Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

5

Summer

When a bee perceives a threat, she doesn’t stop and think. No. She whips out her stinger. Defends herself. Attacks. The stinger’s barbed, so it gets stuck wherever she stabs it. And in the process, it. Rips. Out. Her. Guts.

Really, such tenacity should be admired.

Because all I have to protect myself is my mouth. One that, under extreme duress, will blurt out whatever it needs to save my ass. And I don’t even get the decency of a merciful death after pronouncing the most inane, idiotic, incomprehensible babble ever to be uttered on this whole campus.

That Grayson Rowe is my boyfriend.

With little time to think of anything else, though—a better cover, a less obvious lie, a reasonable explanation for why I had thrown myself at a guy who is so not my type—the wheels in my head went into spin mode. Whirled to overdrive by the sheer anxiety of seeing Iris approach and shifted off track by the mere sensation of a hard body against mine.

Now I’ve put it out there.

Judging from Iris’s reaction—brow tightening, lips pursing, complete and total disbelief—there’s no taking it back.

“Your… boyfriend?” she clarifies slowly, shifting her gaze to Grayson. She measures him carefully, wrinkled nose telling me that in her eyes, he doesn’t amount to much. With a sniff, she turns back to me. “You don’t have boyfriends, Summer.”

I’m a little offended she has the gall to dismiss my made-up significant other.

Grayson tenses. He’s seen her look, and he doesn’t like it, either. He likes it less that I hold him captive beside me, since he tries to untwist our arms.

I wrap my arm around his waist, keeping him in place. “It’s pretty recent.”

Grayson snorts. I pat his chest. Hard.

“Allergies,” I explain to Iris with a sugary sweet shake of my head, like his nasal issues are the cutest thing ever.

Iris cringes, but she holds out her hand to Grayson. “I’m in ABB with Summer.”

He stares at her outstretched hand, and promptly pushes his glasses up his nose instead.

“Ay-Bee—?”

I jam a heel into the toe of his shoe. He flinches.

Iris’s mouth curdles at his slight. To me, she asks, “How did you two meet?”

Those wheels spin, spin, spin. Go with the truth? Or complicate the story with more lies?

“The library. Our hands touched when we reached for the same book.”

Okay, sometimes a situation calls for a pinch of embellishment.

Grayson makes a noise somewhere between objection and hysteria. I nudge him with my leg again, like I learned in a horseback riding lesson when I was a kid. The horse I tried it on attempted to throw me off it. Grayson glares at me like he’d like to do the same.

“Really?” Iris sneers.

“It was instant…” Love? Gross, no. I need something better. Something more believable than love-at-first-book-touch. Something more—

When his mouth opens again to refute my claims, I press my entire body into his. Boobs, hips, thighs—all of it squeezes to be as close as possible to every part of him.

Every firm. Rigid. Solid part.

Oh. Wow. That is… unexpected.

His mouth shuts instantly as his eyes drop to the nonexistent space between us. Then they’re on mine. Two honey-brown points behind clear glasses. His nostrils flare, his jaw clenches—it doesn’t take much to notice he’s definitely not happy with this. But the moment his eyes dip to my mouth, that annoyance fades away. A line forms between his eyebrows as they scrunch together. And I watch as something else takes over his face entirely. Something dark and curious and completely alluring…

—I need something more Grayson.

“Chemistry,” I say, tongue wetting my bottom lip. “It was instant chemistry.”

With one sharp breath, Grayson’s eyes drag from my mouth to my eyes. I loosen my grip, but he doesn’t retreat. He stares at me from those dorky glasses with that same quizzical look, and I’m helpless to look away.

Until Iris sniffs again, and I suddenly remember we’re not alone. Much to my chagrin, I realize what we must look like to my sorority sister. Our bodies, flush against one another. Our heads, bent together. Our eyes, riveted on each other.

Like I want to hump my tutor, right here on the sidewalk.

Correction. Hump my boyfriend.

Grayson also remembers our audience. He starts, then scowls. Turning to Iris, he opens his mouth, “Actually—”

Releasing a giggle that’s purely nerves, I push on his chest with both hands, effectively shutting him up. Before he can utter another word, I strong-arm Grayson down the sidewalk, calling back to Iris, “Actually, we have to go. See you at chapter!”

Let her think we’re off to bone each other’s brains out.

Wait, what—Nope. I did not just think of sex and Grayson Rowe and me, all in the same context.

