. I lost all sense of up and down. The world spun and I tried to keep upright by looking for some sort of support. My arms scrambled for purchase behind me, and I remembered a little too late it would be the piano my hand grasped onto. “Dylan—”

I came in sync with the deep, rich sound of my arm pounding against the keys.

My other hand pulled McCarthy back to my lips, and he happily kissed me through the ebbing waves. My fingers twitched with the last one, hitting another random key before slipping off the instrument.

My head fell against his chest. “That was—” I was still trying to catch my breath when he agreed.

“Yeah.” He planted a kiss against the top of my head. “Are you—?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, but I didn’t think I could stand yet. I could barely lift my head to look up. Awe swam in his eyes, and I couldn’t help the way my chest tightened at the way he looked at me.

Dark hair tousled, with nothing left of the way he’d parted it in the middle this morning. His cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling almost as heavily as mine. I played with one of the closed buttons of his shirt. My eyes trailed to where he was straining against his pants. “Do you want me to—?”

McCarthy caught my hand in his. “Don’t.” He swallowed thickly. “One touch and you’re gonna make me ruin these pants.”

I laughed when I looked back up, but there wasn’t a hint of humor in his features. “I mean it.” He brought my hand to his lips, kissed each finger slowly. “Whenever I think about your hands on me, it definitely lasts longer than five seconds. Let me keep it that way.” Placing his lips on the back of my hand, his eyes lifted. “Please?”

“Okay.” I nodded, trying to ignore the blush on my cheeks, as I slowly caught my footing again. Getting up, watching as he straightened back up to his six foot two with me, I couldn’t help but say, “I don’t want to ask more of you—”

He only smiled. “Please do.”

And out of pure selfishness, simply because I wanted to see what he’d look like sleeping next to me, I asked: “Will you stay with me tonight?”

Unlike last night, he did.

CHAPTER 30

It had been worth it. Hearing his even breaths before I’d fallen asleep, and pretending not to wake when he’d brushed a strand of hair out of my face the next morning. His touch had lingered before he tiptoed out of his room when dawn was just breaking.

His casual smiles and usual jokes around the rest of his family would suggest last night never happened. The way our fingers would brush when no one else was looking showed me he hadn’t forgotten.

There’s nothing I want more than to touch you, to feel you.

My head between your thighs.

Hearing you moan my fucking name.

I certainly hadn’t forgotten. I wouldn’t for a long time, I thought.

So, yeah. I noticed how snug the white long-sleeve fit around his biceps. And how flattering his hair was with a little bit of a gel. And his perky butt when he carried our bags to his Jeep.

Sue me.

As he loaded our luggage into the back of the car, I leaned against the passenger side. The sun was out for the first time in a while today, and though it was still cold—seeing-your-breath kind of cold—the sun made it bearable. I squinted, watching the McCarthys trot out of their house one after the other, a smile on my face when Natalie was the first to embrace me.

“It was lovely meeting you, Athalia. Really.” She squeezed me tightly, and I delightedly returned the gesture. “Such a change of pace from the troublemakers I usually have around.” She gave all five of her children a playfully scolding look, and while complaints rained from their mouths, a laugh escaped mine.

“Thank you for having me,” I said softly. “It means a lot. More than you can probably imagine.” I sighed. “I’ll extend the same courtesy to you guys. Promise.” With that, she walked the few steps over to her son, while I said goodbye to the rest of his family.

Diana leaned against the car beside me with a loud sigh. She smiled against the sun, and I swear the warmth it radiated was similar. His entire family was so incredibly lucky with their genes, it wasn’t even fair.

She turned in my direction, her smile teasing when she nudged my shoulder. “So,” she dragged out, eyes shooting to her brother just once, very quickly. “I’m glad he finally had the balls to do this.”

I couldn’t help but huff in amusement, a little confused, nonetheless. “Do what?” I wondered, hoping I wasn’t missing some big, obvious thing that’d make me look stupid for not connecting the dots. But Diana just smiled, throwing her head back with a gentle laugh once more. Her short hair seemed a bit lighter in the sun.

“You know,” she muttered through a deep breath, then gestured back and forth between me and Dylan. I don’t think I knew. “This thing. With you. And him. God knows he’s been wanting to ask you o—”

“Great!” Dylan clapped his hands together, cutting his sister off and throwing an arm around her. I almost groaned out loud at his interruption. “Goodbye, Didi.” The grin on his face told me he knew exactly what he was doing. “Always a pleasure.”

Diana rolled her eyes in amusement, though she slung her arms around him anyway. Over his shoulder, she gave me a wink. “I guess that’s your sign to leave,” she snickered, a knowing brow raised.

“It is indeed.” Dylan opened the passenger door. His look was expectant when I didn’t immediately jump into the vehicle, though after a nod in its direction, I obliged his request and slipped inside. He gave everyone another hug—his mother’s was a bit longer—and then jogged around the car to get inside.

“You—” I grumbled as soon as he pulled out of the driveway, pointing an accusatory finger his way. “You always interrupt my most interesting conversations. Do you know that?”

His sheepish smile was noticeable even when he concentrated on the road. “I might.”

This time, in the safety of his car, I let that frustrated groan out. My head fell back into the seat with the sound. “So what was she about to say, then?”

“Who?”

“Your sister.”

“Which one?”

Another groan. “Diana.”

“Oh.” His eyes darted to me again, coming to a halt at a stop sign. “No idea.” He grinned broadly as he shifted into first gear and got us rolling again.

“You’re the worst.” I glared at him to add to the dramatics. “Seriously.”

He grimaced. “I’m about to make it so much worse, princess. I’m sorry.”

My brow wrinkled at the words. Unfortunately, I wasn’t worried enough to ignore the effect his supposedly teasing nickname had on me. “What?” I asked carefully.

“How does Statistics for the rest of the drive sound to you?”

My face fell at once, body deflating. “No.”

The self-satisfaction was prominent in his smile and the amount of confidence in his one-word answer. “Yes.”

“I’m just going to get some gas.” Turning right to pull into the station, Dylan took the opportunity to let his gaze wander me once before snapping back onto the road.

His head fell back with a laugh, having interpreted my miserable expression to be his fault. With a grumble, I released a long-suppressed sigh. “Meanwhile,” he drawled sweetly. Ignorantly. Destructively. “Take that time to think of the correct answer.”

“Fuck you—”

But my insult was cut off by his door closing, and there was no time to throw more at him after his kind suggestion. I groaned loudly, all alone in his car. After the sixty-minute Statistics hell I’d just been through, it was a well-earned release. Though, unfortunately, halfway through the unnecessarily long, frustration-filled sound, the passenger door swung open, and I startled so harshly, my groaned turned into a horrified squeal. A horror-movie worthy scream.

“Dylan!” His name slipped past the loud gasp, wishing I had his mother’s oven mitts to whack across his head. My hand still on my heart, I could feel it bursting out of my chest underneath.

His grin was wide, and sweet, and irresistible. All dimples, zero shame.

Forearm resting against the top of his car, he leaned down to eyelevel, then pointed a finger at me. “And do not google the answer.” My door shut again.

This time, I watched his every move until he disappeared into the gas station to pay. Though, as soon as his silhouette disappeared behind the glass doors and they slid shut behind him, I made use of his little piece of friendly advice—which was really what it had been. I hadn’t even considered googling anything. If I were being honest, I’d forgotten I owned a phone over the last few days. So, as I slipped it out of my bag, the reminder was well appreciated.

Until my missed messages began flooding in.

The dings cut themselves off—that’s how many, how fast they were coming in. And although I turned the sound off as soon as I could, the vibrations were enough of an indicator of how fucked I’d eventually be, going through them all.

Maybe I’d just get a new phone, a new number, instead.

With my stomach churning, phone still vibrating, and messages continuing to pop up in the notifications bar, I went to do what Dylan had told me not to. Unfortunately, I didn’t get quite that far.

HENRY, Wednesday, 9:22 PM

> are u home?

> could you just open the door please?

> your lights are off.

> could you just open the door?

> i’m staying over the holidays. if you need anything lmk

> please?

> Athalia?

They all came in, one after the other. I didn’t know what compelled me to click on the banner notification, but a second later I was staring at a string of grey text messages, missed call notifications and my brother’s name on top of the chat.

HENRY, Thursday, 9:09 AM

> are you okay?

> do you need me to come over?

> i will

HENRY, Thursday, 9:45 AM

> i know i fucked up but can you just open the door?

> i heard you and wren had a falling out

> and i don’t want you to be alone today

> are you okay?

> your neighbor let me in. i’m waiting in front of your door if you need me

> not that you need me for anything but

> yeah

HENRY, Thursday, 4:01 PM

> i’m getting worried.

Followed by a string of missed calls. Followed by:

HENRY, Thursday, 7:30 PM

> seriously just let me know you want space and I’ll back off

> but you’re not saying anything and i’m freaking out a little here

> athalia?

HENRY, Thursday, 11:11 PM

> i’m thankful for you, little sister

I think that message delivered the final punch that threw me out of his chat, and into my general inbox. Tears broke at the corners of my eyes, fueled by guilt, more guilt and then some.

Feeling guilty hadn’t been on my fight-with-Henry bingo card. But how could I not?

I’d just… left him. My twin brother, who’d gone through the same kind of traumatic loss, felt as awful as I did every year and just hid it better. And he wasn’t just grieving—albeit in that if-I-don’t-acknowledge-something-it-doesn’t-exist kind of way of his—but had been worried sick.

About me.

The worst thing? That, somehow, this was what I’d wanted from this whole McCarthy nonsense, right? His attention—seeing that he cared. The chat bubbles on my phone indicated that I’d gotten exactly what I wanted, and I still didn’t feel any better. Worse, probably.

Mindlessly, I scrolled through the dozens of unanswered texts from distant relatives, old acquaintances, friends. My finger stopped at Wren’s contact picture, hovering and tempted to click it. I’ve already messed with my mood anyway, hadn’t I? Fuck it.

To my surprise—and I felt kind of douche-y for expecting her to care as much as Henry had—our last normal messages smiled at me brightly. There were only two new texts underneath them.

WREN, Thursday, 10:20 AM

> if he fucks this up i’ll murder him, but can’t help thinking of u today and hope he doesn’t fuck it up (although I’d love to murder him)

> got some things to explain, talk when we’re home

She knew. The realization punched me in the gut.

We talked. No coercion needed, no harm done.

Was this what they had talked about that day? Asking him whether he’d take care of me when she couldn’t—wouldn’t?

I didn’t think I’d ever felt as loved and humiliated at the same time. Didn’t think I had ever hated and appreciated a gesture more. I didn’t even know whether I should be angry or appreciative. Scream or laugh. Or cry.

Fortunately, that decision was made for me when Dylan jogged out of the gas station with a plastic bag in hand. His glance trailed along the empty lot, only one other, rusty-looking car parked in a distant corner.

As quickly as I could, I slipped my phone back into the bag, and leaned into my seat, trying to give a genuine looking smile. I blinked the wetness out of my eyes, sniffed to get it out of my system. Distraction, distraction, distraction, I told myself. By now, I knew McCarthy was a good one.

The boy slipped into the seat beside me, slamming the door shut. “It’s freezing out there,” he complained with a shiver, throwing the bag into my lap and rubbing his hands together as if he couldn’t just turn the car—and therefore the heating—on.

“Like your soul,” I sighed, kind of mindlessly. My eyes had been closed, though they opened with an amused gleam when he gasped theatrically at my remark.

“Wow.” His hand flew up to his chest, clasping his heart as if it were aching. The playfully pained expression made me smile. “What happened in the past ten minutes that has made me the subject of your harsh criticism, Pressley?” His head shook, tongue held against the inside of his cheek to keep him from smiling.

“Seriously,” he pressed. “I’m hurt.” Another laugh rattled out of me. I think it was then, that I realized Dylan wasn’t just a great distraction when we were trying not to have sex with each other and half-failing, he was a great distraction, period. “And to think I got you Sour Patch Kids––I should probably return them while we’re still here.” He nodded at the bag in my lap, eyes wandering back to the gas station with a teasing smile he tried to suppress. He started the car anyway.

The way he made me laugh so effortlessly took me by surprise.

Because of all the things I thought might come out of this agreement: my brother’s affection, the feeling of sweet revenge. A dead body, perhaps. I didn’t expect genuine enjoyment to be one of them. Even my occasional lapse-of-judgement-attraction, or the urge to kiss him whenever his dimple showed, was less shocking than that.

“So.” My head twisted in his direction when he spoke, catching his eyes returning to the road ahead.

“So,” I mirrored, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Do you have an answer for me?”

I blinked. Did I miss something?

“For my statistical problem,” he added in explanation.

“Now I remember why I called your soul cold,” I grumbled, crossing my arms. “You’ve been torturing me for an hour, Dylan. Can’t I just enjoy the rest of our little road trip?”

“You’re enjoying our little road trip?” The question felt like a trap, so I just groaned and slumped back into my seat.

“I’m trying to.” If my eyes weren’t closed, I’d have rolled them to distract myself from the same realization I had just a few moments ago: I was enjoying this. Not just the road trip, not just the distraction, but his company. Him.

“And I’m trying to help you pass Statistics, princess.” This time, I could tell the nickname was back to being an insult. However, my stomach, and the way it fluttered, did not interpret it that way. At all. “And with your last run, you might just do. So let’s not give up now, alright?” His voice had completely dropped its amusement—instead adopted a soft, reassuring tone. Almost a murmur. The hopeful look in his eyes when they flicked my way was really all it took.

With a defeated sigh, I turned back to the road ahead. “Like I said,” I teased under my breath. “Soulless.”

He seemed to take that as a sign that I was on board, because he adjusted in his seat happily and I could feel his smile all the way over here. I didn’t even have to look at him to know it was there. To keep my head clear, I didn’t check to confirm.

“You have been getting better,” he reminded.

Another word of encouragement or praise, just another word in that silky smooth tone of his, and it would get significantly harder for me to keep my head clear. In fact, it was already filling with how much I enjoyed this, instead of the usual sarcasm and insults.

I tried to steer away from that as best as I could.

“Well, I’d hope so,” I joked. Tried to joke. I wasn’t very convinced it landed, until the corners of his mouth twitched. “You’d make an exceptionally shitty teacher otherwise.”

“Or you an exceptionally shitty student.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his observation. I couldn’t seem to stop, either. Because when his smile broke free, and when the sound of his laughter joined mine, it was like the floodgates opened and every sound from him was funnier than the last.

My belly hurt, and my cheeks ached, and this was probably the most physical activity I’d done in a while. That’s how I felt, at least: exhausted, but energized. Happy, carefree. Distracted.

