Limerence: Chapter 27

There was a three-month period between the ages of ten and eleven when Mom and I lived in one of the dingy ground floor motels stuffed along Route 65.

I’d loved it.

There was free cable, vending machine dinners, and a pool so small I could nearly touch both ends if I stretched my arms wide but a pool, nonetheless.

I keep that memory stashed in the back of the mind as Adrian brings me to an intimate boutique hotel tucked along the water.

It’s not gaudy or flamboyant like the way I’ve seen luxury hotels depicted in movies, but one look at the vintage furnishings and rich, historic hardwood and I can tell it’s designed for high-end clients. A series of electric guitars frame the walls, and I try not to gape when I spot one signed by Jimi Hendrix.

“If there’s anything you need, Mr. Ellis, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call,” the hotel manager reiterates for the fifth time, looking so earnest that I have no doubt he’d cough up a kidney or half a liver if Adrian were to ask.

“We appreciate your hospitality,” Adrian nods politely. “As well as your complete discretion.” The sharpness in his tone suggests discretion is an expectation, not a request.

“Of course.” When the manager smiles, the bushy mustache taking up most of the real estate on the lower half of his face smiles with him. “You’ll have privacy here, along with your –” His eyes linger on me a split-second too long, clearly trying to discern the relationship between us.

“ – friend,” Adrian clips. “Thank you.”

Not girlfriend.

Friend.

A much broader term that could mean anything from Yes! We’re friends, we’ve known each other since diapers to Yes. We’re friends. I plucked her off the streets five minutes ago.

And based on the brief, insincere smile I earn from the manager, I have a feeling I know which one he believes me to be.

Maybe that’s why I continue to fixate on those four missing letters even once we’re in the elevator, sleek metal closing us in on all sides while Adrian types in the access code for the top floor.

“You called me your friend,” I blurt out, and feel silly as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

And even more so when he turns to look down at me, the edges of his mouth beginning to curve into a satisfied smirk. “Why? Does that bother you, sweetheart?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not. You’re the one who’s needed all the labels…I was just curious.”

Given the way his smirk broadens, I have little faith he buys that explanation, but he still answers. “You have to be tactful about these things. Leave some room for interpretation,” he says. “It only takes one photo, one ‘exclusive source’ chirping to a magazine, and then I’m dealing with an angry phone call from my parents.” At that last part, his mouth twists into his grimace.

Right.

The parents.

The ones with all the “logistics.”

I’m half-tempted to bite back that there was no tact involved when he flew across the country and barged in to meet my parent but instead ask, “And you’re not worried about tact at Lionswood?”

He shrugs. “Lionswood is different. People know better than to talk to the press there, and my parents put little stock in rumors they might hear about girlfriends or tattoos –” His nose wrinkles up in distaste at the latter. “– at dinner parties.”

“Well, you could get a tattoo. That’s not such a crazy rumor.”

He scoffs. “I would never get a tattoo.”

Any further discussion on the topic halts the moment the elevator dings open, revealing the private entrance to our suite.

Holy shit.

He strides in. “You’ll have to forgive me for the accommodations. The options in Alabama were quite…” He sets our bags down on a burgundy chaise. “Limited.”

I don’t respond, too busy soaking in my surroundings, which appear to be anything but limited.

The suite has all the character of an old warehouse or factory – high ceilings, brick walls, and towering glass windows that feed enough natural light into the space to offset the charcoal-colored fixtures.

And there’s a Fender strapped to the wall.

Signed by Eric Clapton.

Want tugs at my belly.

I could paint in a place like this.

The view of the sprawling Mobile Bay is beautiful in its own right, but if I squint, I can even see where a few of the downtown skyscrapers kiss the horizon.

Briefly, I picture that it’s not Mobile I see in the distance, but another city. New York or Los Angeles or Chicago. Somewhere bustling with people and a never-ending list of things to do.

I could belong somewhere like that.

I turn away from the windows as the tug starts to become almost painful, and immediately flush as red as the peonies on the nightstand.

Still hovering over the chaise, Adrian watches me, the sort of thoughtful expression on his face that leaves me wondering if he can read my mind.

I wonder what I must look like to him, awestruck by the very same things he considers “limited.”

If only I could read his.

I clear my throat. “You shouldn’t apologize.”