It was one kiss. One awkward, fumbling kiss. So what if it got bizarrely arousing at the end? I can do better than a kiss like that.

Anyways, he’s not actually my boyfriend. So I am most definitely, most certainly, most decidedly not thinking about any of that.

Nope.

Once we’ve placed enough distance between the library and Iris, Grayson finally tugs himself out of my hold. He whirls around to face me, just as I’m smoothing a hand over my forehead in relief.

“Can you explain to me just what the hell—”

“You almost totally blew it back there—”

“Because I have never been so fucking confused—”

“But I think we killed it in the end—”

Grayson takes one step back. Inhales deeply. “Why?”

I point in the direction of the library. “Rowe, do you know who that is?”

“No?” He shrugs. “One of your sorority sisters?”

“Exactly,” I say, and he looks at me like I’m completely crazy because it makes absolutely no sense. “Iris Bartlett. Marketing sophomore. Member of our event planning committee. Transferred to Lakewood last year. And she is, without a doubt, the worst gossip in my whole sorority.”

One eyebrow quirks at my detailed account. “That concerns me… how?”

It doesn’t. Not really.

But if Iris knows who he really is, that Grayson’s tutoring me for classes I’d failed, and Nolan’s on my back about passing them—I’d be ruined. She’d spearhead a movement to remove me from my philanthropy chair. Place herself on my throne, while the seat’s still warm from my butt. Everything I’ve done with it, everything I still have yet to accomplish? All my hard work gone, if the truth gets out.

I freeze.

Ifit gets out.

But what if it doesn’t? What if there’s a way I can spin this? Make it work in my favor. Convince him to help me.

To keep this secret and never tell it to anyone.

It might…I cross one arm over my stomach and twine a curl around my finger with the other. Size Grayson up. Ignore his concerned expression at my sudden silence. Get lost in the idea. It might just work.

“Grayson Rowe.”

“What?” he eyes me warily.

“Be my boyfriend.”

Honey-brown eyes bulge behind glasses. Just as quickly, they narrow in absolute bewilderment. Jaw dropping open, he shakes his head, unable to form an answer. He tilts his head back, runs a hand over his mouth, and heaves one great sigh. When he moves again, it’s to look me square in the eye—

—and say, “No.”

With that, he grips the strap of his backpack with one fist, turns on his heel, and leaves.

It comforts me, a little, to see him stumble over an uneven sidewalk corner as he tries to storm off.

A text alert diverts my attention. When I check my phone, it’s from Liz.

BOYFRIEND?!

There’s more to her message, like why didn’t I tell her and can she meet him and she’s so excited for me, but that’s the gist.

Suddenly—

My phone beeps again. Then again. Several times. More and more appear. Messages flood my screen, all echoing the same sentiment as Liz’s. Most from my sorority sisters. Several from classmates and people I’ve worked on philanthropy projects with. A couple, even, from some of my usual hookups. Guys who reserve texting me until the wee hours of the morning, asking, Wait, does this mean you’re not DTF anymore?

Shit. I bite my thumbnail. Iris works fast.

Word is out.

Summer Prescott has a boyfriend.

One who just completely bailed on her.

How the hell did I get myself into this mess? One minute, I’m walking into a library study room, determined to not have a repeat of my last meeting with Grayson Rowe. To have the upper hand in our interaction and figure out everything I need to know about him, so I’m not dazzled by facts about bees anymore.

And the next, I’m completely caught off-guard as he starts talking about giant datasets and double-degrees and foster care and, and—

Lecturing me on numbers.

Chills rake down my spine, and something low in my abdomen shivers at the memory of Grayson Rowe on a diatribe about order and chaos. Because what the hell was that outburst? And why the fuck had it kept me rooted where I stood, so, so—so freaking mesmerized?

I need to get to the bottom of it. Of him.

My phone continues buzzing. I turn it off, not ready to deal with all those messages yet. Not until I sort this out. Which means going after him.

So, lifting my heels in step—(Wedges. They’re wedges. Easier on your feet than stilettos. Like he thinks I don’t know about proper foot health. Please)—I do something I make a habit of never doing.

I chase after a man.

On the edge of campus, I can just make out the back of Grayson’s head as he strolls toward the bar strip. I wait for a car to pass before hustling across the street after him. People I know call my name. I give small waves and keep my gaze forward in case they want to chat. Thankfully, none of them are any of my sisters, and I follow Grayson with no interruptions, until his head ducks out of view.

