Chapter 6
Chapter Six
JADE
It was the kind of rain that didn’t fall—it clung.
A misty, quiet fog that swallowed the coastline and painted everything in grayscale. Even the seagulls had the sense to stay grounded.
I hadn’t left the house all day.
Shani’s texts had started at 8 a.m.
U better be at the polo match.
Tristan is shirtless. That’s a PSA.
Omg Jade don’t ghost me—what if I fall off a horse and die.
I didn’t answer.
The truth was, I couldn’t fake cheerleader energy today. Not when everything outside—and inside—was a low hum of static.
I sat curled up by the window, a mug of lukewarm tea in one hand and my aunt’s fluffiest orange tabby purring like an engine across my lap. The rain tapped softly against the old glass panes, rolling down like slow tears I didn’t have to shed anymore.
Mom had called that morning.
The investigation was still stalled.
No one talking.
The school was lawyered up.
The district’s retainer fees were being covered with taxpayer dollars while my parents were stuck hoping some overworked detective might actually give a damn.
"I’m just glad you're okay," she said softly. “You sound… lighter.”
I stared out at the fog. “I’m trying.”
“You don’t have to run anymore. Maybe you can make something new there. Join a club? Get back to soccer, maybe?”
My heart tripped at the mention.
The cleats and shin guards still lived under my bed.
Silent.
Untouched.
A version of me that used to be confident, fast, fearless on the field. Before all of it.
Before them.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I whispered.
“Just don’t hide forever, okay?”
And then she was gone, and I was alone again. Alone with my thoughts. With the ghosts of soccer fields and sweat-stained headbands and laughter that didn’t come with a filter.
A buzz pulled me out of it.
Text message.
Driver’s on his way. Be ready in 10.
I blinked.
Who is this? I typed back.
Seconds later, an eye-roll emoji appeared. Then an image: a custom coat of arms. Gold. Crowned. Royal Oaks crest stylized with swagger.
I stared at the screen.
No. Way.
Leo?
Bingo, baby.
Group project. Let’s go.
I gaped at the screen.
I don’t get into cars with strangers. Tell your driver to leave.
No response.
Thirty minutes later, the rumble of a car engine broke through the quiet. I shot up, tossing the cat from my lap and sprinted barefoot to the screen door.
No. Freaking. Way.
A chromed-out Mercedes coupe idled at the bottom of the gravel slope.
I barely had time to curse before I heard the door slam.
Leo Holt.
In my driveway.
Leather jacket. Jeans that probably cost more than my aunt’s monthly car payment. And that godforsaken cocky smirk that made me want to scream and kiss him all at once.
“You’re not invited here,” I called, stepping onto the porch, arms crossed over my oversized T-shirt.
He just raised a brow. “Didn’t ask for an invitation, Gitanilla.”
I frowned. “What did you just call me?”
“Gitanilla,” he said again, casually. “Means little gypsy. Suits you. Always vanishing, always showing up where you don’t belong.”
I bristled.
“I don’t care what you think it means,” I snapped. “You can’t just text and summon me like I’m your little prep school handmaid.”
His smirk deepened. “I don’t want a handmaid. I want a partner. For the project.”
“Not happening.”
I turned to go back inside.
Big mistake.
Suddenly, he was moving—down the gravel walk, fast. I spun around just as he reached me. One arm braced the doorframe above my head. His body caged mine without touching, all heat and rain and bad decisions. I was pressed between damp metal and six feet of stormy-eyed trouble.
His gaze dragged slowly down my face, pausing on my mouth.
Then lower.
My T-shirt clung to me from the rain, my shorts sticking to my thighs. I felt bare under that look. Like he was reading every secret I hadn’t even admitted to myself yet.
His jaw flexed. One fist clenched at his side like he was fighting the urge to touch.
My pulse thundered.
My chin lifted—daring him to kiss me. To try. Again.
He didn’t.
Instead, he reached out and gently brushed a wet strand of hair from my cheek.
“Go get changed, Gitanilla,” he said, voice low. Rough. “Grab your bag.”
“I never said I was going.”
He smiled. Wicked. Unapologetic.
“I’m not leaving without you.”
Despite my protests, I found myself whisked away. We didn’t chat much on the way to wherever he was taking me.
The car slowed in front of massive iron gates, complete with security cameras and stone columns. Beyond them, a long winding driveway sliced through a row of manicured hedges leading to a literal mansion.
I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”
Leo just smirked. “Surprised?”