To hide the red creeping across my cheeks, I duck into the bathroom. There’s a full shower and an antique black pedestal tub. “For anything. Maybe ever again,” I call over my shoulder.

He laughs.

***

“Your art is lovely, sweetheart, but I have to confess…this isn’t what I pictured we’d be doing in a hotel room alone together,” Adrian’s voice filters across the room, from where I know he’s reading on the bed.

I’m eternally grateful that, with my legs slung over the side of the chaise like this, he can’t see my face or the blush that’s now painting it pink.

I lay down my pencil on the half-completed sketch of Lionswood’s fall foliage and sigh. “I know, but I have to finish this. The applications for Pratt are closing soon, and I still need to put a few finishing touches on a few of the pieces for my portfolio.”

That had been one of the few upsides to a three-week banishment in Mobile – plenty of time to sit and finish my application for Pratt.

There’s a beat of silence and then he says, “You’re quite set on the Pratt Institute, then?”

At that question, I peek over the side of the chaise. “Of course. It’s one of the best art schools in the country. Why do you ask?”

To my surprise, he closes his medical textbook, stands up, and comes to join me on the chaise. I attempt to scooch over and make room for him, but he just grabs my legs and throws them over his lap. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t take you for the type to put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Well, they’re not all in one basket,” I retort. “I’m applying to a few others too. Rhode Island School of Design, California Art Institute, Chicago…” I proceed to list them out finger-by-finger. “But Pratt’s the holy grail.”

His fingers begin drawing gentle patterns up the side of my legs. “And if you don’t get into any of them?”

I straighten up. “I’m applying to ten different art schools. I’m sure I’m going to get into at least one of them.”

I have to.

“I’m sure you will, sweetheart,” he agrees, but it comes out sounding like the kind of sugary condescension a parent might spoon-feed a child dreaming of being a princess or a space captain.

“I will,” I repeat more firmly.

He pats my calf. “Yes, I’m sure you will.”

“I’ve got a pretty strong portfolio and an education from Lionswood. That alone should get me into at least half these schools, including Pratt.”

Adrian offers a thoughtful hum.

I exhale through my nose. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop agreeing with me when I can tell you’re thinking about something else. Whatever it is, just say it. Tell me what you’re actually thinking.”

He heaves a sigh. “You’re an amazing artist, and an education at Lionswood will certainly bolster your application, but…”

“But?” I press.

“But you didn’t have the time in your schedule to take AP Art this year –”

“ – but I still got a letter of rec from Ms. Hanson –”

“ – but your grades have been, as you’ve admitted yourself, less than strong –”

“But not terrible –”

“ – but far more noticeable given your lack of extra-curriculars –”

“I do extra-curriculars,” I interject. “I was a part of the woodworking club sophomore year…for three weeks…” I wince. “Okay, so maybe I don’t really do that many extra-curriculars, but in my defense, art and keeping a passing grade in about all of my classes has been my singular focus.”

He massages the tightly wound muscles of my lower legs. “Which is admirable, sweetheart, though I’m not sure Pratt will think so. You need to prepare for the possibility that they may look at your application and see a student that’s coasted by on academic mediocrity despite testing into an elite boarding school.” His fingers dance over my Achilles tendon. “And even with an acceptance, you’ll still need to cover the cost of tuition, room and board, living in Manhattan…”

I swallow, unwilling to acknowledge the growing seed of doubt he’s sowing in the bottom of my stomach. “I know. I know these things. I also know there are scholarships and grants. Financial aid. I’ll get a job. Two if I need to. And if I don’t get into Pratt –” I suck in a breath, the possibility of it tasting like dirt in my mouth. “ – then Rhode Island. Or California. Or Chicago. Or –”

“Harvard,” he cuts in.

I pause. “Harvard?”

He nods but doesn’t elaborate.

I shake my head. “I mean, I haven’t given any serious thought to any of the Ivies, let alone Harvard…”

“Well, as you’d expect, it has a great art school,” he says. “And there’s new faculty joining the department next year. Some renowned artist. Someone named Rory, I believe? I’ll have to check the pamphlet –”

My heart sputters. “You’re talking about Rory Huber. He’s the guy who did this amazing series on Hercules that exhibited in Athens. It went really viral in the art world and –” I suddenly stop talking, the last piece of a puzzle snapping together when I spot the satisfied smile that’s beginning to take shape of his mouth. “Wait. Wait a second. You’re going to Harvard.” I try backing off the couch, but his grip becomes iron. “And now you’re trying to sell me Harvard.”