Shit!I bite my nail again, thinking I’ve lost him. Until I remember that where he’d turned, there’s a staircase, leading to—

I pause. What’s a nerd like Rowe doing at Kellermann’s?

Isn’t he supposed to be an intellectual? Why doesn’t he prefer the Copper Owl Club, a street over? That place, with its mahogany finishes, brass fixtures, and exposed brick walls, caters to a more sophisticated set. Mostly graduate students and philosophy majors. A bit too hipster for my tastes, but I go to support Liz at the weekly open mic night, and not for the tufted leather sofas or general air of pretension.

That’sthe kind of place I’d see a guy like Grayson Rowe. Not Kellermann’s, its German theming completely at odds with its reputation as the football bar.

Curiosity piqued, I tread down the stairs after him.

Aside from faint acoustic music playing over the speakers that I would think more befitting of Busy Beans, an off-campus coffee shop, the bar’s quiet. A complete contrast from how crazy hopping it gets during the weekend. Or, at least, that’s what I recall of rare nights when my sorority sisters dragged me to come here with them. I don’t visit Kellermann’s much on my own. I always manage to find the one sticky spot on the floor.

A few tables are filled with no more than one or two students, a single server journeying between them. Some are catching lunch, others work independently on their laptops. One, in particular, shamelessly reads a novel with a shirtless man on the cover, a move I applaud in my head before ignoring everyone else in pursuit of the guy I’m looking for.

I spot him at the back of the bar, at the empty pool table.

And come to a complete halt.

He leans over to rack the balls. As he does, the glow of the billiard chandelier plays with shadows along his body, even more than the fluorescent lights of the library. Jeans draw over a taut thigh. Sleeves strain against an iron bicep. And that shirt—that stupid, silly shirt about positivity and protons—hikes up.

Giving me yet another peek at a flat, sinewy stretch of stomach.

Even more unexpected—Nope. Focus.

Knocking sense into myself, I dig a hand into my purse and make my way over. By the time I find what I’m looking for, Grayson’s lining up his pool stick. His shoulders slump when he sees me.

“You followed me?”

“Here’s a little fact for your collection, Rowe,” I tell him. “When I want something, I get it.”

With that, I wave the dollar bill I’m holding in the air, then slap it down on the table. “I owe you five bucks.” I set another identical bill on top of it. “This one’s for five minutes of your time.”

He stalls, debating something in his mind. Without a word, he breaks, sending stripes and solids careening. “You have until I make the first shot.”

Great. How hard can—

Clack!

Almost as soon as he strikes it, a stripe soars straight into a pocket on the far end.

He rises from his crouched position, stepping back to twist the cue in his palm. That smug-as-fuck grin emerges. “Double or nothing?”

I raise.

This time, before I can even finish a syllable, he lands two shots. One right after the other, in the same pocket.

Down goes a twenty. I’m out of fives. Grayson arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. Moving around the table’s edge, he takes a moment to chalk the cue stick, and I see my chance.

“I’ll shoot straight with you, Rowe. That girl? Iris? We might be sorority sisters, but she’s my archnemesis.”

He stands. “Like Lex Luthor?”

“Who?”

“Superman’s—”

“Enough said.” I signal to stop. “Jeez, you are such a nerd.”

Glaring, he leans over and scores another hit.

Another twenty. He frowns at it. Before he can get in another shot, I rush to say, “Iris has it out for me. She wants my executive chair.”

“Why?”

“I… possibly slept with her boyfriend.”

“Not very sisterly,” he wryly drawls.

And I set my hands on my hips. “For your information, smart ass, they weren’t dating. At the time. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. I need to pass these classes. And I can’t let Iris find out that you’re tutoring me. So now that she thinks you’re my boyfriend, I need it to stay that way. Look, I’m not asking you to actually date me. Just… go along with it. Pretend to be my boyfriend in front of my sisters. Tutor me in secret.”

Leaning against the pool table, Grayson twirls his cue stick slowly in his hands. As he mulls it over, he glances around the bar. At the students sitting in the booths. The employee prepping garnishes behind the bar. The fairy lights strung across the ceiling. Surveying the room, looking everywhere but directly at me.

I step closer. Lay a hand on his arm. His eyes drop to it. I give him no choice but to look at me. When his gaze rises, it gets stuck somewhere beneath my nose.

“You kissed me.”