“I don’t know. I thought you rich types saved your castles for Halloween.”
“Welcome to Tristan’s pad, the Rhode Island edition,” he said.
I arched a brow. “What, he doesn’t have a fleet of luxury vehicles to choose from?”
His jaw ticked, amused but tight. “Not at the moment. His parents are livid. Some model in the Hamptons is claiming the faint pink line on her stick is courtesy of Tristan.”
My head whipped toward him. “Seriously?”
Leo shrugged like it wasn’t the scandal of the week. “Doubtful it’s true. He’s not that dumb. But he was at a party he wasn’t supposed to be at. Now his dad’s lawyered up, and the whole fleet’s been locked in the garage until the ‘headache goes away.’”
I laughed despite myself. “And I’m the one you’re worried will ruin your reputation?”
Before he could respond, Tristan strolled out the front door like he was stepping onto a private runway. Polo shirt. Sunglasses. Annoyed.
He walked straight up to my side of the car and knocked on the window. “Shotgun’s mine, Bryan. Out.”
I unbuckled, already bracing for another round of royal treatment, when Leo leaned over—fast—to reach across me and yank the door handle first.
His forearm grazed across my chest.
Not intentional.
But definitely electric.
I froze. So did he.
His breath caught for just a second, and I swore the entire interior of the car tightened with it.
I bit my lip, heart thudding.
Tristan, mercifully oblivious, just groaned. “Seriously, my knees will be in my chin if I have to sit in the back.”
Leo pulled back slowly, gaze flicking to me—sharp, unreadable—and unlocked the door.
This time, I opened it myself.
I slid out, brushing past Tristan, who wasted no time collapsing dramatically into the passenger seat. “Finally. Some respect for the vertically gifted.”
I didn’t answer.
I got into the back, still feeling the ghost of Leo’s arm. Still hearing that sharp inhale like it shocked him, too.
He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door. The engine growled to life, low and mean, and then Leo stomped the gas—harder than necessary.
The tires kicked up gravel.
We peeled out of the driveway like we had something to prove.
And maybe we did.
The lounge was the kind of place that smelled like old money and aged whiskey.
Plush leather chairs. Low lighting. Shelves lined with antique books no one had touched in years, and a fireplace that probably lit with a remote. It was all very clubhouse-meets-Harvard-elites-only.
I stood awkwardly by the heavy oak table while Leo took the spot at the head like a king returning to his throne. His fingers drummed against the polished surface. Not impatient. Just calculating.
Tristan lingered near the wall-length windows, phone in hand, already texting with the kind of intensity that suggested drama.
He glanced over at Leo. “Hampton’s chick’s legal team just dropped a press release. Gonna go handle it before Dad has an aneurysm.”
Then, to me, with a wink: “Behave.”
And he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that… we were alone.
Leo didn’t speak right away.
He just sat there, watching me like he was waiting to see what move I’d make next. Like I was a puzzle he half-solved and wanted to rip apart just to put back together again.
I shifted my weight, pulled out a chair.
“I can order my own coffee, you know.”
His mouth curved—slow and smug. “You hesitated on the latte. I saw it. Vanilla oat milk, everything on the side. It’s your vibe.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t know my vibe.”
He leaned back, arms draped lazily over the armrests. “Don’t need to. I read people.”
I snorted. “No, you control people.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
“No. It’s not.”
He arched a brow. “Tell that to everyone else who keeps saying yes.”
I met his gaze, steady. “I’m not everyone else.”
Something in his expression shifted—barely, but enough to notice.
That flicker again. That interest. That pull.
He stood slowly, pushing the chair back without taking his eyes off me. “I know.”
I held my ground, even as he moved closer. Not predatory. Not fast. Just… sure. Like he already knew how this would end.
He stopped a foot away.
Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes. The barely-there scar on his jaw. The pulse ticking in his neck like he was not as calm as he pretended to be.
His voice was low. Measured. “Why did you leave the bonfire so fast?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Because I didn’t want to be turned into a meme. Again.”
His lips twitched. “You didn’t seem scared when you kissed me back.”
“I didn’t kiss you,” I said quietly. “You kissed me.”
Silence stretched.
The air between us thickened. Like velvet and lightning.
Leo stepped closer, now just inches away. “You ran. But you haven’t stopped looking at me since.”
I laughed once, sharp and soft. “You’re used to girls falling over themselves for you, aren’t you?”
He tilted his head. “And you’re used to pretending you’re not one of them.”