For a moment, I feel foolish that it’s taken me this long to put it together when I should’ve known from the second he started sowing doubt about Pratt.

Or maybe from the instant he opened his mouth because God knows he doesn’t use it without some sort of agenda hidden up his sleeve.

And even though I’ve caught on, Adrian still has the gall to feign innocence. “I’m not trying to sell you anything, sweetheart.” He takes both my hands in his, drawing me even closer. “I just think you should consider all your options.”

“I didn’t realize Harvard was one.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

Why shouldn’t it be?

As if I’m picking between Chinese and Italian, as if it’s just another brand sitting on the same shelf, as easily accessible to me as anything else.

I can’t help but laugh. “Because I’m almost positive the acceptance rate’s below five percent, and as you’ve already pointed out, a Lionswood diploma isn’t going to disguise my weak grades or my lack of extra-curricular activities. I’d be better off taking the $80 application fee and throwing it in a wishing well.”

“Well, ordinarily, I’d agree with you…” I don’t like the gleam that sparks in his dark eyes. I don’t like it at all. “But that’s the beauty of being with an Ellis, sweetheart.”

My mouth turns as dry as the Sahara. “What are you suggesting?”

“My family’s quite close with Harvard’s president, you know,” he explains. “He has a long-standing invite to most of my mother’s dinner parties – at least, the ones happening on the East Coast. I’ve had his personal cell number for years. I doubt it’d take more than a phone call to ensure special attention’s paid to your application and any financial aid you might need.”

I blink at him. “A phone call. That’s it?”

He gives me a crooked grin. “Well, that and the implicit promise of a hefty donation once I’m on the alumni board. He’ll get his pound of flesh, too.”

I have that sensation again – like my entire world’s been tilted forty degrees to the right, and my brain’s the last one to catch on.

I take a deep breath.

And then another.

And then one more.

“You’re offering me Harvard.” My tongue’s so heavy it’s sticking to the bottom of my mouth. “Like it’s on a silver platter or something.”

He chuckles, clearly amused by my bafflement. “If it’s a silver platter you want, I’m sure I can ask room service for one.”

“That’s…” I shake my head. “It doesn’t work this way.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Why not?”

I flounder for words. “Because…”

Because this wasn’t a nice bag or a pair of shoes or a pretty dress gift-wrapped in my dorm room.

These were the next four years of my life.

Four years that I had already mapped out.

“I already have a plan,” I tell him. “And I can’t scrap it.”

“Well, you don’t need to scrap it,” he counters. “Simply adjust.”

An undignified huff escapes me. “What you’re proposing is not an adjustment. It’s a 180-degree turn.”

“I’d call it ninety,” he says. “We both know you’d flourish as an artist anywhere. Pratt’s not the only art school with world-renowned teachers or classes.”

It’s with great reluctance that I’m willing to admit he has a point.

Maybe that’s part of the problem with chasing the holy grail. I’ve been convincing myself for so long that Pratt was it, the magnum opus of all my hard work, I haven’t paid much attention to anything else that might be buried alongside it.

And Harvard is…well, it’s Harvard.

People balk at Harvard. They frame rejection letters. They buy cheesy sweatshirts in hopes that someone will mistake them as alumni.

I have no doubt that Harvard would have its own arsenal of world-renowned artists teaching its classes, and nearly as many networking opportunities at Pratt.

And Harvard will have Adrian.

I swallow. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You bring up all this stuff about Pratt, about Harvard, but you’ve got one hell of an ulterior motive. You want me at Harvard because you’re going to Harvard.”

He merely tilts his head to the side, his tone audibly softening. “Is that such a bad thing? To want to be close to my girlfriend?” He untangles one of his hands from mine, and gently threads it through my hair. “We’ll get a cute little apartment off campus. We’ll meet up after classes and study in the library together. On the weekends, we’ll go into the city, have breakfast, and afterward, I’ll take you shopping for whatever your heart desires.” His thumb skims my cheekbone, and I don’t even need the description – I can already imagine it well enough in my own head.

Put like that, it sounds so simple.

And the fact that he even wants me to follow him, that he’s thought about a future beyond Lionswood’s iron gates, sparks more satisfaction that it probably should.

But this is Adrian.

Things are never simple with Adrian.