I was still smiling when our laughter died out, becoming occasional huffs and heavy breathing. “Touché,” I said, eyes on him. “I guess the probability of your hypothesis is much more likely.”

And he almost looked impressed.

CHAPTER 31

Who’d have thought that after being trapped in a car with Dylan McCarthy Williams for hours on end, the part I would dread most would be arriving at our destination?

> got some things to explain, talk when we’re home

The reminder of Wren’s message made me unbuckle my seatbelt uncharacteristically slowly, slip into my coat even slower. I redid my bun twice, adjusted the glasses on top of my nose at least a dozen times.

Dylan had hopped out of the car as soon as we’d stopped in front of the brick complex, grabbing my bag from the trunk. It seemed he hadn’t even noticed my hesitancy, until he swung the duffle bag over his shoulder and saw I was still in same spot he’d left me in.

In the rearview mirror, I could see his brows furrow lightly, scanning me intently with narrow eyes. Whatever he thought the reason for this was, he must’ve been wrong. If I was being entirely honest, I didn’t even know it myself. So how could he?

“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me,” I warned as soon as he swung open the passenger door, wearing the same analytical expression when I faced him. His hands shot up in surrender, an easy smile curving his lips.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he swore with a laugh that said otherwise, playfully bowing and gesturing for me to finally get out of the Jeep. “Just trying to figure out what about my car is so inviting that you can’t seem to get out of it.” His brow rose with the inquiry. “Or is it just me you don’t want to leave behind?” he added. I made a point of ignoring it.

Getting out anyway, my head immediately tipped back to glance up at the building’s top floor. Although you couldn’t see through the windows, the soft light coming from them was enough to make my stomach turn a second time. My attention fell back to him.

“Wren’s probably home.” I tried not to sound nervous about the fact. “You can give me that.” I nodded at my bag over his shoulder. “No need to add fuel to the fire,” I muttered as an afterthought.

“Athalia,” Dylan sighed in response, moving toward the entrance of my building as if I hadn’t just said he shouldn’t. In a way, I was forced to follow, wasn’t I? So I slammed the door of his Jeep shut and hurried after him. “Don’t you remember? She and I are this tight now?” He crossed two fingers. “There is no fire to add fuel to.”

I pushed past him with a single laugh, the sound loud and completely humorless. “You can give me my bag,” I repeated as I unlocked the door. Pushing it open, I turned back with an expectant look. He walked past me.

I groaned and ran after him once more, but he’d already pushed the button for the elevator when I got to it a few seconds later. Coming to a stop beside him, both of us waiting for the doors to pop open, I shook my head lightly.

“You are by far the most annoying person I have ever come across.” His head cocked in my direction, though the hint of his grin in my periphery told me my eyes should stay on the metal doors ahead, if I wanted to stay firm in my stance. “I just want you to know that.”

“There’s, like, three pairs of shoes, four hoodies, two jeans, sweatpants, shirts, dresses, and God knows what else in here, Athalia. If you think I’m letting you carry a bag that weighs as much as you do, I’m insulted.” He actually sounded the part. A scoff accompanied the words, and my head finally turned in his direction to find a matching expression.

My mind was running overtime to check the accuracy of his list. I double-checked. Triple-checked. How—?

My thoughts were interrupted by a low laugh, and the elevator opened. I didn’t even object when he got in behind me. “I helped you pack. Remember?”

Only he didn’t. I shook my head quickly, eyes jumping to him again, just catching him press the button to the top floor. “You didn’t help me pack,” I reminded him. “You watched me pack.” And I didn’t think he had actually watched, never mind paid any attention to it. Seemingly though, he had.

He waved me off. “Same thing.” Finally, he let the bag fall from his shoulder, catching it in his hand just as we reached the top floor.

But it wasn’t the same thing. Packing and watching. Paying attention and not paying attention to the little things. It was like night and day. Did he not understand that? Or did he just try not to?

“Give Wren my regards.” His voice pulled me out of my thoughts once more, attention sliding to him, standing in the elevator doors to keep them from closing. My duffle-bag stood in the hallway, ready to be slid across the few feet to my apartment—if it was as heavy as he made it out to be.

When I shuffled past him, and he stepped back into the elevator to allow its doors to close, I suddenly felt really grateful. For everything.

For taking me in over Thanksgiving. For letting me sleep in his bed. For kissing me. For not having sex with me. For buying me my favorite snacks. For driving me home. For not insisting on coming in. For respecting my decision—my boundaries.

The doors slid shut, our eyes still connected when those two words made it out of my mouth again. Words I’d said so many times already—too many, if I wanted to believe he disliked me as much as he insisted he did.

“Thank you.” Although I only whispered them, the way I caught his lip twitching and his head beginning to tip before the doors closed between us, I knew he’d heard me.

I exhaled a long, deep breath; one that was supposed to prepare me for whatever waited behind my own front door. There were a few likely scenarios.

1. Wren could still be ignoring me.

2. Wren could be baking again.

3. Wren could… apologize.

Whatever it was, I felt I wasn’t prepared at all.

And oh, how right I was.

The door to her room was closed. I should’ve been relieved not to find the kitchen full of baking utensils, muffins, and cupcakes, but I was a little disappointed.

I didn’t know what I expected after her text. Need to talk. What did that even mean?

Perhaps instead of the apology I’d hoped for, she’d tell me she couldn’t take it anymore and move out? Oh God.

That thought kicked my anxiety through the roof; my heart started beating twice as fast, my palms began to sweat. I let my duffle bag slide to the ground. Until now, I’d been convinced this argument was just a rough patch in our ever-lasting friendship. One we’d overcome and laugh about in a few years. One she’d owe me for.

Now, though, with the seed of her moving out planted in my mind, that didn’t feel so surefire anymore.

“Athalia.”

I startled as her voice pulled me from my thoughts, jerking around to face her. I didn’t know what she saw on my face, though it made her hesitant smile fall at once.

“Are you moving out?” I couldn’t hold the question back at all. If she was, I had a right to know, as soon as she’d made that decision, right? As her roommate, as her best friend. Or something like that.

“What?” Her brow furrowed deeply as she pushed herself off the doorframe she’d been leaning against.

“You said we needed to talk,” I reminded her. “We’re not dating, otherwise I would’ve assumed you’re breaking up with me. Moving out seems like the equivalent here.” The words sounded more rational as they formed on my tongue, when in reality the thought had just popped into my head and was so scary, my overthinking made me stick with it.

She shook her head. Quickly. “What?” she said again. Perhaps it didn’t sound rational at all. “I’m not moving out—of course not.” Before I could even take a relieved breath, the confusion in her features was overtaken by something else entirely. “Do you want me to?”

“No.” I did not want Wren Inkwood to move out. That much was certain.

“Okay.” She nodded, relaxing. “Good.”

Unsure what to do or say next, my eyes shifted, roaming the apartment as if I hadn’t already been living here for over a year. My arms swung by my side. I blew light raspberries when it stayed quiet for a few seconds too long to be comfortable.

This didn’t just feel awkward to me, did it?

“So.” I cleared my throat in an attempt to fill the silence, and Wren mirrored my gesture, nodding.

“So,” she repeated, dragging it out to keep from going quiet again. “Uh—” I didn’t think I’d heard her stammer once in her life. And I didn’t know if that put me at ease or scared the shit out of me.

“I’m just going to unpack—”

“I’m sorry—”

We spoke at the same time, cutting each other off.

“Oh, yeah,” she quickly agreed, gesturing to my bag with a halfhearted gesture and a nervous laugh. “Go unpack, I—”

But there was no way. Not after she’d just blurted out those magic words. I didn’t even want to unpack. It was by far the worst thing about going on a trip.

“No, no.” I waved her off. “Go on. I’ve got time.”

Wren nodded, her short hair moving lightly. Then she sighed loudly. “How was your… trip?” The question sounded innocent enough, though I saw right through it.

“The trip you organized for me?” I wondered, hoping my suspicions were right. Although it caught her off guard, she nodded.

“Was that a mistake?” Concern riddled her tone, her features—her entire presence was nerves and anxiety at this point, and I quickly decided that I wasn’t a fan of it.

“No.” My answer was deliberately calm, cool, and collected—glad to report I was starting to find my footing again, and I was ready to hear the explanation that was clearly needed; for everything. “I had a good time.”

She nodded, seeming both pleased and disturbed by the statement. With my and McCarthy’s history, I was neither surprised, nor offended by it.

“Did he mess up?” Her next question came carefully, almost regretfully, as soon as it passed her lips.

I couldn’t suppress the amused twitch of my lip, remembering her text vividly. “So that you can kill him?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

A relieved puff of air. Disappointment—probably at the fact she wouldn’t get to beat him up. She was more sure of her words when she slumped against the sofa’s armrest, hands driving across her face in frustration.

“I’m sorry.” She groaned. “God, I’m so, so sorry. You have no idea.” As if just now realizing the weight of her actions, she groaned once more.

The next time our eyes met, the regret in hers almost tore me into pieces, too.

“I overreacted, acted like a jerk and then almost left you by yourself over Thanksgiving—” She shook her head so roughly, it cut off her words. “And all over fucking McCarthy.” She huffed, in disbelief. “It’s not even my business what you do—who you do. I guess I just didn’t expect it, you know? We hate that guy. I thought we did.” She stopped herself, eyes widening. “Or I did. I guess you never really had a reason—” Her gaze lifted from the floor, brown eyes taking me in as I leaned against the kitchen counter, playing with one of the paper takeout menus absentmindedly.

“Did you?” I asked carefully. “Have a reason?”

I’d never really questioned Wren’s dislike for the guy. How much Henry hated him primed me enough not to ask, simply accept that McCarthy was the worst person to walk the campus, and that, of course, meant Wren didn’t like him, either.

“Not really,” she admitted. “I mean, I thought I did. After talking to Henry a few months ago, the way he said McCarthy is so obviously into you. That’s all I saw whenever he happened to be in the same room. And I assumed you hated him just as much as your brother. I guess I kind of convinced myself of that, so I wouldn’t—”

Wren swallowed, hesitating, eyes shifting again. “Just because that way, I didn’t have any reason to be jealous, I guess.”

The other shoe dropped.

Just that it wasn’t a shoe, but a bomb—nuclear and deadly, and the impact destroyed everything in its vicinity.

“You like him.” The deduction made sense, did it not? It’s why she hadn’t liked my revenge plan. Why she didn’t want me to fake-date him, why she’d freaked out when she found out that we’d kissed.

And as an oblivious idiot, I hadn’t realized I was basically dating my best friend’s crush. “I had no idea,” I confessed as the realization settled in.

“Seriously?”

The tone in her voice made me dare a glance at her. Double-taking when I… found an amused smile on her lips? Her pierced brow raised. “I do not like McCarthy.” She actually shuddered at the thought. “God, no.”

“But you said you were jealous.” Why else would she be— “Oh.”

Oh.

Oh Jesus.

When I’d said she was acting like a jealous girlfriend, I didn’t mean mine. “Wait—” But she didn’t.

“Listen,” she began, her attention on something else, avoiding my gaze. “I swore to myself I wouldn’t tell you any of this until I was over this— over you. And I am,” she added. “When you said that thing, about the jealous girlfriend—” Guilt twisted my gut inside out. “It’s the first time I noticed how much this stupid crush was affecting our friendship. I didn’t want to lose you, but in order to get over this, I couldn’t just—”

She shook her head, defeat in the sound of her sigh. “I wanted to apologize an hour after I’d stormed off. But I thought… If I could just have some time. You know? A few days, maybe a week. But then it’d been weeks, Thanksgiving around the corner, and I just missed you more. I didn’t want to leave you, I swear—”

She exhaled loudly, eyes finally finding me. I wasn’t sure what she saw in my face, once she examined my reaction. I, for one, couldn’t form a coherent sentence: my mind was too much of a mess for a task so challenging.

Had it been obvious? Had I just been too focused on myself to notice my best friend developing feelings for me? How ironic that I’d accused my brother of being too selfish to notice anyone else around him, when I clearly wasn’t any better.

I still felt too confused, too dumb, too guilty, to give an acceptable answer. Like, Hey, don’t worry about it. You can’t choose that type of stuff, and I’m flattered. Or thank you for telling me. Or: Oh my God, I had no idea. I’m so sorry for being an oblivious asshole who’s been telling you all about the bad sex with her ex-boyfriend.

I felt the worst about that. Every time I’d talked to her about my love life. My ex-boyfriends. Sex.

Her voice drew me back to reality. The one in which she’d gotten over me, apparently. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. That’s what she’d said, right? “But if you would’ve come home with me, I’d have been back to square one, I think. Even with—I wasn’t sure—” she stuttered.

“With what?”

Wren swallowed, and I think she was… blushing? I wasn’t sure because I didn’t know she was capable of that. But alas, her cheeks were as red as the HBU logo.

“I met someone,” she blurted. “I think.”

“You think?”

She slid from the armrest she’d sat against and onto the couch, and I followed her lead, sat down and got comfortable for what could very well become a long conversation. One I looked forward to. But Wren waved me off, shook her head with a laugh. “Later. I’m trying to apologize right now, you nosy ass. The list is so long. First of all, I’ve been a dick for the past weeks. Maybe it makes more sense now that you… know, but that doesn’t excuse how childish it was. Moving on: Thanksgiving—”

I didn’t like the way my stomach clenched just at the mention of Thanksgiving, which was the only reason I interrupted her apology.

“You needed your space,” I said quickly, shaking my head with how much sense it made. You can’t get over someone when you lived with them, even less so when you brought them home with you over the holidays.

“I needed my space, but I still could’ve handled this whole thing so. Much. Better.” Guilt withered her features. “Instead of just up and leaving without so much as a note—” She sighed. “Fuck, this is so bad.” Her eyes jumped back to me, almost panicked. “I really am sorry. So, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Well.” I cleared my throat, giving her a gentle smile. The serious distress radiating off her made me unnecessarily nervous. “You did leave me with McCarthy, didn’t you? So that’s… certainly something.” The hint of amusement in my voice tilted her lips. Her nose twitched.

“He behaved?” she wondered, and the choice of words made a single laugh fly out of me.

I shrugged. “Too much so.”

“Good.” She hummed, then looked back at me. “I think?” Her words carried a questioning tone, and I couldn’t help but snicker in amusement.

“I’m not so sure.”

“At least,” she mused. “It seems he’s not as bad for you as I initially thought.”

The doorbell rang before I could ask more questions. So many of them. Wren hopped off the couch with the agility of a top athlete, then buzzed the downstairs entrance open, not even asking who it was.

