: Chapter 7

Harper and Nina ask me to put Vincent’s note in the center of our coffee table so they can huddle over it like two historians examining a precious artifact.

“It sounds like he wants her to tutor him,” Harper says, like it’s obvious.

“But tutoring might be code for sex,” Nina argues.

“Why would a fucking college basketball player not just tell a girl if he’s interested? Straight men are, like, notoriously unsubtle when they’re trying to fuck.”

“It’s not like he could just give a librarian a note that says, Had fun kissing you up against a bookshelf last week, I’d really like to put my penis in you now. What if she read it before it got to Kendall? This”—she taps the note—“is definitely code.”

Harper is unconvinced. “If he wanted to keep the note clean, he could’ve asked her out or told her to come to a party at the basketball team’s house. He didn’t. He definitely just wants her to help him pass his class. And you know what? He’s banking on the fact that she’ll be all soft for him now and won’t charge him.”

“He wouldn’t—” Nina begins, then sighs. “No, I take that back. Men are garbage.”

I slump down on our couch, which is hard and creaky and banged up in the way furniture in student housing tends to be. Nina appeals to the hopeless romantic in me, but Harper’s pragmatism is more in line with my gut feeling. Vincent Knight could’ve written anything in this note. He chose to ask for help with poetry.

I shouldn’t add context that isn’t there. I shouldn’t allow myself to project the traits of all my favorite romance novel love interests on a real-life man. It’s a recipe for disappointment.

Still, I can’t help but think that if this were a romance novel, tutoring would be the plot device that throws Vincent and me back into each other’s orbit. I am the reluctant heroine turning down the quest. But act two is inevitable. When I think about it that way, it’s not so intimidating.

Still, it takes me a few days to work up the courage to email him.

I decide to play it straight, to avoid the horrible scenario in which I think Vincent is propositioning me and assume he genuinely needs help passing English lit.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Tutoring

Hi Vincent,

The librarian gave me your note. I am available Mondays and Wednesdays between 10:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m, and Friday evenings before my shift at the library (10:00 p.m.). My usual tutoring rate is $25/hour, but I can be flexible.

Best,

Kendall

As soon as it leaves my inbox with a little whoosh, I doubt every word.

I can’t tell if it’s too professional or not professional enough, and fuck, what if Nina was right and his note was code and I’ve just somehow offered to prostitute myself? I can be flexible suddenly feels like the most overtly sexual thing I have ever ended an email with.

Not even five minutes later, there’s the telltale ping of a new message. The little red dot next to the mail icon sends my blood pressure through the roof. I breathe out through my mouth, reminding myself that it could very well be spam from a clothing store or an updated homework assignment from a professor, and click open my inbox.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Tutoring

Kendall,

Monday works. 10 a.m. at main Starbucks. I’ll bring the book. Venmo or cash?

V

My palms are clammy, because fuck, that’s tomorrow, and fuck, he’s giving me nothing to work with here. Half of me wants to call Harper and Nina in to get their thoughts, but the more I read over his message, the more I know that I’m grasping at straws.

There’s nothing romantic in his response. Nothing even remotely flirty. Which means it’s time for me to get my head out of the clouds and plant my feet firmly on the ground.

• • •

I wake up the next morning soaked in sweat. At first, I think I’m getting sick again, but then I check the weather app on my phone and realize it’s going to be absurdly hot today for fall in Northern California. Perfect. Because on top of my anxiety about seeing Vincent again, I really need to worry about sweat stains and sunburns.

I’d normally turn to Harper to talk me down from my catastrophizing, but she’s at the gym for her morning swim.

Nina’s the one who helps me get ready.

“Wear my green dress,” she tells me. “The one with the spaghetti straps. You look so hot in that dress. Think about it. You can wear one of your grandma cardigans over it, so he suspects nothing. You get inside, and oh, what’s that? It’s so warm in here. You take off the cardigan, and boom. He’s overcome with lust. You fuck on the floor of the Starbucks.”