“You’re still proposing bribery,” I argue. “Buying my spot at Harvard.”

To that accusation, Adrian’s smile only broadens, his dark eyes suddenly twinkling with mirth. “Your indignation’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

I shake my head. “No, that’s not –”

“I mean it as a compliment more than anything else,” he cuts in smoothly. “You know, it’s one of the first things I admired about you.”

“What? My hypocrisy?”

“Your tenacity.” His gaze flickers down to our joined hands. “One of the first days we spent together, you told me you were going to be an artist.”

“I remember.”

I also remember that Adrian was just about the first person ever to actually take me seriously. He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t told me it was a ridiculous plan. He’d just believed me.

“And there was no doubt in your voice. No hesitancy. You said you’d simply take what you wanted.” He makes eye-contact with me again, the full weight of his gaze pinning me to the spot. “I could tell you meant it too. At the time, I didn’t realize how much you meant it, but still. That sort of tenacity…it’s so rare. People want for things all the time. They spend their whole lives wanting for money, for a new career, for a better life, but so many of them lack the actual grit to take what they want. Not you though. You don’t lack for tenacity. Or grit. Lionswood is proof of that.” A fond smile breaks over his face, softening his features.

“All this to say,” he continues, drawing me out of my thoughts before I can spiral. “There’s no need to pretend you’re above using the advantages you have access to. You know as well as I do that people like me won’t.”

A part of me hates that he’s right.

And after four years at Lionswood, I know exactly just how right. The true wealth of my classmates isn’t in designer bags and red-bottomed shoes – it’s in connections. It’s Sophie’s step-father sharing a golf game with almost the entirety of Dartmouth’s admission board. It’s the gaggle of tutors and college counselors Ava’s mother had been hiring since she was old enough to walk. It’s Adrian’s mother inviting Harvard’s president over for dinner.

No matter how hard I try, how hard I study, how hard I work on my art, I’ve always been playing the same game with half the cards as anyone else.

And I’ll be stuck playing this game at Pratt too.

Assuming I make it in, I’ll still be bluffing my way through the same game, stacked against kids who’ve had private art lessons since they could hold a pencil and trust funds to pay for their Manhattan apartments.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Adrian’s whispers in my head: Don’t you deserve a few advantages too?

Look how hard you worked for Lionswood.

That’s proof of your tenacity.

Then, like an electrical shock, comes another thought: or just proof that you have no problem taking what isn’t yours.

Ian Creasey’s the one who deserved Lionswood. He worked hard.

A sudden swell of guilt clogs my throat.

A few compliments, and I’m convincing myself that I’m the one who’s gotten screwed out of a few opportunities, when there’s a real victim in this story.

By all counts, Ian Creasey should be the one courting Ivy Leagues right now, not working out of Rick’s dingy shed for a few Busch Lights. He should be planning his bright future.

But here I am, trying to cheat my way into mine.

Adrian’s wrong.

I’m not tenacious.

I’m a thief.

“Sweetheart?” He gives me an expectant look.

“You sound like the devil on my shoulder,” I mutter.

“I’ll gladly be your devil.” His smile turns a touch mischievous, making the comparison seem even more apt. “You don’t need to decide right now. We’ve got two weeks of break to enjoy. Think about it.” His easy, self-assured confidence suggests that he already knows exactly which one I’ll be picking.

I open my mouth to reply, and nearly yelp when he scoops me up and rises from the chaise.

“Let’s go to bed, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and I’m struck speechless by the fact that I feel absolutely weightless in his arms.

He turns, and my stomach dips.

There’s only one bed.

Of course I noticed when we first walked into the hotel room, but between salivating over the room’s beautiful view and the back-and-forth about my future, my brain hadn’t actually computed what that would mean: we’re going to sleep in the same bed tonight.

Still, it’s a big bed.

It puts both the cramped bed in my Lionswood dorm and the sagging, twin-sized mattress in the trailer to shame.

It’s at least a King, with an ornate wolf that looks to be hand-carved into the headboard, and sheets that I can already tell are as soft as clouds.

But it’s one bed.

As he deposits me onto the dark, satiny sheets and strolls into the bathroom to get ready for bed, another thought flits through my head: are we going to have sex tonight?

My heart thunders.

Well, that’s what teenagers in hotel rooms do, don’t they?

God knows that in Mobile County, at least two or three teen pregnancies follow every homecoming and prom.