He states it plainly. But there’s a hint, an edge to it, that suggests he’s not entirely pleased by that fact. Those glasses slide down his nose, making his hard stare all that more disapproving.

Like the very act of me putting my mouth on him is inconceivably horrid.

I tell myself it’s because I’m annoyed he won’t give me a straight answer when I step away from him and snap, “I kiss lots of boys, Rowe. What makes you think you’re so special?”

Tipping the cue in my face, he sardonically drawls, “Sure, Summer. Sign me up to be your boyfriend right away.”

With that, he turns away from me. Slanting over the table, he proceeds to make another successful shot. Frustrated, I grab my purse, but he rapidly scores as fast as I add more cash. I’m running out of twenties at a critical rate. With each one I add, his frown grows deeper. While he’s amassed a tidy pile of winnings, my progress in winning him over sinks lower and lower.

When the table’s almost clear, I’m tapped out. Two notes are left in my wallet. I crinkle them between my thumb and forefinger, debating, then make a decision.

I drop both on the table.

Two hundred dollar bills.

Grayson tenses when he sees them. That line reappears between his eyebrows, and I can practically see him calculating all the money together. His frown turns questioning.

Gesturing at the cue, I distract him before he can wonder any further just why I have so much cash at my disposal. “How do you do that?”

“You want to know how to play pool?”

“I want to know how you play pool.” I settle both palms on the green felt and lean over the table. “I know you have some secret, super smart method of doing it. Come on. Spill it, Rowe.”

“You won’t like it. It’s math.”

“Fine.” I scoop up the money. Shuffle it in a neat stack. Fold it. Then, setting one heeled foot in front of the other, I glide to where he stands, adding an ounce more sway to my hips. I slip between him and the pool table. Tuck the money into the front pocket of his overshirt. Slip the cue out of his hand. Brace the stick on the table. Bend at the waist. Glance back over my shoulder. “Then why don’t you show me.”

For a moment, his gaze stays on mine, but the dim light casts glares on his glasses, keeping those brown eyes hidden. Then it drops, and I know I’ve won because yes! He’s checking out my ass—

“Spread your legs.”

“What?”

“Spread your legs,” he repeats, but in a tone that almost suggests he’s bored. “Your alignment’s all off. Evenly distribute your balance. And don’t lock your knees. You want to be comfortable.”

—Nope. Just inspecting my stance.

Bewildered, I do as he says, until I receive an approving nod. He points at an orange ball in the middle of the green. “What you have to remember, it’s all about triangles.”

“Triangles?”

“Yeah,” and he draws an invisible line with his finger from the orange ball, to the table’s edge, to a pocket, back to the orange ball. “See that? You’re going to hit it off the railing, and it’ll bounce into the pocket. That’s called the law of reflection. But be careful. The larger the angle, the larger the chance of deviations, which makes for a harder shot. Your goal is to make the angle as short as possible—”

“Hold on, let me whip out my protractor.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in an amused smile. “Just shoot.”

So I do. The ball veers wildly off course.

“Don’t pout,” Grayson catches the ball from spinning too far away and sets it back where it was. “That wasn’t bad. Try again, and this time, keep the stick under your chin and your hand closer to the tip—”

“Oh, is that where I’m supposed to put it?”

I’m completely convinced he smothers a snort. “Concentrate, Summer.”

I bite down a smile and arrange the cue how he tells me. Right as I’m winding up for another shot, he tells me to wait. Turning, I see him eye my arms the same as he’d done my legs. He reaches behind me, then pauses. “Is it okay if I…”

When I nod, he steps forward. Crowds my space to place a gentle grip on my elbow and guide it up. He squints at my hand and asks if he can adjust that, too. I allow it, and he repositions my thumb.

“You want to make a triangle with your body, too. From the tip of the cue…” He skims a hand on my outstretched arm, bumps raising on my skin in the wake of his brushing fingertips. He taps on my raised elbow, before sliding it down to where my hand grips the cue. “All the way to here. The stick should be level between those points.”

Any other guy, I’d tease him about feeling me up. But Grayson’s roving hands act with no intention other than to fix my form. Even when I peek at him from the corner of my eye, his entire focus is on the pool table, strategizing my next attempt.

Somewhere in all of that, between his reconfigurations and advice on triangles, something disturbing begins. An irregular thump, deep in the center of my chest. It starts slow, so oddly out of place that at first I think I imagine it. Until it happens again and then once more, steadily gaining intensity with each beat.

That is… worrisome.