“Expecting anyone?”

“Not unless Prem’s taking orders telepathically now. I was about to order when I saw you pull up—” She quickly cut herself off, eyes narrowing at mine. “Yes, I was watching the street from our window like a creep. Do not comment on it.”

I only managed to ask one of the questions still swirling in my head. Undoubtedly, it was the most important one. “Are we good, Wren? Seriously and honestly good?”

“If you can forgive me?”

I huffed a laugh at the absurdity of her words. If I could forgive what? Having a crush on her best friend? Taking the space she deserved to get over it? Making sure I wouldn’t be by myself over Thanksgiving? Leaving me with the one guy who’d managed to get my mind out of the gutter?

I nodded. “Of course.”

Wren smiled, relief written all over her when she opened the door. My face fell at who she revealed.

Henry’s frame filled the doorway, and his eyes found mine in a heartbeat. He didn’t wait to be asked in, pushing past Wren with an infuriating sense of purpose.

“Henry—” stuttered out of me, immediately on high alert. I stood up.

He seethed as he made his way over to me, stopping only a foot in front of me. “One day I think I might kill you, Athalia.” With the way he sounded, I wouldn’t doubt it.

The icy cold of his voice made an uneasy feeling crawl down my neck, and the matching gleam in his usually warm green eyes only made it worse.

He huffed without any amusement in the sound, shaking his head. “You’re just sitting around.” He examined me, hand casually sweeping to the sofa that I had, indeed, been sitting on a few seconds ago. “Enjoying a nice conversation with your friend. Probably waiting for takeout. Or about to order some?” His eyes scanned the room to check whether his guess was correct. I wondered how he always just knew. “While your brother thinks you’re lying in a ditch somewhere!”

I flinched when his voice turned into a roar, sounding angrier than I’d ever heard. “I’ve called the police twice now. Crying on the fucking line about how my sister’s been kidnapped.” His head fell back in another display of faked amusement. He shook it. “And here you are.” Henry’s eyes snapped back to mine. The ache in my chest doubled.

I’d felt bad reading his texts earlier, but this was something else entirely.

A different kind of vulnerability in his words, his voice. The way he looked at me, as if there had never been any kind of malice between us until I’d decided to take off without telling him—as if he hadn’t been ignoring me for the past seven years, and this was the first time he seemed to care at all.

He didn’t let me say that. Just kept ranting and rambling and getting as much off his chest in these few minutes, as he’d shared with me since their deaths.

“Getting out of McCarthy’s fucking car, of all things.”

I wondered if he’d just so happened to be looking out of his window across the street. Or if he’d been watching my building, hoping I’d come back. And I wondered just how much worse that made the situation for him—me getting out of Dylan’s car.

My chest rose and fell heavily; I was unsure what to do, what to say. I just stood there, dumbfounded and guilt ridden.

“And you’re fine.” Again, he gestured to me, faked joy in his voice before his head snapped to Wren. “She’s fine.” He nodded in my direction when he looked at her, as if he had to confirm it to himself, rather than Wren.

“You could’ve texted Wren to check on me.” I think I short-circuited again when those words shot out of my mouth. I wouldn’t otherwise be dumb enough to accuse him of not doing enough, when I was clearly in the wrong here. Somehow, at least. But the way Wren looked at him—like she was about to physically fight the guy, despite their glaring height difference—I was sure I’d wake up to a kitchen full of cakes and muffins, and I’d rather not have them argue right here, right now. I had enough to sort out with my brother as it was.

Henry’s attention landed on me again in a heartbeat. His brows rose. “You don’t think I did?” At this point, he sounded fucking defeated. And I think hearing that hurt more than any word he’d said today.

Because Henry Parker Pressley didn’t give up—his ego wouldn’t let him. He didn’t get defeated, and he most certainly didn’t cry on phones to anyone. And the realization that I’d been the cause of both… stung. Terribly. Trying to shove those thoughts to the furthest corner of my mind, my eyes fell on Wren again. If he’d texted her, why wouldn’t she just tell him where I was?

She shrugged nonchalantly, eyes pointedly on me. “If you’re angry with him, so am I. Doesn’t matter if we’re fighting or not.”

Henry groaned, shaking his head as it fell back again.

“This whole thing has taken twenty years off my life,” he muttered in a sharp tone, hand washing over his face before he looked at me again. He hesitated for a moment, his nose twitching at what he saw.

When he moved, I half expected him to hit me in the face, maybe even tackle me. I did not expect an embrace, his arms around my body. He was squeezing harder than he should. I let him because otherwise I’d probably still get that blow to my face afterward. “Please don’t ever do that again,” he muttered, all anger blown out of his voice; the only thing still lingering desperation.

The same desperation that made him cling to the hug like a toddler. “Please.” His breath came unevenly. I felt his chest rise and fall rapidly when my head landed on it in reciprocation. And I just nodded, unable to say anything—not quite sure if I even wanted to.

It had been seven years since I’d been in my brother’s arms like that. When he wasn’t mysteriously drunk, trying to annoy me or playing around. His last serious hug had been right after we’d found out about their deaths—and right before he shut me out.

CHAPTER 32

Wren gave us the privacy needed for the inevitable. Henry’s ankle rested across his knee, bouncing as he sank further into our brown leather couch.

“I called Stephanie.”

His words caught me off guard. There were a lot of things I expected from this, but not our therapist’s name coming out of his mouth. As I watched him trace the sofa’s stitching, one leg still restless on the other, he seemed nervous enough for the both of us.

I tried my best to keep a blank expression when he looked at me from the other end of the couch. I wasn’t sure what would play on my face otherwise. Surprise about the admission? Compassion for how hard this conversation was going to be for him? Maybe I’d smile just because we were finally having it. It’d been long overdue.

So, my face said nothing. Neither did I.

And the words began tumbling out of him.

“About what happened, why I—” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes like he was trying to recite something he’d studied over and over again when his head fell back. “Why I feel the need to control your life whenever I lose some control over mine.” The words rushed out of him so quickly, I was almost tempted to make him say it again. His hand drove through his hair, and he sighed again. “I just want what’s best for you, and sometimes I forget that’s not always what’s best for me, too.”

My mouth dried, eyes shifting so I wouldn’t break at the first sign of affection from him. Rain splattered against the windows.

“Did Stephanie help you figure that one out?” I wondered, barely keeping my voice even. “You know, it shouldn’t need a professional who takes two-hundred dollars an hour to make you see that.”

His dry laugh filled the space around us. “I know,” he rasped. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lia—” His voice broke, and he didn’t even bother masking the slip up.

I’m sorry.

I repeated the words in my head, over and over again. My eyes stung.

But there was no feeling of accomplishment. I thought his apology was what I’d been aiming for. I’d wanted him to realize he fucked up. I’d wanted him to care. He seemed to be doing both now, and I didn’t feel any closer to him.

That had been the plan from the very start, right?

“Would you say something?” Desperation edged into his tone, and I swallowed thickly.

“For what?”

His expression puzzled. “What?”

“What are you sorry for, Henry?”

“Lia—” He wanted to argue, but the look on my face kept him from it. Resigned, he sighed. “For overstepping. For sending that email. I apologize for all of it. Why are you… laughing?”

“You really think I did this entire thing because you sent Shaw an email you shouldn’t have?” His brows drew together. I went on. “Was I pissed? Of course. You overstepped. Massively. Did it fuel it? Yes, probably, and you should work on that, but—” I shook my head. “This thing, dating McCarthy—it was the first time you actually seemed to care. We never talked about anything but school and grades until you stormed into my apartment with those statistic notes.” I was almost embarrassed to admit it. “And when you thought there was more between us… you cared. I’ve been wanting you to care since they died.”

He blinked at me, and I could tell he didn’t know what to say.

But I was on a roll. “I’m sorry for leaving without telling you. I never wanted to worry you like that. But you cannot blame me for wanting my brother back. Even if it means we’re fighting, at least we’re doing something. At least you thought about me—fucking talked to me.”

Seven years of suppressed feelings flooded out of me. The dam that had kept my cheeks dry, broke when my brother’s eyes started to glisten, when his teeth dug into his bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

For the second time that night, and for the second time in seven years, I found myself in Henry’s arms. They shook against my shoulders, and he squeezed me so hard, it felt like he was making up for the fact it had been that long.

“Fuck,” he breathed against the top of my head. “Fuck, Lia—”

“I felt so alone, you know? And you just kept moving further and further away. Until you were way out of reach.”

He swallowed hard, and he exhaled loudly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I never wanted you to feel alone. I just wanted to give you space. I didn’t want to keep you from making your own choices unless absolutely necessary. Like I would’ve wanted—” He cut himself off like he’d remembered something. “But I guess what I think is best for me, isn’t necessarily what you think is best for you.”

I smiled against his chest, sniffled. “I really love Stephanie.”

He brought some distance between us, hands steady on my shoulders. “Maybe she’s worth those two-hundred dollars an hour, huh?”

“Maybe she is,” I agreed. “What made you go back to her?”

“I really didn’t know what to do about you. I just wanted someone’s opinion who didn’t hate McCarthy as much as I do. And with the whole Hamptons thing—”

“What Hamptons thing?”

His gaze cut to mine. I saw the way he cursed himself for letting the word slip. When he didn’t say anything, I repeated myself. “What Hamptons thing, Henry?”

This time, he cursed out loud. “I didn’t mean to tell you.”

“We just talked about that—”

“I know, I know.” His hands shot up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you about the summer house because I didn’t want you to worry. I’ve got it under control.”

My stomach dropped. Plummeted by a thousand miles a minute. “The summer house?”

His face twisted into a grimace, probably because he noted the concern in my voice. “They were going to tear it down.”

I blinked at him.

The summer house? Our summer house? With its beautiful marble hallways and white sandstone columns? The rose garden and tiled pool in the backyard? The one where we’d spent every summer since we’d moved to New York?

I’d cried for days when our parents had sold it, eyes on a different property in the neighbourhood. Before they were able to buy that one, though—before we could make new memories there, and I could learn to love it just as much as the old one—they died.

And now someone was going to tear it down?

“What do you mean?” I asked, drawing back from him to study his expression. “You’ve got it under control. What does that mean?”

“It means I talked to Aunt Claire.” My face soured at the mention. He was back to tracing the couch’s stitching. “And it’s basically ours.”

“Ours?”

Henry shrugged. “Ours. Theirs. The Pressley residence,” he joked before his face turned serious. “It’s our family’s again. We’ve got it back.”

I didn’t remember the last time I’d heard those words. Our family.

“I didn’t want you to worry. I know how much you love that place, and with all those memories attached to it… I wasn’t sure if the sale was gonna go through until a few days ago. It’s kind of the reason I’ve been on edge recently—losing that last part of our childhood not plagued by death and grief. For a while it felt like there was nothing I could do about that.”

Which, for a control freak like Henry, must’ve been almost unbearable. “I couldn’t stomach the thought of telling you, either.” His eyes flicked up to me. “And I’m not saying any of that to make me look better.”

I was glad for the little humor in his voice, and the way his lips turned into a sheepish smile. “Although, you’ve got to admit…” He trailed off.

I slapped his arm halfheartedly. “Shut up.”

He was right, though. What would make him look better, if not this? The fact he’d bought a piece of our childhood, cared enough about our childhood to do so—or at least nudged our aunt and uncle to. I didn’t think he cared half as much about that place as I did, but alas…

It’s where Henry and I had learned how to swim, right before he’d learned how long he could dunk my head underwater before I’d drown. Where I’d purposefully kicked at least a dozen soccer balls into the bushes when he wasn’t looking. Where we’d fall asleep in Mom’s arms every night for the one week she’d taken off work during the summer, where Dad had taught Henry how to ‘rainbow flick’. I remembered that, because it was the first time I’d seen Dad laugh since his team had lost that season.

“Oh God.” The alarm in his voice caught me off-guard. “Are you crying?” Concern filled his eyes. Henry could barely handle his own emotions, I wasn’t sure what he’d plan on doing with mine. “I haven’t seen you cry in…”

“Seven years.” The realization dimmed his features at the same time I’d voiced it, and I blinked heavily to keep the few stray tears at bay.

He sighed. His chest heaved. “I really am sorry,” he repeated.

And I believed him.

CHAPTER 33

Henry’s apology came with a string of attachments I did not expect.

Firstly, another hug. Third time’s the charm, right?

I didn’t mind that as much as the thought of Dylan, and the way my chest tightened at what this whole conversation with Henry meant for us. That there was no need for an us anymore, at all. That I should end this before I’d fully fallen into that McCarthy-shaped hole in my head. My toes were already hanging over the edge.

I should be celebrating my victory: I got Henry to apologize. I wasn’t forced to date Dylan anymore, because any reason for it had just evaporated with three little words. Henry knew as much—knew it hadn’t been real, anyway.

My life could go back to normal.

It had to go back to normal.

In an agreed effort to stabilize our relationship, my brother’s first good deed was to give me Dylan’s address… very, very reluctantly.

And he’d barely been out the door before I slipped into the one pair of black boots I didn’t have to unlace to get in and out of, and the first coat I saw— neither matching the rest of my outfit. Then I shouted a goodbye into our apartment and left. I didn’t even bring an umbrella.

I rehearsed what I’d say to him on the way.

Just came by to say we can stop pretending to like each other now. Henry apologized, so we can end this whole thing prematurely and go our separate ways. Thanks for two great orgasms. Sorry I won’t get to return them! I really would’ve liked to.

“Athalia?”

My heart pounded in my chest when I stood on the porch of the house he shared with two of his teammates, Blake and Caden, fifteen minutes later. Soaked to the bones, wet hair stringy against my face, I blinked up at him. “Dylan,” I breathed.

Apparently I hadn’t rehearsed well enough. My mind was blank—a room with white walls, floors and ceilings, no windows and nothing inside. Nothing but Dylan McCarthy Williams. And the grey sweatpants hanging low on his waist, revealing the V disappearing in them and drawing my gaze to the fact he wasn’t wearing a shirt— had either already been asleep or was just about to go.

There was a definite scent of toothpaste lingering between us.

I shivered, not sure whether it was due to the sight of him or the wet clothes clinging to me like glue. My eyes snapped up to his, and it seemed to jolt him out of whatever he’d been in.

“Jesus.” He ushered me inside the house and closed the door behind us. “Did you walk here, Athalia?” He peeled me out of my wet coat, and the gesture made me realize I didn’t plan to stay long—

“Henry apologized,” I blurted.

McCarthy stilled, like he knew what it meant. Then, he hung my coat on the rack and said, “Didn’t know he had it in him.”