I should’ve slapped him.
Should’ve stormed out.
But instead, I just said, “I’m not one of them.”
And he whispered, “That’s what makes you dangerous.”
His hand lifted—slowly—like he was going to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, or maybe trace the line of my jaw. My breath caught.
But at the last second, he stopped.
Just let his fingers hover.
Not touching.
Almost.
Then he stepped back, eyes unreadable again.
“Let’s work,” he said.
And just like that, the spell broke.
But the ache in my chest?
Still there.
Still waiting.
Still burning.
We were supposed to be working.
There was a laptop open, notebooks spread out, and the smell of truffle fries drifting in from the hallway like the universe was mocking me.
But every time Leo leaned over my shoulder, the air shifted.
Every time his hand brushed mine while reaching for a pen or a highlighter, my skin sparked like a faulty wire.
I was trying—I really was—to focus on the project. Something about 18th-century colonial trade and the economic decline of British influence. Riveting stuff.
But I couldn’t concentrate with him this close.
Or with his voice that low.
Or with the way his knee kept tapping mine beneath the table like a silent dare.
“You spelled tariff wrong,” he said, nudging my notebook with the back of his hand.
“I did not.” I looked down.
Okay. I did. My brain was fried. My body? Buzzing.
“Do I distract you, Gitanilla?” he murmured.
“Not even a little,” I lied.
Leo leaned back, letting his fingers trail lazily across the rim of his iced coffee. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I forced myself to look away. To jot something—anything—down in the margins. Except now I’d drawn three hearts and a sword through them.
Awesome.
I slammed the notebook shut.
“You know, some of us actually need this grade.”
He smirked. “I’m acing this class.”
“I’m trying to.”
“You are. Trust me.” His tone softened for just a second. “You’re sharp. Too sharp to hide in shadows.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Compliments from Leo Holt felt like rigged coins. Shiny, heavy, and probably cursed.
That’s when the door creaked.
Tristan walked back in, tossing his phone on the couch and plopping into a leather chair across from us.
His sunglasses were finally off, but his smirk was very much intact.
“Well,” he drawled. “How’s the sexual tension—sorry, I mean—studying going?”
I flushed. Leo didn’t blink.
“Productive,” Leo said coolly.
“Mm-hmm.” Tristan leaned back, fingers laced behind his head. “Because from over here, it looks like you’re trying to flirt your way through U.S. History.”
“I’m not—” I started, too fast.
Leo just raised an eyebrow, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You two gonna kiss again or start color-coding flashcards?”
I shot Tristan a glare. “Don’t you have a scandal to go deal with?”
He laughed, unbothered. “Handled. For now.”
Leo tapped the table, drawing my attention back to the open laptop. “Focus, Gitanilla. We’ve got two more sections to finish.”
My eyes narrowed. “Stop calling me that.”
“Make me,” he murmured.
My breath caught—and so did Tristan’s laughter.
“Damn,” he muttered. “You’ve met your match, Holt. And she’s not impressed.”
Leo didn’t answer.
But he didn’t stop watching me, either.
Not when I picked up the pen again. Not when my hand brushed his. Not even when I refused to look at him, heart pounding like he already owned every secret I’d buried.
Because this? This wasn’t studying.
This was war.
And I had no idea who was winning.
I couldn’t sleep.
I tried everything—hot shower, chamomile tea, even counting ceiling cracks in the plaster above my bed.
But nothing worked.
Because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was Leo Holt.
The way he looked at me across the table like he was dissecting me with those gold-flecked eyes. Like I was some puzzle he didn’t want to solve—just unravel.
And, the worst part?
I liked it.
My notebook still sat on the desk, notes from the study session crumpled where my hand clenched the page too tight.
His handwriting was on the margin—one word circled, corrected in ink that smelled faintly like expensive cologne and sin.
He’d leaned in to show me something on the screen and his forearm brushed against mine. I’d felt that single point of contact everywhere.
Now, curled under a blanket with one of my aunt’s cats purring on my chest, I stared at my ceiling, wide awake.
“Stop thinking about him,” I whispered to myself.
But my body didn’t listen.
Neither did my memory.
It kept replaying the way his voice dipped low when he said my name.
The glint in his eye when he smirked.
The flare in his nostrils when Tristan pulled me against his side.
Jealousy looked good on Leo.
Too good.
I sighed and rolled over, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the groan that wanted out.
This was bad.
He was dangerous.
And I was already slipping.