“You’re hereby fired as my life coach.”

I appreciate Nina’s enthusiasm and flair for the dramatic, but this isn’t a date. I pull on a simple T-shirt and some jean shorts. Nina glares at me with disappointment and disgust as I reach for my battered white sneakers and lace them up.

“I’m so disappointed,” she grumbles as she walks me to the door.

“I know.”

“At least give him a handie under the table or something.”

I shut the apartment door in her face.

Outside, I shove on my sunglasses and try to keep to the shade, like the gremlin I am, as I march onto campus. There are three different Starbucks on or near Clement’s campus. The main one is at the corner, right between the engineering and the journalism schools. It’s always packed, but the crowd today is sparse for a Monday. Looks like most of Clement’s student body is taking advantage of the sunshine and lounging around in the rolling green grass of the quad.

I order a tall cold brew and hunt for a good table.

There’s an open one tucked in the back corner. Shrugging off my backpack, I slump down into a leather armchair with a clear view of the front door. When I check my phone and realize I’m a solid twelve minutes early, I feel a tiny twist of embarrassment. But it’s fine. I’m fine. Nobody in this coffee shop knows what’s happening in my head. I’m just a girl having some coffee and scrolling through social media. Besides, there’s no sign of Vincent yet. I can always tell him I got here two minutes before he did.

So, I settle in, and I wait. And wait. And wait.

He’s late.

Five minutes late. Then ten. Then fifteen.

I pull up his email again, just to check that I haven’t accidentally fucked up the time, date, or location for this meetup. But I’m right.

I think I’m being stood up.

It’s a good thing this isn’t a date, because being stood up for my first would probably hurt.

Still, the caffeine in my stomach churns like battery acid.

You know what? No. I’m not about to let my day be ruined. I’ve made the effort to haul myself onto campus, I’m at a coffee shop with soft ambient music playing, and I have a cup of delicious cold brew in my hand. Everything is in place for me to have a lovely fucking morning. Without another second of hesitation, I reach for my backpack and pull out The Duke’s Design, a vaguely Regency-era romance novel about a headstrong woman and a duke who, in a rather convoluted chain of events, needs her to pose as his fiancé to prevent all his inheritance from going to his irredeemable rake of a younger brother.

The pretty pastel illustrated cover is far more suitable for public reading than the brazenly naked chest on The Mafia’s Princess. I haven’t touched that book since the night at the library—I just left it on Nina’s desk. I couldn’t even look at it without remembering the way Vincent tastes.

Which is absolutely not what I should be thinking about right now.

I take a long gulp of my coffee, so cold it makes the roof of my mouth ache, and start reading.

The Duke’s Design is clever and witty in a way that makes me want to read the author’s grocery lists. The main character, Clara, is probably a bit too progressive to be a believable upper-class white woman of early nineteenth-century England, but I’ve always preferred modern sensibilities to historical accuracy when it comes to romance novels. The duke is everything I expected—tall, broody, a little too concerned with propriety—but every now and again he has a line of dialogue that leads me to believe he’s going to say wicked things in bed, and I am very much into it.

I’m so into it, in fact, that I’m beginning to have a bit of a problem.

Jean shorts were a horrible idea. My thighs are sticking to the leather under me, and each time I squirm in the armchair—crossing and then uncrossing my legs—the seam shifts and presses against my crotch. It’s delicious and wonderful and absolutely not what I need while I’m in public.

I don’t register that someone is approaching my little table in the corner until it’s too late. But before I even lift my chin, I know it’s him. I recognize the sound of him clearing his throat. I recognize the feeling of being loomed over by someone who’s taller than anyone has any business being. So, when I tear my eyes away from the sex scene in front of me and look up, I’m hardly surprised to find I’m no longer alone.

Vincent Knight smiles down at me.

“How’s the book, Holiday?”