I dripped onto his floors. My boots left size seven prints of mud and water in his entrance, and I was pretty sure I stood in a puddle that had formed inside of them. The look he threw me over his shoulder still heated every part of my body.

I needed to end this. Now.

He shouldn’t have made me feel warm and fuzzy when I was well on my way to develop pneumonia. He couldn’t have that effect on me, where even now—when I’d gotten everything I’d wanted to get out of our arrangement, when there was no one around to trick with our relationship—I still wanted him.

“Which means we can…” But I chickened out again, trailed off.

He turned to face me fully. “Yes.” Then he went down on his knees and forced the air right out of my lungs. Dylan got to work on the laces of my left boot, taking his time when I could’ve easily wiggled out of them. “It seems that’s what it means.”

His fingers curled around my calf, and my pulse skyrocketed. Even wearing jeans, I felt his touch scorch me through the thick denim. He gently guided one foot out of my boot, that had indeed filled with enough water to see, not just feel, and then repeated the same thing with the other.

I gasped softly when his finger grazed my bare skin while untying the second.

Rising back up to his full height, he leaned out of the front door to dump the water on his porch, then set my boots below the heater behind me. The only sound, when he stood right in front of me again, was my heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

“And what about it?” he asked.

What about the apology?

There were a million things about Henry’s apology that should concern the nature of my and McCarthy’s relationship. Right?

At the very least, the fact there was no need for any kind of relationship between us at all. The fact I had gotten what I wanted, and Dylan had never wanted anything out of this in the first place. Not really.

The fact that there was no point in pretending anymore.

The fact that I was here, this close, when Henry wouldn’t have seen us in the first place.

I could’ve easily brought up all of this. I could’ve said: Look, McCarthy, you don’t have to hang out with me anymore. No more fake dating necessary! This is a good thing. Yay!

I didn’t.

“Hm?” The deep hum in his voice was all I needed to solidify a decision I’d unconsciously made, somewhere between orgasm number one and two. Somewhere between that time he’d call me ‘good girl’ and when he’d calmed me after a panic attack.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

I kissed Dylan McCarthy Williams as if I hadn’t been about to fake break up with him. And he kissed me back as if there was nothing fake about this arrangement at all—I wasn’t sure which one of us was lying. To themselves. To the other.

His lips moved against mine longingly, only reinforcing the fact I’d made the wrong decision by not ending this when I had the chance. One more step and I’d be falling off the metaphorical cliff in my head. The point of no return edged closer, with every swirl of his tongue against mine, with every satisfied huff against me.

Putting distance between us for a moment, with wide eyes taking in my face between his hands, he said: “You’re dripping.” he laughed against my lips, voice low and hushed.

“So get me out of these.”

His laughter died out, and something else entirely took over his expression. He didn’t hesitate when he pressed his lips to mine again, groaning.

“Jump,” he mumbled against me, and my legs wrapped around his waist effortlessly, his hands cupping my ass. He didn’t seem to care about my wet clothes against his bare skin, although he shivered at first contact. He moved, and a soft, muted moan escaped me when he squeezed me, his lips on my neck, sucking and kissing the sensitive parts. If he was leaving a trail of dark bruises all over me, it was nothing I worried about right now. Makeup existed for that very reason.

His brown hair fell into his face when he pulled back, eyes dark and devious. His breath was heavy against my lips. “My room’s upstairs,” he informed me, like I cared, then moved toward what I assumed to be the staircase.

I didn’t check. When my eyes weren’t closed because I was kissing him, I focused on the way his brows drew together when I rubbed against his hard length, how he stifled a moan when I trailed a finger down his bare chest.

A squeal ripped through my throat when he almost lost balance halfway up the stairs, and I slipped out of his arms for my own safety with an unapologetic laugh.

“Not a word about that,” he grumbled before I had the chance to say anything; though a sly smirk played on his lips as he whisked me up the last few carpeted steps. The long corridor we ended up in showed two doors on each side, and McCarthy’s hand slipped into mine before he dragged me into the second on the right.

I didn’t have time to look around. Vaguely made out a closet opposite his bed and a desk right by the door, before his lips were back on mine and our combined efforts shifted us toward his bed. It was made up with blue sheets, the two pillows fluffed.

A gust of air escaped my lips as my body fell against the soft mattress. My stomach twisted when he flipped on the light on his bedside table, and I saw him hover over me. “I need to see you,” Dylan reasoned, like there was no way around it.

The light was dim, barely enough to make out his sharp features: his prominent jawline, the cheekbones. His brown hair seemed almost midnight black this way.

Neither of us cared that my wet clothes soaked his sheets.

His hair flopped over his forehead, silver necklace dangling between us. His breath was heavy, eyes dark. We looked at each other for just a second too long for this to be strictly physical. Seeing him like this, looking at me like that, there was no way.

Get it together, Athalia.

Instead of backing out like I probably should have, I pulled him back down to me, body toppling over mine and our lips connecting again. Hungrier, our pace picked up.

My hands were buried in his hair, reminding me once more that 3-in-1 shampoo could never achieve how soft it felt. I pulled at it playfully, a grin on my lips, and he bit down on my lower one with a groan, coercing soft whimpers out of me.

“Hey.” He pushed away from me, breaking us apart despite all efforts. “This wasn’t my plan. This isn’t why I agreed to help you out,” he stated, searching my reaction carefully. His heavy breath still fanned my lips, making it hard to concentrate on anything other than how easy it would be to connect them with his again. “You know that, right?”

I nodded, then asked teasingly, “You want to stop, then?”

By what was pressing against the inside of my thigh, I knew he did not.

“God, no.”

My chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm underneath his, relieved at his answer. Eyes wide, cheeks red, I hummed in agreement before our lips connected once more, muffling a moan when his hands began to roam my body.

Once he went there, I quickly followed suit, began exploring. It had been all about me that time in his office, then on the piano. And it was a crime I hadn’t gotten the chance to feel any of him yet. Now, with my fingers gliding along his toned stomach, feeling every ab underneath my fingertips, I felt like I’d robbed myself of an unknown pleasure. That feeling only intensified when his breath became heavier, more audible the further down my fingers trailed.

I’d never appreciated sweatpants as much as I did when I could feel his length through them. He groaned at the friction, and the sound traveled right between my legs. His hand slipped underneath my tight long sleeved top, his touch sending goose bumps across my skin. Sneakily, as his hands travelled up and up and up, the hem of it followed. I wanted to get rid of it right then and there.

Not because it was cold and wet, only because I wanted his touch everywhere: no barriers.

Sitting up at once, my chest heaving, I pulled it over my head. Well, tried to, until my elbow hit something hard in the process. I faltered, registering a stream of curses coming from Dylan’s lips.

No, no, no.

My eyes widened; head still buried in the fabric as I scrambled to pull it over my head. Throwing it to the side carelessly, I was greeted by McCarthy rubbing his chin, trying to soothe the pain my elbow seemed to have caused.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” I hissed, feeling my cheeks grow red as I tried to see how bad it was. “Are you okay?” His head was turned away, and my hand gently cupped his cheek to make him face me. Worry filled my eyes when they met his.

Dylan huffed, shaking his head in amusement. “Even now you’ll take any and every opportunity to knock me out, huh?” he joked, eyes still locked with mine before he noticed the missing piece of clothing. He watched my chest rising and falling heavily. His gaze lingered, while I suddenly felt the need to grab a pillow and hide behind it.

I’d never been particularly self-conscious about my looks. And while a B-cup had its perks, when my boobs were being scrutinized like they were a painting in the Louvre—and by the one guy, in whom I had yet to find a physical flaw—I wouldn’t have minded a cup size bigger. Or two.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, just as I was about to break the short silence between us. “I’m definitely okay.” The encounter with my elbow seemed to be instantly forgotten.

Snickering, I shook my head in amusement. “You’re staring,” I pointed out, an eyebrow raised and a smile I couldn’t suppress on my lips.

“I guess I am.” There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment or shame in his voice before his lips crashed onto mine again. He laughed softly against them at the surprised moan that escaped me, then kissed my jaw, trailed further down my neck and chest. Skillfully, he avoided my nipples on his way down my body, teasing when his tongue only grazed one before he moved on, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses all the way down to my wet jeans.

His eyes jumped to mine, head tilting as his hand lingered over the zipper, waiting for my approval to continue. I just nodded, not sure I’d be able to form a coherent sentence in my present state.

“Use your words, princess,” he teased, placing another kiss right above my waistband, making me squirm underneath him.

“Take them off,” I told him. “Please.”

And with most of me completely exposed, I pulled him back up to me. I couldn’t help but stare at how the muscles in his arms moved when his hands trailed along my body, how they shifted underneath his skin. How his defined torso raised and fell heavily, in sync with his breathing.

“God,” I breathed out. “I hope you’re bad at this.” My confession was met with a low laugh, and it only reinforced my words. “Really, really bad.”

You came here to break up with him, I reminded myself. But that could still be done after, couldn’t it? Watching as he slid out of his sweatpants, reminded again of the bulge straining against his boxer briefs, I thought perhaps getting this out of my system would be good.

This primal, hungry need for him.

“I’ll try my best.” His eyes jumped to mine. “Just for you.”

“Will you?”

“No.” He managed to slip that in just before our lips connected again, and I found my hands enjoyed exploring his defined back enough that I didn’t care. And when that last piece of fabric came off, and he rolled the condom he’d found in his nightstand down his length, that fear was only replaced by factual knowledge.

Whatever happened next wouldn’t be bad.

He stroked himself once. Not at all.

Good sex. Just really good sex. That’s all it was. Two grown adults getting it out of their system before going their separate ways. Purely physical attraction fizzing between them. That’s all there was to it.

I don’t think I even believed it myself.

“Look at me,” he murmured, and my gaze returned to his, eyes a little wider than they were before. His fingers hooked underneath my panties, teasing down and back up my wet folds with his focus entirely on me. My breath grew heavier, lids threatening to fall shut every time he pushed between me a little more—never fully.

“Athalia.” His voice was dark and heavy, and my eyes opened fully again. “Look at me, princess,” he muttered, sounding as strangled as I felt. I tried my best to oblige, though when he slid the last piece of fabric down my legs in one skillful motion, I couldn’t help but throw my head back with a satisfied sigh.

“Hey.” I could feel him align with my entrance. “Look away and I’ll stop.”

“Is that a threat?” My eyes narrowed when I finally looked back at him, though the teasing tone in my voice was obvious enough to make his lips curl into a smirk. I moved against his cock, and I got a dark, devious sound in return.

“Absolutely it is.”

Whatever I meant to retort, I threw it out as soon as he pushed into me. My head fell back, though my eyes stayed on him. I made sure of it, just in case he’d follow through on his threat.

With every inch he added, his lids grew heavier, his breathing deeper until a low, unapologetic moan escaped his lips when he was inside me fully. I wasn’t any different, a wreck before he even moved. Just feeling him, feeling myself adjust around him, made me a withering mess underneath him.

“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut only for a second. “I know, love. I know.” A kiss to my forehead, and I shuddered at the touch.

His first thrust was hesitant, slow—as if he wanted to explore all of me and not miss a single sensation, a single sound as my lips parted into a moan. His eyes connected with mine again, an unspoken question lingering in their depths that I answered with another sound.

This was fine—more than fine.

So he moved again, a strangled breath escaping his lips, before he settled into a steady rhythm. The room filled with his groans, my moans, trying our best to suppress the sounds, and failing miserably.

“Athalia,” he muttered. “You’re a dream.” My eyes threatened to close with another moan, the knot in my stomach tightening and edging me closer to relief with every snap of his hips against me. “You don’t know how often you’ve been in mine.”

When his hand trailed across my nipples, down my stomach and between my legs, I was done for. “Fuck,” he groaned, slowing down, becoming sloppier. “You feel so good.” Every rasp of his voice, every sound he couldn’t seem to suppress, travelled right between my legs. I shuddered underneath him, clinging to him like he was my lifeline, moving my hips against his.

“I think—” I cut myself off with another moan when he reached where I needed him most, hitting that spot over, and over, and over again until I felt ready to combust.

“What is it?” he whispered, not altering his pace now that he knew I was close. “Talk to me, princess.”

Between heavy breaths I forced out, “I’m—oh God—”

He buried his face in my neck. “Sorry, just me.”

My face contorted into a laugh, and a moan, and the edge of relief. “I’m gonna—”

My orgasm flooded through me somewhat unexpectedly, twitching and pulsing underneath him enough to get him to his own with an unapologetic moan right by my ear.

Peppering my skin with kisses, we came down from our highs, and he rolled onto the other side of his bed. I shuddered with every touch, still panting.

For a moment, we were quiet. I replayed what had just happened over the sound of heaving breaths.

“Bad enough?” The amusement in his voice was masked by the way his breathing was still ragged and the euphoric lull in his tone. Both of our gazes were locked on the ceiling, and my eyes narrowed, even though I wasn’t looking at him.

“Awful.”

“Yeah?” The shuffling sound from beside me indicated he’d turned his head toward me, and I mirrored his gesture, just happy I hadn’t been first. I found a smile and messy hair: a deadly combination. Just as deadly as the fact it hadn’t been bad enough. In fact, like I had predicted, it hadn’t been bad at all.

“Just terrible.” I insisted, watching his lip twitch with a laugh he was desperately trying to hold back. “So bad, I can’t even put it into words—” My unexpected shriek cut me off. Dylan pulled me on top of his lap as he sat against his headboard, hands curling around my hips to steady me.

“Good,” he muttered, pressing a short, casual kiss to my lips. I could feel his smile against mine, and involuntarily, it coerced one out of me, too. “Never again, then?”

“Well—” This time, it was my own amused sound that cut me off, leaning toward him playfully, my hands finding themselves behind his neck. “Maybe once or twice…” I purposely trailed off, avoiding his gaze with amusement gleaming in mine.

Dylan laughed lowly, head falling against my bare chest with the sound. “Once or twice?” he confirmed, his head lifting again to raise a brow at me. I nodded with a shrug, lopsided grin so wide my cheeks would begin to hurt any minute now.

I rolled my eyes playfully as if it hadn’t been my idea in the first place. “If you insist.”

“All right.” He placed another kiss onto my lips, short and sweet. “Once or twice it is.” And another one. This one longer as he turned us to our sides, facing each other and maneuvering us into the position we’d eventually fall asleep in.

Involuntarily.

Because if this was as casual and physical-only as I had wanted it to be, I should’ve left. I should’ve broken up with him before I’d even gotten myself in this mess. There was absolutely nothing physical-only about short, casual kisses and falling asleep next to each other.