But I don’t have time to dwell on it, since Grayson wraps up his lesson. I push the odd feeling to the side and wait for him to step back.

He doesn’t. Instead, when I bow over the table, he does the same. One hand reaches behind me to fix the angle of the stick, while the other nudges my arm to the side. Boxing me against his chest. Even after he deems I’m ready, he stays close. One hand on the table railing, the other settled on the small of my back, heavy and warm.

That pulse returns in full force. Hot and humming over my skin in waves with every movement his body makes over mine. I tense, holding my breath at its sudden potency, before deciding I need to do something about it, fast.

So, gripping the cue, I channel all that disconcerting energy into one. hard. poke. Forcefully strike that orange ball. It collides with the railing. Bounces back at the opposite angle. And sails straight for the pocket.

“I did it!” I gasp.

“And that,” Grayson chuckles at my wide-eyed astonishment. “Is how you make math fun.”

I roll my eyes.

“Great job. Now, this next one will be trickier, but if you…”

Listening becomes impossible, though, when he takes the hand that was on my back and moves it to my waist in a proud, encouraging squeeze. My side presses against his in a way that automatically makes my head swing to him. My curls fly into his face. He brushes them back, absentmindedly tucking a strand behind my ear.

I suck in a breath, and he freezes, eyes falling to my ear. An unknown emotion crosses his face then. Slowly. Softly. He traces the curve of it again.

And I visibly shiver at that light touch.

Brow shifting, he repeats the motion. Lower this time. On the section of skin beneath the lobe, tapering into the beginning bend of my jawline. I close my eyes. Relax into the touch. Feel that erratic beating in my chest. The very one that’s in tune with the breath skating across my cheek. And in the dark, my lips seek out that breath and the mouth it slips from, just as Grayson’s thumb skirts down to tilt my chin and—

“Summer?”

My eyes fly open. Because I know that voice.

I jump, accidentally smacking Grayson in the stomach with the cue stick. He grunts. I barely notice, because my attention’s fixed on the redhead walking over to us.

“Walsh!”

Kennedy Walsh. Journalism senior. Staff reporter and photographer for The Lakewood Weekly campus newspaper.

More details rush to me as she comes to stand on the other side of the pool table. Ones that have nothing to do with the catalog I keep in my head. Caffeine addiction. High school student body treasurer. Three older sisters. Latex allergy. Has a mean left hook with a beer glass.

They’re details I learned from Kennedy herself. Last semester. When she interviewed me about the Prescott Hall spring fundraiser.

Ponytail swaying, she sets down her purse on an empty stool and looks between Grayson and me with a curious expression.

Grayson, in contrast, returns the same stare, but between me and Kennedy.

I clear my throat. “Long time, no see. What brings you around here?”

“We’re getting lunch. Summer, what—”

“How was your summer? I heard you studied abroad. Tell me all about it.”

We’re? Who is we? Kennedy and Grayson? But last I knew, she was still seeing that hunk—

Oh. There. I see the tall, bulky form approaching behind her.

Spencer Armstrong. Once, this campus’s biggest player—both figuratively and literally, seeing as not only is he the Lakewood Leopards’ star running back, but he’d made quite a reputation for himself sleeping with a different girl every night (many of whom are in my sorority).

Apparently, though, Armstrong’s left that reputation in the past. If the way he pulls Kennedy into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of her head is any indication.

He grunts out a greeting, but I almost miss the way he raises an eyebrow at my presence. Since my eyes are on Grayson. The way he looks between me and Kennedy. Ducks his head to stare at the pool table, eyebrows scrunching in deep thought behind those glasses. One of his hands reaches up. Taps his chest pocket, where a tidy sum rests.

It’s like watching a lightbulb with faulty wiring. Temporarily flickering off and on. Off and on.

Until the wires connect.

His head shoots up.

And light exposes everything.

He meets my eyes with brows narrowed and flared nostrils.

Totally pissed.

“What brings you here, Summer? Working on another charity drive—”

“Kennedy,” Grayson says, so suddenly and so vehemently that she looks taken aback. “You know Summer. You wrote that article on her last semester. The one on Prescott Hall.”

He directs that emphasis, and that hard stare, to me.

The jig, as they say, is up.

“Yeah,” Kennedy replies slowly, once again glancing between us. Finally, she asks the question that must be burning in both hers and Armstrong’s minds. “How do you two know each other?”

Honey-brown eyes never leave mine.