And, despite the raging superiority complex that most kids at Lionswood seem to have, they’ve only traded pay-per-hour rooms for vacation houses, luxury suites, and the occasional family yacht.

Yes, sex is exactly what happens when you put a hormone-driven teenage girl into an unsupervised hotel room with a hormone-driven teenage boy.

But Adrian isn’t driven by hormones.

He doesn’t drool over the flash of Millie Roger’s panties when she cheers too loudly at Lacrosse games. He doesn’t classify the success of his weekends by the amount of bases he was able to round. He doesn’t lure Cedarsville girls to his dorm under the guise of “showing them the family yacht next time.”

Weirdly enough, physical intimacy is the one thing he hasn’t pushed for. Sure, there’s been a hand on the waist here, a quick make-out session there – just enough touching to leave me wanting more, but also wondering if he wants more.

Well, there was the night of the dance too.

My cheeks warm, and I double-check that I can still hear the water pounding against the shower wall before I let my mind drift to the night he pushed me against the bathroom sink, ravished my mouth, and then licked his fingers clean of my arousal.

A flash of heat coils in my lower belly.

It’d taken me off-guard then, but now…

I lie back on the bed, imagining what it’d feel like to be pushed into this surface. The satin sheets are certainly softer than the marble edge of the Dean’s bathroom sink. There’s more than enough room to splay my legs as wide as they’ll go – my arms too.

I bet he’d pin them down.

Or maybe he’d just tie them up.

And my legs.

I’d have nowhere to go, completely at his –

The water stops.

I shimmy back into an upright position, hoping that none of my little self-indulgent fantasy is visible on my face.

Or maybe he’s just not interested in any of these things. Maybe he had his fill of them long before he met me.

That thought cools me off immediately.

Wasn’t he trying to prove a point the night of the dance? He was angry. He wanted me to know that I was his, and now that he’s proved that point…

The bathroom door creaks open and my inner monologue dies the moment I see Adrian walk out, completely bare-chested with a towel slung around his waist.

“The water pressure’s not suitable for my hair,” are the first words out of his mouth. “I’ll have to complain.”

“Oh, it looks…” My tongue’s suddenly glued to the roof of my mouth. “…fine to me.”

More than fine.

Not only do the wet curls stick to his forehead in perfect little ringlets, but some of the excess water’s begun dripping down his torso, only further emphasizing the hard lines carved into his abdomen.

People shouldn’t be allowed to be this pretty.

The last time I saw him shirtless, I’d been trying very hard not to stare.

This time, I don’t have the same reservations, so I drink in every inch of exposed skin.

My eyes dip to the hip bones peaking out on either side of his waist, to his V-line, to the smattering of dark curls that disappear beneath the towel.

My mouth goes dry.

“See something you like?”

My gaze snaps back to his face. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting the urge to smirk, and I snuff out the instinct to avert my eyes. “Maybe.”

Definitely.

Yes.

“Maybe?” The word’s a purr out of his mouth, and when he stalks toward, eyes glinting like onyx stones in the light, I’m not sure he’s ever looked more like a predator. “Just maybe?” It should be illegal for someone to make that word – an innocuous, harmless word – sound so sinful.

There’s another flash of heat – or maybe it’s a jolt of heat – as he looms over me, hands on either side of my body, so that I’m caged against the bed.

My breath quickens.

Do I like this?

I think I like this.

And it’s not the first time he’s caged me in his arms, but there’s so much tension coursing between us right now, it feels like I should be able to reach out and tug on it.

My eyes zero in on a stray water droplet sliding down the slope of his neck, and before I’ve made the conscious decision to, I’m leaning forward to lick it off.

He goes completely still beneath my mouth, but it’s only a millisecond, and then I’m pulling away, a smile on my lips. “Just maybe.”

Genuine surprise flits across his face. He wasn’t expecting me to lean into the game.

Well, maybe I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, too.

Of course, in true Adrian fashion, he recovers too quickly for me to actually relish in having the upper hand. “I think it’s time for some sleep, don’t you, sweetheart?” His eyes dance with amusement.

I try to ignore the burn of disappointment as I crawl under the covers, slot my body against his, and let him tug me close.

He presses a soft kiss into my hair. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

It’s only now, with my head resting against his chest, do I realize that his heart’s beating like a jackhammer.