CHAPTER 34

However, there was something very physical-only about waking up in an empty bed the morning after. Nothing screamed casual like reaching for the person that’s supposed to be lying next to you, only to find their spot cold and empty.

I should have been ecstatic about it. The way my heart fell into the pit of my stomach would be temporary. Better to find out Dylan had changed his mind about me now, than after I’d replayed that thing he did with his fingers, or the way he’d muttered my name when he’d come.

Why wasn’t I ecstatic about this?

Turning with a grumble, I opened my eyes to the empty side of his bed. The covers were neatly pulled back, the imprint of his head still on the pillow. When I sighed, his scent crept into my nose too. That’s when I noticed the hot pink sticky note stuck to the headboard, and my stomach twisted.

Sticky notes didn’t say casual to me, my physical-only side complained.

Sticky notes didn’t say casual to me, my why-wasn’t-I-ecstatic-about-this side cheered.

I got up embarrassingly quickly, grabbed the pink paper, and ripped it off the headboard to read.

Had to leave for Harvard game. By the time you’re up I’ll probably be done. Text me, we can go celebrate.

In the corner, he’d drawn a rose identical to the ones he’d been terrorizing me with just weeks ago. Fuck physical-only. By the wide smile on my lips, one side had won so long ago, denial had become my trusted companion.

Although it was to no one but myself, I let that admission simmer for a moment. Took a deep breath in and out. Thought about it. Thought about him. Thought about him some more. Took a deeper breath and scrambled out of his bed, away from his smell entangled in the sheets.

I’d fallen off that cliff a while ago. My smile when I opened his chat told me that.

ME, Saturday, 11:25 AM

> how well did being cocky serve you? did you win or is this going to be a defeat-lunch?

> either way I’m down

I didn’t know why I had expected an immediate response, but when it didn’t come, I didn’t like the slight disappointment settling in my chest. I took my time getting dressed, deliberately keeping my phone out of reach. It wouldn’t hold out much longer with its ten percent battery, anyway.

My jeans were no longer on the floor, but hanging across the heater under the window, miraculously dry. But Dylan must not have had the time to search for my shirt, because when I found it half hidden under his bed, it was still wet. I cringed at the touch.

My eyes slid through McCarthy’s room and got stuck on his closet. A few minutes later, his grey HBU hoodie fell over my blue jeans, and I’d put on a pair of fuzzy socks from the back of a drawer.

I tiptoed down the corridor and staircase before I realized both of Dylan’s roommates were on the soccer team. Something swelled in my chest at the thought that he’d trusted me enough to leave me here.

Three hours later, I was back in full denial mode. Square one: Dylan McCarthy Williams was despicable. Just the worst. I never liked him, would never like him, and last night was as big a mistake as asking him to be my fake boyfriend in the first place.

He hadn’t replied to my texts, if you couldn’t tell.

I hunched over a textbook at our kitchen counter, sitting on one of the stools. Wren was on the other side, trying to decide what food to order—her eyes running over the different menus spread across the rest of the island. At least twenty of them.

My mind wasn’t where it should’ve been either. This was the fourth time I’d read the exact same sentence, and my head slumped onto the open book with a groan.

Wren’s gaze snapped in my direction, considering me for a second before breaking the tense silence. “What?” she asked, brows furrowed.

“Nothing.”

That was obviously not convincing, because a second later Wren asked again. “What is it?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

A beat of silence passed, during which she tried to figure me out. She was usually great at that, so her lighthearted answer didn’t surprise me.

“I probably will,” she agreed, and my head lifted at that, sending a glare her way. “But tell me anyway, maybe there’s wisdom behind the joke I’ll make.” In exchange for my glare, she winked at me, though permanently shifted her attention from the takeout menus onto me.

I groaned before the word “McCarthy,” slipped out in a mutter. I wasn’t surprised when her brow furrowed. I wouldn’t have understood what I’d said if I hadn’t been thinking about him (and my unanswered texts) for the past hours, either.

“What?” she confirmed that I’d spoken too quietly. Maybe it’s better that way.

I shook my head quickly before it fell back and I was looking at the ceiling, my hands fidgeting with the dish towel hanging on the side of the island. “McCarthy,” I breathed out, slower and with more conviction behind my words. “It’s McCarthy—God, this is embarrassing.” When my eyes slid to my best friend again, they narrowed.

Wren’s goofy grin was rare. The one that revealed her white teeth, made her nose crinkle and her eyes narrow, not in annoyance but with a laugh. “What?” I practically hissed, and the outburst made her snort in amusement.

“Nothing.” Her hands flew up in mocked surrender, then she changed her mind. “I’m just wondering if you even know his first name at this point.” The incredulous look on my face made her continue. “Well,” she began. “You’ve been dating for months. You’ve been hooking up, too, I assume. Do you moan his last—”

I cut her off so quickly, I would’ve stumbled over any word that wasn’t: “Wren!” Hushing and blushing; loudly, hysterically. “We have not been ‘dating for months.’” I put air quotes around the words as I recovered from my outburst.

“What do you call hanging out every day and going on actual planned dates, like, once a week, then?” She raised her eyebrows as if she knew she had won right then and there. But I wasn’t giving up that easily.

“Fake dating.” I put emphasis on the fake, my arms crossing victoriously.

“Your orgasms are fake, too, then?”

I grabbed the towel I’ve been fidgeting with to throw at her, hurling it right into her face and knocking a few takeout menus off the counter in the process.

“Stop,” I whined a second later, regretting it as soon as the word slipped past my lips. I shook my head, and a questioning look formed in my features. “Why is it so weird to talk about him like that? We’ve always done it, with all kinds of guys.” And I didn’t think it had anything to do with Wren’s past feelings for me. Even if, maybe, it should.

But, “We love talking shit about men,” I groaned. “It’s like our favorite hobby.” I pouted, slouching over the kitchen island, my head landing in my hand, and my elbow resting on top of the granite surface.

Her smile softened at that, head tilting slightly in that I’m-going-to-be-a-good-friend-now kind of way. Like when she’d pulled an all-nighter to help me study for my last final, or when she had to tell me my ex-boyfriend was cheating on me. She’d sat me down, put an arm around me, her head on my shoulder before she did. She was looking at me the way she had back then, too.

“Because you like him.” She pointed it out like it was obvious. Like I hadn’t only come to terms with the fact this morning and wished I hadn’t ever since.

“I do not like him.” I glanced at my phone. “He hasn’t even texted me back, and—” My eyes widened, and Wren gave me a knowing look. “Oh my God,” I gasped. “That was pathetic. I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

And to top it all off, as if it was an instinct I couldn’t fight off, even if I’d wanted to (which I didn’t), I jumped for my phone the second it vibrated on the counter next to me. It’d been face down, and hope fizzed in the pit of my stomach when I turned it over. It fizzled out quickly.

“LinkedIn.” I slid my phone back out of my immediate reach, letting go of a humorless laugh. Wren couldn’t help the actual laugh that bubbled out of her, and the sound made my lips twitch. Involuntarily—I still felt pathetic.

“Oh my.” She sighed, smile still on her lips as her head shook sympathetically. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” Her tone was as teasing as it was genuine, her smile as amused as it was comforting.

“I wish I had another dish towel.” I faked a grin so wide my cheeks hurt, only dropping it when she laughed, and my smile turned genuine with a roll of my eyes. But I didn’t disagree, did I? “I don’t want to have it bad.” I concluded, looking at her as if she had the power to extract my feelings, bottle them up and make them look pretty on a shelf.

“Hah.” Her head fell back with a laugh. “Been there, done that,” she joked. There was no bitterness in her voice, no malice to the words or a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but I felt guilty regardless. I grimaced with an apologetic glance.

“Look.” She cleared her throat, trying her best to steer clear of any lingering awkwardness. “I may not be McCarthy’s biggest fan,” she admitted, stepping around the island to nudge me toward the living room. I grabbed my phone from the counter, just in case. It earned me an eye roll from my best friend. “And if it turns out he has no reason to ghost you, I will personally kick his ass.” We sat, and I let myself fall into the cushions with a deep sigh. “But until then…” Wren trailed off as if it was hard enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I dropped my head onto her shoulder in defeat. “I think I hate him,” I lied.

“We can pretend you do,” Wren’s voice adapted that comforting lull that made me close my eyes and take a deep breath to relax. “What do you hate most about him?”

We’d spent so much time together, and yet all I could think of was one thing.

“That he doesn’t know how to use his phone.” I sounded like a pouty child, and I didn’t care one bit. Neither did Wren.

“For me it’s the ego,” she said in amusement. “But not knowing how to use his phone is a close second.”

“How close?”

“Very close.”

“Good.” My lips twisted into a smile, adjusting my head on her shoulder for more comfort. Right then, I was just glad to have her with me. Glad we were here together. Glad she stuck around. Glad she was my best friend.

“Fuck him, right?” I asked, sending a look in need of reassurance in Wren’s direction. I paced across the living room, my vibrating phone in one hand, the other one wildly gesturing, I concluded my short rant. “I shouldn’t answer,” I said more confidently. Immediately, that crumbled, and I sent her another look. “Right?”

My eyes darted down to the McCarthy shining brightly on my screen, the green and red call buttons equally enticing.

“Well,” Wren began. “I’d love to hear him beg for forgiveness.” One point for green. “On the other hand, he needs to know you’re not constantly available for him.” Two points for red, because it was a much more compelling argument.

My distress only grew when the phone had been ringing for long enough to know it would stop any second now. So, short-circuiting—as I did when it came to McCarthy—I picked up.

“Look who finally remembered they had a phone,” I drawled sarcastically. Wren gave me a thumbs-up.

“Athalia.”

My stomach dropped when it wasn’t Dylan on the other end. I held the phone away from my ear to read the contact name again. McCarthy written in bold, big letters, underneath the seconds of the call ticking by. Nine, ten, eleven. “Hello?”

I quickly brought it back to my ear. “Yes?” I said, unsure where the lump in my throat came from. “Who’s this?” Wren gave me a strange look as I held her gaze.

“It’s Blake—”

“Blake!” I repeated, a little too cheery to keep Wren in the loop. Her brows drew together just like mine had. Immediately, my tone dropped back to its concerned note when I remembered he wasn’t calling from his own cell. “Is this your way of asking for my number?” A fake laugh accompanied my attempt at a joke, and it fell on deaf ears.

Blake cleared his throat at the other end of the line, as if preparing for a speech in front of thousands of people. “Listen, uh—” he stammered, and I knew if we were having this conversation face to face, he’d be avoiding my gaze relentlessly. But we weren’t, and so I kept my eyes on my best friend, for some kind of comfort. “It’s Dylan,” he said.

My head spun, immediately jumping to death. Car crash, heart attack, a foul that made him break his neck. The possibilities were endless and scary, and I felt my breath pick up, my chest rising and falling faster, heavier.

“It’s Dylan,” I repeated, monotone—unsure what to say or do or feel. “What about Dylan?” My voice was surprisingly neutral, considering the wave of panic that had just crashed over me. I think the hand in the pocket of McCarthy’s hoodie was shaking. The one holding the phone was not.

Wren looked concerned, whether that was because of the cryptic pieces of conversation she was hearing, or the fact that, in reality, I wasn’t hiding my panic well at all, I didn’t know.

The entire situation felt all too familiar for comfort.

Flashbacks of Aunt Claire on the phone, eyes continuing to flicker back and forth between my brother and me as she tried to comprehend the fact her sister had just died. The fact that she was the one who had to tell her kids they’d just become orphans. She had probably felt similar to how I did now, my mind immediately jumping to the worst case scenario.

“We’re in the hospital, he’s—” Blake hesitated, and I didn’t mean to jump at that cue. The word kind of just slipped out.

“Dead.”

Wren shot in my direction so fast, I was surprised she didn’t fall over her own feet. Concern riddled her features as she leaned closer to the phone I pressed tightly against my ear.

“What?” His breath hitched. “No, no—God, no. It’s nothing like that.” My relieved exhale wasn’t subtle, though I didn’t care one bit. “He’s pretty bruised up, a couple of broken ribs, the hospital gave him… something—”

Not dead, but pretty bruised up with a couple broken ribs, in so much pain the hospital had to give him something. It didn’t sound like a reason to celebrate. “Which one?”

Blake stuttered on the other line. “Which—?” he repeated. “Which drugs?” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know, I could probably ask.” He was moving around, maybe scouring the hospital corridors for a nurse or doctor. I shook my head even though he couldn’t see it.

“Hospital.” I cut off his search, and he stilled on the other end. “Which hospital?”

“Oh.” He seemed relieved to be exempt from the task of figuring out which drugs his best friend was on. “Saint Francis Memorial—”

The line went dead because I’d killed it, already halfway through the apartment, throwing on sneakers and a coat, grabbing my car keys without much regard.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” I was mid-departure when Wren’s voice boomed through the space. She had put on shoes too, and was heading for the coatrack. Snatched the car keys out of my hand, grabbed her own, and without waiting for a reply, stepped through the door I had opened for myself. When I closed it behind me, she finally asked, “Where are we going?”

I didn’t know why, but I laughed at that. Maybe it was the nerves, the adrenalin and the worry coursing through my veins. Maybe the endless adoration I had for the girl beside me, but I laughed until we stood in the elevator, half-way to the ground floor. Then, I sighed, and it felt as though my entire face twitched back into reality. “Saint Francis Memorial.”

Although she hadn’t joined in with my laughter, she took on that serious expression and I could see the shift between the two. Where her brows drew up slightly, her eye twitched once and her lips curled in concern and worry. For me or Dylan? I didn’t know.

Her pace picked up, though she said nothing. I could tell she wanted to stop dead in her tracks right then, give me a big hug and encouraging words, but knew the last thing I wanted was to slow down. So we power-walked to her car, while she typed the address of the hospital into her maps app.

Unprompted, I recalled every word Blake had said, as soon as she started driving. Filling Wren in on the broken ribs, the bruises, and the drugs he was on (which meant he was in enough pain to need them, in the first place. Which, in turn, wasn’t good).

“But,” I said, the note lingering. “Not dead.” I tried to sound hopeful. Though, how low was the bar if not dead was supposed to be an encouraging statement?

“God,” I exhaled, my body slumping back into the seat. “I’m an asshole.” Wren’s eyes jumped from the road onto me for a second, and I took that as a sign to go on. “I was annoyed the guy wasn’t answering a stupid text when he was probably on his way to the fucking hospital.”

Realization settled, and it didn’t feel pretty. In fact, it felt awful, and I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave it again. “I’m not pathetic—just an asshole,” I figured, and Wren shook her head.