That fucking thumping returns. Way more intense than before. Threatening to rip out of my chest while I wait for him to say anything.

Voices interrupt us. A group of four. And as they make their way over, my mental catalog lists fills in the blanks. Levi Hart, another football player. Holding the hand of his girlfriend, Rylie Stone. She laughs at something a girl with pink hair says. Natalie Mason. And holding up the rear—Theodore Morris. The football captain. Quarterback. Hottest man on campus.

It’s him, out of the newcomers, who spots me first. With a puzzled expression, he glances from me to Grayson.

Just as my tutor answers Kennedy’s question, “Summer and I are dating.”

Kennedy’s not good at hiding her reaction. She blinks, several times, eyes wide.

But she’s not the one that speaks. No, that would be Natalie Mason, whose head whips to Grayson to screech, “You’re what?”

Grayson chucks the cue stick on the table. Grabbing my wrist, he tells her, “We’re getting drinks. Be right back.”

He leads me away, before anyone else can comment. Halfway to the bar, though, he makes a split-second detour and tugs me down the hallway to the restrooms.

Once we’re alone, he swings me around to face him and—

“Well, now you’ve gone and done it—”

“I thought I fucking forgot it—”

“They’re only going to be more suspicious—”

“But you never even fucking told me—”

“Dammit, why is the floor this sticky—”

“Who the fuck just doesn’t tell someone their fucking name—”

I take one step back. Breathe deeply. Place both hands on my hips. “How the hell do you know Walsh?”

He also backs away, until he hits the wall. He leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Spencer’s my roommate.”

“Spencer Armstrong’s not your roommate,” I immediately argue. “Armstrong lives in that yellow house on Main Street with his football buddies. Levi Hart and Theodore Morris and, and—”

“And me.” He quirks his head. “Why do you know where my roommates live, but not that I also live there?”

Because they’re hot and everyone on campus knows them. And up until a few days ago, I didn’t even know you existed.But I hesitate to tell him any of that, choosing an indifferent shrug instead. Besides, it’s not like I’ve ever had any occasion to visit that yellow house on Main Street. Greek life and varsity athletics have very little overlap.

Grayson tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You lied to me.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “I didn’t lie. I held back one piece of information. There’s a difference. A girl’s allowed to have her secrets, Rowe.”

Anger flares behind those glasses as his gaze snaps to mine. “Secrets? Your name isn’t a secret. It’s who you—”

“Are you angry that I didn’t tell you my name,” I step right up to him and poke him in the chest. “Or that you only asked for a hundred dollars?”

Under my finger, his shirt crinkles. When I glance down to find out why, a sliver of green peeks out from his pocket. I curl my fingers into it. Feel the wad of cash I’d stashed there. And then… something else. I draw it out by its corner.

A piece of folded paper. Even brighter green. I recognize it in an instant.

“Because there’s more where that came from, Rowe,” I say slowly. “I can raise to two hundred a lesson. Easily.”

His eyes widen, but quickly, he narrows them in suspicion.

“Three hundred. Five hundred. Hell, let’s say an even grand.” At that, he forgets to hide the spark of interest in his eyes. “Would it really be so bad to fake being my boyfriend, for that much?”

I crane my neck, peeking back down the hallway to the bar. At the group of people gathered by the pool table. His roommates. His friends.

With a hard swallow, I turn back to Grayson. “I admit, your knowing Walsh complicates things a bit. But with your brains and my aptitude for secrecy, I’m sure we can make this work.”

His stare hardens. “I can still go out there and tell them it was a joke. That we’re not actually dating.”

But he doesn’t move.

I lean closer. Bridge the gap between us. Brush my hand over his heart and my lips against his ear.

“See, Rowe, I don’t think you will. Because you’re a smart guy. Dual-degree, double-major, Dean’s-List smart. And you know what I can do for you,” I tell him in a low voice, dipping my fingers into his pocket again and drawing out the flyer for the Prescott Biotech Industries internship program. I hold it up and the moment he sees it—

I know—I just know—I’ve got him.

“A personal recommendation from Nolan Prescott’s own daughter will get you far,” I whisper. “But only if you want it really, really bad.”

I lift my head. Look him right in the eyes to find him silently regarding me with those honey eyes. And I keep my gaze on him. Just as I had that day in the library. Meeting the challenge in his eyes with the determination in mine.

“What do you say, Rowe,” I offer him my hand. “Do we have a deal?”