It had been similar with my parents. Henry and I had been upset about their spontaneous Thanksgiving trip idea, which hadn’t included their children. We’d been dumped with one of the few sitters we’d rotate through, sitting in the living room overlooking New York City.

“I hope it rains,” Henry had said. “I hope the food is bad,”’ I had countered. Hours after they should’ve arrived, hours after we hadn’t gotten a made-it text or call like we usually would, we’d kept going. “I hope the mosquitos are vicious this time of the year,” Henry had said. “I hope the water is cold,” I had said.

By then, they were already dead.

“You’re not an asshole.” Wren snapped me out of my thoughts, and I shook my head quickly.

“I am!” I interrupted. “Even you gave him the benefit of the doubt.” I didn’t even realize the severity of that until now, and my lips parted in both guilt and incredulity. “Oh my God,” I gasped again. “Even you—”

“Athalia,” she snapped, and my head flew in her direction. “Would you stop guilt-tripping yourself over something you had no control or knowledge over?”

My mouth opened to disagree, though her sharp, one-second glare was enough to close it again. My legs bounced in the passenger seat as I struggled not to go on and on about how much of a selfish asshole I was—had been—for the entire rest of the drive. Which—full disclosure—was only another minute or two. By the time we’d parked the car and speed-walked inside, the only thing I could think of was Dylan McCarthy Williams.

The fact an entire soccer team filled the hospital lobby didn’t just let us know we were in the right place, but that Dylan’s accident couldn’t have been too long ago. That, or his team just loved him so much, they were still here hours after he’d been checked in and diagnosed; probably hoping he’d get discharged today—though from what Blake had said, I doubted Dylan would spend his night anywhere other than a hospital room. Some sat with their heads down, others had offered their spot to the few elderly people among the hospital crowd. My brother stood in the farthest corner there was, his arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at his feet, one of which was propped against the wall behind him.

Later, I thought. Instead, I scanned the place for Blake.

I spun around at least three times, pushing myself up on my tiptoes to catch a glance of his dark skin and the short hair. Nothing. Just rows of vaguely familiar faces noticing me, falling into whispers with their teammates, like little girls who weren’t sure if they’d just walked past a C-list celebrity.

If they knew why I was here, who I was here for, couldn’t one of them just point me in the right direction? The right room? The right floor?

“Room 219, second floor.”

I hurled toward my answered prayer. And stared back at Wren. “How do you know?”

Her head tilted lightly, turning me toward the receptionist. “I asked,” she said, giving the blonde, middle-aged woman a light wave. “And the nice lady told me.” The nice lady smiled back at us, then nodded.

“But you hate talking to strangers.”

Wren was the introvert to my extrovert. When there were reservations to make, customer-services to call or things to ask, she sent me to do it. As it was the only thing I could do for her—the only way she seemingly benefited from our friendship—I did so gladly.

So, Wren casually going to ask the receptionist (anything, never mind where we’d find McCarthy) was to me what premium Hamilton tickets were to her. I could have cried if I wasn’t already halfway to the elevators.

I love you! I mouthed, watching her make her way over to Henry, and with a sigh, I pressed the button to the second floor. Six times.

CHAPTER 35

222, 221, 220—I came to an abrupt halt, seeing Room 219 before spotting Blake on one of the chairs opposite.

“Oh,” I stuttered, for God knows what reason. “Hey.” My eyes slid back to the closed door of the room, only vaguely aware Blake had settled in beside me as the epitome of calm.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” was the first thing he said to me. “Now I feel bad for not thinking you’d actually come.”

His words made a halfhearted huff escape me. Some of the tension in the air and my body evaporated. “Does this make me pass your background check, then?” I asked. My eyes only flickered toward him to make sure he got the reference to our conversation in the bar. The amused smile on his lips told me he did. God, it felt like an eternity since that night.

“Athalia.” He chuckled softly. “You passed that so long ago, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it anymore.” Then, he gestured to the door. “I didn’t tell him you’re coming.”

“Seeing as you didn’t think I was, that makes sense.”

Blake huffed, nodding. “Sorry again.” And the silence that followed after I waved him off lingered.

I think he was waiting for me to go in. I think I was, too. Three times I’d been just about to make the first step, and three times I’d changed my mind, then only swayed lightly in the direction.

Blake cleared his throat again, nodding to himself before he returned to his previous seat. “By the way,” he began, halfway there already. “The drugs are kind of… intense.” He seemed almost amused by that. “Which is why I’m out here, and not getting my ear chewed off in there—he can’t seem to shut the fuck up.”

And then I just moved. I stopped thinking, stopped overthinking, and grabbed the handle, completely unprepared for what would meet me inside.

I think I held my breath until my eyes fell on McCarthy and he looked… not all that bad.

Lying on the bed, the white hospital shirt covered his upper body; the blanket the rest of him, feet tucked in. Fat bruise on his cheek, and not a sign of a broken rib— although I wasn’t sure what signs of a broken rib I could have picked up on.

“Oh God.” It made my eyes snap back to his, concern furrowing my brow. “I’m dead,” he said. “I’ve gone to heaven?” Now his tone had adapted a questioning note, as if asking himself if he deserved to be in heaven in the first place. “Or hell,” he corrected after a long, thoughtful pause.

“You think I’d get into heaven?” I huffed, amusement mixing with relief as I stepped toward him. It was so easy: slipping into sarcasm and irony and jokes, even when the situation didn’t demand or even appreciate it.

He smiled a wide, loopy smile, his head rolling to the side to follow my every move until I stood right beside him.

“Fuck no,” he snorted. “If anything, you’re the reason I’m down here now.” His brows rose, and despite the statement that was supposed to be an insult, he reached out his hand to interlace his fingers with mine, smiling up at me as if he’d just declared his love, instead of called me a demon and the reason he’d ended up in hell.

“Ouch.” But I wasn’t the least bit offended. “How are you?”

“Don’t lie—” he huffed in drowsy amusement, his head tilting. “You were always hoping I got injured one way or another. This is just a delayed manifestation of that.” His smile was teasing, yet a little uncontrolled.

“That’s—” outrageous, awful… true. “Not true,” Was what I settled for. Dylan snorted in amusement.

“You cheered every time I got fouled.” He thought for a second. “Or missed a shot.” God. I had, hadn’t I?

My eyes narrowed in on that. “Did Henry tell you that?”

“No one told me that,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I saw—” He cut himself off, debating whether to go on. “Since you picked your brother up from practice the first time, I asked what your name is and he told me to fuck off, it’s all I’ve been doing.” He shook his head. “Thinking about you, I mean. Noticing you. When I walk into a room, it’s like second nature to look for you. It’s no different when I’m on the field. I look through the stands until I do, or I don’t see you. I didn’t even know why.”

My breath caught in my throat, and I wondered how much of that his sober self would have admitted. Right now, he seemed content with his words, a lazy grin on his lips at the memory.

“Well…” I shrugged, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at every fiber of my being. “Wren might’ve rubbed off on me. You should’ve seen how excited she was when she told me about that time you got punched in the face.”

His face lit up at the memory, strangely enough. “Oh!” He swooned, head falling to one side as he squeezed my hand. “You should’ve seen how I defended your honor!”

The haze of the memory or the amount of drugs made sure he didn’t pick up on the confusion lacing my features until I asked “What?”

His attention startled to me. “What?”

“My honor?”

“Yes, yes,” he rushed out. “That’s what I just said—” He cut himself off, brows drawing together in confusion again. “I’m speaking, right? My lips are moving? Words are coming out of them?”

I snorted. “Yes, McCarthy. Words are coming out of you. They just don’t make any sense. What does my honor have to do with you getting knocked out?”

He gasped, and I blamed it on the drugs. “I did not get knocked out,” he asserted, offended by the accusation. “Took it like a champ to get Baker—” I assumed that was the puncher. “A red card after he couldn’t stop running his mouth.”

The memory alone seemed to rile him up enough as he went on. “Pressley, where’s your hot sister? Pressley, mind giving her my number? Pressley, your sister this, your sister that— and Jesus Christ, I needed him to shut up. Your brother did, too. He was about ready to knock him out, by the looks of it. But it was only halftime, and we couldn’t afford it. Him off the field, I mean.” A smug grin returned to his face when he shrugged, eyes falling on me again. “So, I stepped up. Pissed Baker off enough to take a swing at me.”

He was full-on grinning now, lost in the memory. Entirely ignoring (or too high to notice) the stunned expression on my face, the fact I was speechless. Again. I cleared my throat, blinking away the adoration swelling in my chest. I couldn’t deal with what his words did to me right now.

“How are you?” I repeated.

He smiled at that, patted the side of his bed, prompting me to sit with a sigh. “Like a 200-pound, 6’4 Harvard guy tackled me.” His head fell back into the oversized pillow, a lazy smile on his lips as his eyes stayed on me. “Go on,” he urged. “Ask me what happened.”

I couldn’t suppress the smile when I did. “What happened?”

“A 200-pound, 6’4 Harvard guy tackled me.” He seemed pleased. “Which had me end up on such a heavy load of drugs, I’m still not sure you’re actually here.”

“And what if I am?”

“Then I’d be very happy about that.”

“If I weren’t?”

“I’d need to talk to my therapist about why I’m hallucinating the girl I’m supposed to hate into my hospital room.”

Supposed to.

My stomach turned, twisted, then released, all in the span of a few seconds. I felt giddy, and nervous, and I hadn’t felt like that since I’d bought my first really expensive bag. An actual giggle escaped my lips before I managed to catch it. Eyes shifting, throat clearing to get it together, I shrugged. Casual.

“Probably because you’ve had the best sex of your life with her,” I suggested thoughtfully, proud of the laugh that hurled out of him, only to feel guilty when he flinched in pain. “Sorry,” I managed to say. “Seeing how funny I am, this is going to be hard.” He laughed again, flinched again.

“See?” I said sheepishly, and Dylan waved me off with the hand that didn’t still hold mine, eyes rolling, lips splitting into a grin.

“I heard she had a terrible time,” he said in amusement, a brow raised. “Awful, if I remember correctly.”

“She might’ve been… exaggerating.”

“Is that why she’s here?”

“Perhaps.” I shrugged. “Or perhaps she feels bad for thinking you were ghosting her when you were actually in the hospital.” The confession kind of just slipped out. “And trust me—” I hurried on. “She feels so bad, she promises to actually help you the next time you’re cooking. She’ll do it all by herself, if you want her to.”

McCarthy managed not to laugh at that, instead snorting in amusement and skipping the part where he hissed in pain. “You’re so romantic,” he pointed out sarcastically. “It’s what I love most about you.”

I felt like I should’ve been more apprehensive about a loaded statement like that. What I love most about you tended to entail there was any love at all. It usually went: I love you, but what I love most about you is (blank).

And maybe if he’d said it like that, if he’d spelled it out, made it a big deal—maybe then it would’ve freaked me out. Though, honestly, in hindsight, I think we had both said I love you to each other in our own ways that day in the hospital. Maybe that’s why I’d been completely fine, not startled, not nervous. Just happy. Content. Grateful.

I huffed in amusement, my hand grabbing his a little tighter in mine. “Can you say that again when you’re not high as a kite?”

Dylan grinned when he nodded enthusiastically. “Sure I can,” he boasted. “I’ll say it until you don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“And that’s a promise?” I wondered, as amused as I was curious.

“A threat.” He winked very wonkily, and I blamed it on the drugs. Again.

My head tilted lightly. “That’s one hell of a commitment, Dylan.”

His lips split wider at his name on my lips. Then, he shrugged.

“Well,” he began. “I’m a pretty reliable guy, Athalia.”

CHAPTER 36

“It’s my broken ribs.”

“You cannot blame everything on your broken ribs.” My brows rose along with the corners of my mouth, and I shook my head as I continued to sneak curious glances at his screen. “Not when it’s almost been a month.”

“When I took this exam—” He waved his phone around, though the motion was too quick for me to read what it said on the screen. “I was out of the hospital for a week. And it’s showing.”

“So show me!” I whined, rolling from my side of the bed over to his, where he sat propped against the backrest.

We had woken up to emails about our Statistics II grades being posted. It was to be expected: today was the end of Shaw’s two-week period to do so. Still, I had about a million better things to do in the mornings. Like, not think about Statistics and the possibility of failing a class—the class my mother’s legacy had been built upon.

“No.”

In one quick movement, I straddled his lap, face hovering right in front of his with a grin. “Please?” I pressed a quick kiss to his nose, then his cheek, then his chin. Dylan huffed in irritation.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered under his breath, managing to catch my face in his hands before I could press a kiss to his lips and seal the deal.

His brown eyes twitched into an amused glare, corner of his lip curling into a smirk. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, and I groaned, dramatically falling off his lap before snuggling against his side.

“I don’t know mine.”

“You haven’t checked?”

“No.”

An incredulous look spread across his features when I craned my neck up to look at him. “What?” I huffed. “I’m not particularly fond of ruining my day already. It just started.” The humor in my voice fell on deaf ears.

“You don’t think you failed, do you?” Dylan sat up straighter now, turned to me with his serious-face on full display.

I hadn’t thought about how my fear of failing might affect him.

Would it be insulting? After the hours he’d poured into making sure I wouldn’t fail, was thinking I had ungrateful? My mouth stayed shut, gaze steering clear of his, as I took in the white flower patterns on my white bedding. Beautiful stitching.

“Athalia.”

My eyes snapped back to his, Serious-Dylan still in control of the conversation. I shrugged.

“Maybe,” I muttered, more so to myself. He heard me anyway.

“You were so confident after that exam,” he reminded me, his head tilting slightly, in both confusion and encouragement alike.

“It’s called post-final euphoria,” I explained. “You know? When you’re done with all your exams, and you finally feel like you have a life again.”

He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “No.” And it reminded me of all the reasons we shouldn’t have worked so well for the past few weeks. He was a workaholic at the ripe age of twenty-three. I hadn’t thought about work for longer than a total of ten minutes of my life.

He was always busy. I was mostly bored.

College, grades, and graduating were his purpose. I was still trying to find mine.

He took life so seriously. I… didn’t.

It was a weird whirlwind of mismatches that somehow just… matched. When I’d been ready to throw in the towel and drop out––which happened at least three times a week during finals––Dylan was there to keep me grounded.

When he’d get lost in his head, overworked himself or forgot to sleep, I was there to drag him into bed and sentence him to an eight-hour sleep.

“Come on.” He nudged my side gently, brows rising when my eyes slid back to him. “I know you want to.” Then he wiggled his eyebrows, and my lips broke into a grin before I could bury my head in the pillows. Two groans left me.

The first one acknowledged how little I wanted to look. The second one acknowledged I would have to eventually. So why not now?

“If I’m in a bad mood the entire ride to D. C.,” I warned as I sat up, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. “That’s on you, and I’ll never let you forget.” Though Dylan didn’t respond, just watched me unlock my phone, immediately landing me in my inbox.

One more glance at him made me turn my screen slightly, and a muffled complaint slipped past his lips. “Just let me check first,” I muttered, suddenly tenser than I’d like to admit when I clicked on the link provided in the email. I typed in the login for the account, keeping myself from visibly shaking as the page loaded.

I swallowed thickly, my eyes glued to the screen in both anticipation and dread alike.

“And?” Dylan nudged, but I just held up a hand, watching the spinning wheel on the screen, my heart dropping when it disappeared and made way for the grading system.

And there it was.

There it was.

There. It. Was.

My face distorted in a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite explain. Disbelief was somewhere in there, almost overshadowed entirely by confusion and relief, gratefulness, and joy.

My gaze snapped up to his, letting my phone fall into my lap while a wide grin grew on my face.

“Thank you!” I screeched, wishing I could jump him without the possibility of breaking a rib again. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

The concern in his features fell at once, opening his arms to welcome me in with a smile, equally as wide as mine. “See?” he whispered into my hair, placing his head on top of mine with a huff. “Nothing to worry about.”

He said that without having seen my grade. Whether I had barely passed with a C or aced the exam with an A seemed to be none of his concern anymore. Whatever grade I was content with, he’d be proud of, too.

“You really showed Shaw, didn’t you?”

“Technically…” My head lifted from his chest, a smirk on my lips as I looked at him. “I showed you, too.” His quirked brow made me go on. “You thought I was a hopeless case. You even told Shaw I was!”

His face softened as he remembered. “Oh.” He hummed, then shook his head. “I would never do that.”

“But you told me—”

“Athalia,” he sighed, the sound deep and long and calming. “There wasn’t a second in all this where I didn’t believe in you.”

I think my heart just got bigger, simply to let more of him in.

“I knew how smart you were before you ever stepped foot into my office, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind you wouldn’t thrive, with a little guidance and the right… motivation.”

“So you lied to me? About the Shaw thing?”

“Of course I did.” And his honesty—how unapologetic he was about it—was so relieving.

“What else?” I wondered, my head tilting in curiosity and amusement alike. “Did you lie about, I mean.”

He thought for a second, then looked back at me. Shrugged. “Hating you.”

“Hating me?”

“Probably even just disliking you a little bit. But I lied to myself about that for longer.”

The realization of that settled. For a long minute. And I wished I could say the same back, have this be our full-circle moment, where we’d realize we had both been undyingly in love with each other from the moment we had laid eyes on the other.

Not that we’d said I love you. Not the words. I think those slipped out so soon in my previous relationships, I’d like to savor them until I’d burst if I wouldn’t tell him. I think Dylan’s previous relationships didn’t last long enough to even consider it. This was uncharted territory for both of us, in a way.

And maybe that made it easier.

Refraining from saying the words, didn’t mean we weren’t still making it known every single day. Every time he carried me from couch to bed when I’d fallen asleep on it, every bad joke he laughed at, every meal he cooked when I suggested takeout, and every offer of my help in the latter he declined said I love you all over again.

So I just smiled at his words, my nose crinkling. “I knew you’ve always been obsessed with me,” I joked, a lightheartedness replacing the silence his admission had left behind. Dylan’s eyes rolled in that incredibly endearing way before he pressed a kiss on my forehead and hurled himself out of bed.

“God,” he sighed as he stretched, giving me an incredible view of his body in nothing but boxer briefs. The bruising across his ribs had gone down, only slightly blue and purple, and much less menacing-looking. “I forget how much of a pain in the ass you are sometimes.”

Which was just another one of the million ways of saying I love you he had adopted.

I love you too, Dylan McCarthy Williams.

EPILOGUE

“Ten minutes, people!” somebody shouted over the music; the rest of the crowd erupting into cheers and excited groans. Hands, and possibly bodies, were thrown in the air, as the numbers on the projector screen began counting down.

The hand holding my cocktail glass shot upward, and if I weren’t as euphoric as I was, perhaps I would’ve cared more about some of the sticky liquid spilling onto my dress.

But I was euphoric, and I didn’t care. My glass clinked with Wren’s water midair, making a point of looking her in the eyes when it did to avoid bad luck. Then, I repeated the procedure with Laila, the extremely casual (she stressed that part) date Wren had brought to the annual Pressley New Year’s Eve party.

The only difference from the past few years was the lack of views from the top of a New York City skyscraper, which had been replaced by idyllic gardens and rosebushes in the Hamptons. And the fact there wasn’t just one McCarthy, but six of them invited.

I twirled in place to look for my one, though the thick crowd around us proved that to be a task far more difficult than anticipated. With an excusing glance toward Wren, one she rightfully understood as I’ll be right back, I shuffled my way through dancing bodies, sharing smiles and laughs with vaguely familiar strangers as I pushed past them.

I spotted my brother leaned against the bar in the back, a drunken, wary look on his face. If I just followed his gaze… bingo. My McCarthy stood with the rest of them, having formed a casual circle from which only the youngest of his family members was missing. Even his dad showed a relatively pleased expression.

By the time my gaze shifted back to my brother, his attention had already drifted onto the next best thing. Henry had always been a people-watcher, more so than a mingler, though I was surprised by who I found at the other end of his gaze.

“You invited Paula,” I said by way of greeting, watching her curly hair bounce with the sway of her hips in the crowd. “Are you guys better?”

“No,” he grunted, though his eyes stayed on her. “I also invited her friends. I invited most people I’ve ever spoken to. This has nothing to do with Paula, specifically—” He caught himself rambling and immediately shut it off.

I nodded in amusement. “Classic. You invited her friends to make it seem less like you wanted to see her—”

“I didn’t want—”

“They didn’t hook up, by the way. Her and Dylan,” I blurted, and I felt Henry’s eyes on me for the first time. I couldn’t help but snicker, “And you never told me that you thought so because you saw them hug. Are you twelve?”

Henry blinked one, two, three times—which he probably needed to compute the information. His mask of nonchalance barely slipped out of place, but the fact it had, told me the revelation had changed a lot of things. Hopefully for the better.

Now that the summerhouse-debacle had been fixed, the MLS draft over and Henry had a professional contract lined up, maybe he’d have more time for other things in his life. Relationships that weren’t familial or professional.

“Dylan.” He hummed disapprovingly. Like the name tasted sour on his tongue. At the mention, Henry’s eyes slid back to him across the room. “Still wondering if we really had to invite all six of them,” he said drily. “I know you’re taking advantage of my guilty conscience. And I still can’t seem to do anything about it. You ask, I say yes.”

“Don’t worry, I just have that effect on people.” I winked, though circled back quickly. “I do appreciate you trying. With him.”

Henry snickered, clearly overcoming something before he asked, “So you guys are… what? Dating?” He winced, like the thought caused him physical pain. “You’d think after what you put me through the past few months, I’d be used to the thought by now.”

Clearly, he was not.

“I don’t know,” I admitted honestly, eyes trailing back to Dylan at the other end of the room. He spotted me at the same time, smiled, and started in our direction, right as someone in the crowd announced, “Five minutes!”

Loud cheers erupted through the room. Henry leaned toward me to make sure I’d hear him over the noise. “For the record,” he said. “If he hurts you, I’ll kill him myself.”

And I think that was as much of an approval as I’d get from Henry. I turned to face him, finding a bored expression that didn’t surprise me.

“You said you’d be nice,” I pointed out before Dylan could make it here. Henry’s hands shot up in defense, almost offended at the accusation. “Even Wren liked having him at Hamilton.”

Henry shook his head dismissively. “You know how she gets about Hamilton,” he pointed out. “That’s not a fair comparison.”

Maybe not. “Still—”

“I haven’t said anything,” he grunted back.

“It’s the way you said it.”

“Said what?”

“If he hurts me.” I tried my best to mirror his tone and attitude. Henry snorted. “It’s like you’re expecting it.”

“I said it perfectly normally, Athalia. The way any brother would.”

I groaned, turning toward him with an accusatory finger lifted. “You did not—”

Strong arms wrapped around me from behind, and the gesture effectively cut me off. Before I could turn around in his embrace, Dylan huffed, his breath tickling my ear. “You most definitely did not,” he chimed in, his eyes on my brother. I didn’t need to see the smug grin on his face to know it was there.

It was Henry’s turn to groan in annoyance, glaring at the man behind me. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about,” he pointed out, eyes shifting as I felt Dylan’s lips against my cheek, kissing it once, before he shrugged.

“I don’t need to.” He stepped around me casually, and it was like second nature to lean into him. “There’s few times you do anything, at all—”

“McCarthy,” Henry snapped, eyes flicking to Dylan’s arm around my shoulder. “I swear to God if you don’t—”

“Henry!” I glared at him. “Behave. Don’t laugh—you too, Dylan.” I finally turned, just in time to see the smug expression slip from his face. “We’ve talked about this.” The reminder was met with an eye roll, but it made a smile find its way to my brother’s face.

“Yes, Dylan. You’ve talked about this—” the latter gloated, though another one of my glares finally shut him up.

“Oh,” I sighed, faking a swoon. “I just love that you guys get along so well.” My fake smile turned into a scowl—maybe a pout—and Dylan gave me another kiss on the forehead before interlacing our hands with a teasing smile on his lips.

“Come with me,” he simply said, and by the time I did, I wasn’t paying attention to the way he tipped his head in my brother’s direction, or the way Henry mirrored the gesture in a silent goodbye.

Dylan gently guided me after him—one would think he spent most of his summers here, with the way he navigated through the house with such ease. Perhaps it was easy because he had no true destination in mind, just led me around corners, through corridors, until the music was mere background noise, and the only light was the moon, shining through the large balcony window.

“Since the first guests arrived, all I’ve wanted to do was steal you away.” He pouted teasingly, twirling me around once before pulling me to his chest. “You look so pretty tonight.”

I grinned up at him. “And you decided to do that right now? At 11:58?” My gaze was as incredulous as it was adoring. “You really thought that was the best time to steal me away, Dylan?”

He nodded proudly, taking a few steps back to lean against the wall behind him, dragging me with him. His head fell back. “God,” he muttered. “I love it when you call me that,” he said, eyes falling onto me again. “Have I ever said how much I love it?”

I grinned so widely my cheeks hurt. “It is your name,” I pointed out, head craning back from where I pressed against his chest.

Dylan shook his head quickly. “I don’t love it because it’s my name,” he protested. “I love it because you’re saying it.”

It was another one of those moments. I love you too, Dylan McCarthy Williams.

In the distance, people began to count down. “Ten! Nine! Eight!” they chanted from the main room in unison. “Seven! Six! Five!”

Dylan’s smile was subtle, his head tilting slightly, when his hand moved from my waist to cup my cheek.

“Four! Three! Two!”

“Can I kiss you?” he asked against my lips, a slither of air all that separated us at this point. Instead of answering, I just did. Pressed my lips to his lightly and lovingly, missing all the heat that usually played into this part of our night.

I love you too, Dylan McCarthy Williams.

“First of January,” he muttered against my lips, reminding me of that contract for the first time since we broke it. “How does it feel to be officially on the market again?” Bringing distance between us, he failed at hiding his dimpled grin.

“So.” I pressed a kiss to his lips. “So.” Another kiss. “Lonely.” And another one.

He hummed against my mouth, nodding in mocked understanding as he caught my lip between his. “Yes,” he sighed, a groan bubbling in his throat. “Me too.” He looked at me now, a lopsided smile on his face. “Such a coincidence—both of us single and lonely at the same time.” His tongue flicked over his lips. “Isn’t it?”

“Such a coincidence,” I agreed, nodding grandly. “Whatever can we do about it?”

He laced our hands together, kissed me, hummed against my lips while the fireworks outside lit up the hallway. They matched what was happening in my stomach, and the moment could’ve been perfect for many reasons, but I could only think of one…

1. I loved him.

2. I loved him.

3. I loved him.

I was in love with him.

Our kiss faded into deep smiles, hovering against the others, his forehead pressed to mine. A light note of champagne lingered on his breath when he sighed against me.

And, like he could read my mind, he said, “I love you too, Athalia.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The last time I said “Thank you for reading what I wrote” (in a much longer and sentimental way) was over three years ago, on a website where, arguably, too many people to truly wrap my head around … read something I wrote. LESSONS IN FAKING wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for you, so you deserve my first big fat thank you. For every sweet comment, message and your encouragement over the years. I honestly don’t know where I’d be without you.

Now, onto the truckload of people I’m also immensely thankful for. From drafting to publishing: I’m glad I wasn’t alone at any step of the way.

Thank you to my wonderful editor, Katharina, for every ‘What if we focus more on this?’ that turned this book into what it is today. You’re a genius.

Thank you, Domi, for figuratively holding my hand throughout this entire thing since you first read the earliest of early drafts. I would’ve probably combusted if you hadn’t been there to receive every thought I ever had, in a string of twenty-five texts.

My mum cried when I officially announced this book, which, in turn, made me cry and had us sending crying-selfies back and forth for a solid thirty minutes. Thank you for being my biggest supporter (and also for picking up every single one of my five calls a day): I love you.

Last but not least (because Google said this shouldn’t be longer than one page and I’m not quite sure what I’m doing yet) thank you to every single person who allowed me to chew their ear off about this before I could officially do so to everyone else on social media. Thank you for every encouraging “That’s so cool!”, tearful “I’m so proud of you!” or sarcastically loving “I’ll be your biggest fan!” If you find yourself in this category and aren’t quite sure if I’m really thinking about you while writing this: I am. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

To say publishing this book feels like a dream would be an understatement. And if it is a dream, please don’t pinch me.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

THE AUTHOR

© Studio71 GmbH/Dennis Lobert

SELINA MAE is a writer of romance and reader of … (you guessed it!) romance and has been compensating for her lack of meet-cutes by writing them into her books. Sharing her work on WATTPAD (@Seselina) for almost ten years, she reached millions of readers around the world before deciding to dip her feet into the publishing world. Selina lives and writes in Berlin.

Website: authorselinamae.com

Instagram: seselinamae

TikTok: seselina_

BOOKS BY SELINA MAE PUBLISHED AT LYX

Hall Beck University

1. Lessons in Faking

2. Lessons in Forgiving (to be published 28. 2. 2025)

More novels by the author are already in preparation with LYX.

EXCERPT

SELINA MAE

Release date: 28. 2. 2025

THEN, August:

three years and seven months ago

For the past eighteen years of my life, I’d learned to become an expert at reading my parents like an open book. Predicting their whims, knowing when to ask for something and when to keep my mouth shut— when to push a topic and when to drop it.

Right now, I could tell they regretted this.

From the way María Castillo’s brows pinched together, and the concerned tilt of Juan Castillo’s lower lip, I could tell. My parents were seconds away from dragging me on to that plane, back to the scorching, familiar Caribbean heat.

They’d lasted a whole two days longer than I’d given them credit for.

“It’s… big.” Trying to fit into the English-speaking environment, Mom’s accent was thick. She gaped up at the high ceilings, eyes raking over the rising rows of seats in the lecture hall. With one last lingering look at the families around us, she turned to me.

Oh yeah. Bigtime concern was written all over María’s face.

“Don’t worry, mami.”

I tried not to freak out at the prospect of her freaking out, so I waved her off, pretended like I didn’t wholeheartedly agree with her. Which made me feel stiff. Robotic.

Dad mirrored the sentiment. “Mi vida,” he muttered, trying to swallow his own worries. His hand rested in the small of her back, nudging her out into the hallway. When his eyes flitted in my direction, one thing was clear.

We were on the same page.

And he was desperate to get Mom there, too, tried to convince her of how sure he was I’d find my place here. “Estoy seguro de que nuestra Paulita de integrará ––”

But Mom’s head shot in his direction so fast, he swallowed his Spanish before she’d even said anything.

Her withering glare probably helped. “Coño, Juan. Por favor. English!” With one glance down the hallway, she made sure no one had heard the accidental Spanish slip.

Not that anyone cared as much as she did.

But if there was one thing María couldn’t stand, it was sticking out. If there was another, it would probably be not knowing what her only daughter was doing at any given moment.

So, the prospect of leaving me in a foreign country, where I’d most likely not fit in had clearly been more appealing on paper. Proudly telling cousins, aunts and uncles that her daughter was going to study in America until they’d started avoiding her on the streets had been fun— but she did not seem to be a fan of the reality it had become.

Her brows furrowed, she chewed on her red-painted bottom lip, and I had about two seconds to convince her that this is where I’m supposed to be.

At Hall Beck University. In the United States. About 1,600 miles from the Dominican Republic. Home.

Harder than it sounded when I wasn’t fully convinced of it myself yet.

“Look,” I began, tentatively nudging her into one of the smaller rooms we’d passed on the orientation tour. Gone were the rising rows of chairs, the intimidating podium where professors held hour-long lectures. Entering a simple classroom that would hopefully shake my parents out of their shock-like state, my shoulders sagged in a little bit of relief. “It’s not so different from Universidad Tecnológica de Santiago.”

Which was where I’d probably end up if I didn’t sway this situation in my favor. Fast.

Mom shook her head, a disapproving tsk passing through her teeth. “Don’t lie, Paulita,” she huffed. Looking at the wall of windows, the whiteboard and the tablet on each seat, she was probably right when she said, “This is nothing like it.” She sighed. “I… don’t know. Maybe you should come back with us after all. What do you think, Juan?”

Panic. It zipped through my body white and hot at the questioning look she directed at Dad. For the life of me I could not remember a single instance in which Juan Castillo had denied my mother a single thing. And sharing a glance with the man who had advocated for my degree in the States so hard, it did not seem like he was about to start now.

I could see him slip. He was probably already calculating the cost of an extra ticket back to Puerto Plata tomorrow.

“No!” My intervention kept him from so much as a nod that would set their decision in stone. “Why? Think of how good this school will look on my CV! You’ve already told Aunt… all of the aunts about it. And the cousins! Can’t forget about the cousins.” All twenty-three of them. “What would they think—?”

But her head continued shaking, and I was losing momentum here. “No.” Her eyes drifted to me again. “I don’t care about that.” Lie. “We just want what’s best for you, Paula. I don’t know if that’s here. I mean… have you… adjusted?” Concern found its way back into her brown eyes. “Have you made any friends yet?”

I was not surprised by the fact Mom’s only worry was how well I’d fit in— how popular I’d be.

And I did not feel guilty about the lie that flew out of my mouth, either.

“Yes!” I had not. “Of course.” Hadn’t even met my roommates yet. “Is that what you’re worried about, mami?”

“No.”

Yes. Yes. Yes! She was lying, too, and I could work with that.

“Oh,” I swooned, slowly guiding my parents away from the spot in which they’d almost made a decision that would’ve jeopardized my entire future. Just in case it would remind them of it. “I’ve met amazing people. They’re all so… chatty here!”

“Americans do love to talk.” Dad agreed gruffly. “Loudly, too.”

“Really?” Not quite sure whether she’d asked me or Dad to elaborate, I took over. Finally, there was a glimmer of hope. Light at the end of the tunnel. María Castillo looked relieved, and I could build on that.

If all I needed to fake was an outstanding social life for the next three years, I’d call that a win.

“Really,” I assured them, throwing all the conviction I could into my gaze. It stayed on them, even when we continued making our way out of the room. “We’ve spent all day together yesterday,” I lied as I walked backward. “And—”

I couldn’t build on my lie when I backed into a solid… something. Then, startled, felt myself slip.

I prepared to hit the floor face first. Or maybe the back of my head would make contact instead? Either way, my parents would realize I wasn’t fit to take care of myself (because I’d landed myself in the hospital with a head injury two days into my independence journey) and I’d be forced to agree with them because… well, I did land myself in the hospital. Mentally, I was already back in the Dominican Republic before I’d even made it to the ground.

I never did.

Instead, I felt a cool hand curl around my wrist, yanking me upright and keeping me there until I managed to find my footing.

I did not faceplant, only stumbled into Dad’s chest when the stranger’s grip around me loosened. And instead of my parents realizing I was in no condition to take care of myself, I heard an ironic, “Eyes up. Or you might hurt someone.”

Followed by Mom’s curious voice. “Do you two know each other?”

She sounded… excited, and suddenly I did not care who I’d just run into. They would have to do.

I turned just in time to silence him with a look, his lips already parted to give the obvious answer: No.

“Yes!” I blurted, ignoring the confused furrow of his dark brows. Ignoring how beautifully they contrasted his green eyes more. Wincing, I mouthed a Please. Then added a Sorry.

I swallowed thickly before turning to my parents, taking a step back to stand beside the brunette stranger, his hair a few shades lighter than my own brown curls. “Of course!” I doubled down, cheerily. Too cheerily? “This is…”

With the way he winced, I might’ve gently nudged my elbow into his side a little too forcefully. But it must’ve done the trick, conveyed my desperation accurately, because he straightened beside me and extended his hand.

“Henry Pressley. Pleasure to finally meet you.” His eyes only flicked in my direction for a second before he went on. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

How much could I have potentially told him in the two days we’re supposed to have known each other?

I was surprised to hear Dad speak first.

“Pressley?” He repeated under his breath, barely loud enough for me to pick up his next words either. Like they weren’t intended for the audience he had. “¿Donde fué que escuché ese nombre?”

Instead of answering where Dad could’ve heard the name before, Mom lovingly rammed her elbow into his ribs at the second Spanish slip of the day.

“Henry!” she cheered a little louder then, smile forced, and eyes glued to the boy. Probably to distract from Dad’s Spanish and to compensate for his whispering. “No wonder Paula talked so much about you.”

I hadn’t, obviously. And in any other circumstance, I might’ve been embarrassed by the—although false—revelation. But the fact Henry’s appearance had made her forget that I hadn’t mentioned anyone until two minutes ago was worth the little color in my cheeks.

“Has she?” His eyes slid to me again before he huffed, the sound low and kind of pleased, then looked back at my parents. “Only good things, I hope.”

“Of course.” Mom waved him off, again forgetting I hadn’t talked about him before at all. She seemed too blinded by the possibility of her daughter actually making a friend. Like she couldn’t believe it.

Awesome.

“Pressley!” Dad blurted, completely out of nowhere, only realizing he hadn’t used his inside-voice when his head snapped up. His eyes widened. “Triste—no! Sorry! Sorry.”

I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing to Henry for the outburst or to Mom for the Spanish. His gaze darted between the two so quickly, I couldn’t be sure. At last, they settled on the stranger, and, a little calmer, though still rattled, he said, “You’re Felix Pressley’s son. The soccer player.”

The shadow that moved across Henry’s face was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Like it was nothing, he put on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and said, “That’s right, sir.”

I smiled, too, because I knew Dad’s favorite thing about Americans was that they regularly called him sir.

“You a fan?” Henry asked.

And I’d never had a particular problem with my family’s bluntness, but when Juan Castillo shook his head and went on to say “Not really”—language barrier or not—I wished they had a filter for moments like these. The smile on my face fell.

I expected the same reaction from Henry. But instead of offended gasps, insults thrown, and my little lie revealed, his smile seemed to turn genuine. “Yeah.” He snickered, sounding relieved more than anything. “Me neither.”

And then they bonded.

For a solid fifteen minutes, it was obvious to anyone in our vicinity that my dad knew the guy beside me – or his father, for that matter – better than I did. But as long as Mom had a smile on her face, seemed delighted by the conversation and wasn’t catching on to my lie, I was happy.

When my parents finally headed outside, the idea to take me back home with them seemingly all forgotten about, my sigh was so loud, it carried through the corridor. “You might’ve just accidentally saved my ass, Henry.”

“Well, Paula.” I could hear the grin in his voice. I didn’t have to look at him, and in fact, my eyes were still glued to the double doors that just closed behind my parents. “Always happy to help a friend out when she’s…” He trailed off, hoping I’d fill in the blanks. “When she’s what, actually?”

“Oh, you know.” I waved him off halfheartedly, my own smile audible. “Just trying to convince her parents she has a raging social life two days into college before they change their mind and make her go to school at home.” I realized then that I was speaking about myself in third person, which was probably weird. Weirder than my explanation.

So, I cleared my throat, finally glanced his way, and gave a sheepish shrug when our eyes connected. “No biggie.”

“Of course.” The amusement in his voice made me hopeful that speaking about myself in third person hadn’t been as off-putting as I’d feared. “Should’ve guessed that one myself, actually. My bad.”

To really look at him, my head craned upward. He’d tamed his light brown hair in a casual-enough middle part, white T-shirt tugged into tailored pants and fitting around his biceps snugly. I blinked once.

I’ll be damned. Just my luck; Henry Pressley is irrefutably and undeniably… hot. Mind-blowingly gorgeous.

And I’d just spoken about myself in the third person to him.

When my eyes snapped back up to his dark green ones, he raised an eyebrow comically. “For what it’s worth,” he mused. “I think my performance might’ve changed their minds.” He nodded in the direction of their departure, though his gaze stayed fixed to mine. “Hope I’ll see you around?”

And I had a feeling I would.

“Here’s to hoping.”

Content Warning

This book contains the following content:

Mention of parents’ death, plane crash, loss, grief

LYX.digital in der Bastei Lübbe AG

Für die englischsprachige Originalausgabe:

Copyright © 2024 by

Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6–20, 51063 Köln

Vervielfältigungen dieses Werkes für das Text- und Data-Mining bleiben vorbehalten.

Textredaktion: Mackenzie Walton

Umschlaggestaltung: © Jeannine Schmelzer, Bastei Lübbe AG, und © Guter Punkt, München, unter Verwendung einer Illustration von © fjordwind und Motiven von Shutterstock (© Bobnevv; © Giuseppe_R; Platon Anton; Miloje)

Satz und E-Book: Greiner & Reichel, Köln

ISBN 978-3-7363-2336-0

Weitere Informationen unter:

lyx-verlag.de

luebbe.de | lesejury.de

Lessons in Forgiving: English Edition by LYX

Welcome back at HALL-BECK-UNIVERSITY by WATTPAD-superstar Selina Mae

Paula Castillo is determined to get her life back on track. And after a long time on the metaphorical writing-bench, she thinks a profile on an upcoming HBU-soccer legend will at least roll plan »Restore Journalistic Reputation« into motion. The problem: Henry Pressley hasn’t only signed a million-dollar deal with an MLS club in the past year, he also broke up with Paula. Although she promises herself not to get caught up in the whirlwind of Henry that almost cost her everything already, one-on-one interviews and unexpected nights together force them to face their past. Between the pages, it becomes apparent that the broody soccer player still seems to have a soft spot for his lucky charm ...

English edition of LESSONS IN FORGIVING by WATTPAD-superstar Selina Mae

The Dixon Rule

Eine Fake-Beziehung, die echte Gefühle weckt

Dana Dixon hat diesen Sommer viel zu tun. Sie probt für einen Tanzwettkampf, jongliert mit zwei Jobs und muss mit ihrem Ex-Freund fertigwerden. Zu allem Überfluss ist der Eishockeyspieler und Playboy Shane ihr neuer Nachbar geworden. Deshalb stellt sie einige Regeln auf: keine Partys in ihrer Wohnung, Finger weg von ihrem Cheerleader-Team und - das Wichtigste - er soll sie auch in Ruhe lassen. Doch Dana weiß nicht, dass Shane One-Night-Stands satt hat. Und als seine Ex auftaucht, will er sie eifersüchtig machen - mit Dana. Eine Scheinbeziehung würde auch einige ihrer Probleme lösen, also willigt sie ein. Doch schon bald kann sie nicht mehr leugnen, dass es zwischen ihnen knistert...

Band 2 des Spin-Offs der BOOKTOK-Sensationen BRIAR U und OFF-CAMPUS

The Graham Effect

Zwei Hockeytalente und ein Deal, der alles verändert

Gigi Graham hat drei Ziele: sich für die Eishockeynationalmannschaft der Frauen qualifizieren, olympisches Gold gewinnen und aus dem Schatten ihres berühmten Vaters treten, der eine Hockeylegende ist. Dafür braucht Gigi Hilfe von Luke Ryder. Der neue Co-Kapitän des Hockeyteams musste mit seiner Mannschaft an die rivalisierende Briar University wechseln. Da Luke es geschafft hat, sich bei Gigis Vater in die Nesseln zu setzen, erklärt er sich bereit, Gigi zu helfen, in die Nationalmannschaft zu kommen, wenn sie bei ihrem Dad ein gutes Wort für ihn einlegt. Und obwohl die beiden ihre Beziehung professionell halten wollen, wird die knisternde Spannung zwischen ihnen immer stärker ...

»Dieses Buch war für mich der Beginn meiner ›booktok hockey era‹.« THE GLOSS BOOK CLUB

Die TIKTOK-Sensation von SPIEGEL-Besteller-Autorin Elle Kennedy