4
Don’t Make Deals with Rich Men — Adelaide
Approaching the university on Monday morning was mesmerizing. Towering above us was a castle of limestone wrapped in climbing ivy and vines, with archaic archways and roofs that met in triangular peaks reaching into the sky.
Townsen University sat on the edge of London, with the front courtyard of the school immersed in the city, and the back surrounded by acres of green grass, gardens, and courtyards.
Students in blazers, trousers, and tweed skirts waltzed up the front entrance of the school; a wide staircase that ascended towards a set of doors fit for a horse-drawn carriage.
Since this was Sabrina’s second year at Townsen, she helped us navigate the rotating schedules and various entrances. She wore a dreaded look as she broke it down.
The poor thing was a biology major who hated Biology. It was the compromise she and her dads made when they let her transfer to Townsen last year; they’d pay the tuition and let her minor in interior design if she studied biology.
“The left and right hallways will bring you to professors’ and administrators’ offices, which also lead to the courtyards and gardens at the back of the building,” she explained slowly. “Now let me see your schedules so we can get to class on time.”
Even after she rifled through everything in great detail, twice, I was still confused. But she ushered us off to our classes anyway, dropping me at a large doorway that was supposedly my Social Media Marketing class.
Windows covered the left wall of the class, looking into one of the courtyards. While a podium and chalkboard stood at the front. The room smelt of fresh wood and ink. About half of the class was already seated. I took the first seat I saw right as the professor walked in.
“Good morning, students,” she sang
“Good morning, Professor Emmerson,” everyone greeted.
Sylvie Emmerson. In real life. Not on my dingey computer screen.
The corporate mogul was in her late 50s sporting a tan pantsuit and passionate smile, with dark blond hair chopped short. Everyone who worked in marketing or wanted to, knew her. She worked for several luxury brands, building up their brand identity and loyalty for over three decades. After retiring, she began teaching at Townsen. I had dreamt of having her as a mentor ever since.
She spread out papers on the podium. “Welcome to—”
“Apologies, Sylvie!”
The entire class turned to the voice, some even gasping. At least all the women in the class had because it was—
“Dorian, it’s Professor Emmerson, ” she corrected.
Holy shit . I held onto my chin to keep my jaw in place. Please tell me my vision has taken a turn for the worst and that’s not actually him?
Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me … What were the chances of him not recognizing me?
I just needed to sit still and be quiet, just like they did with dinosaurs in the movies.
“Yes, Professor Emmerson,” he said smiling, nodding his head.
He brushed a hand through his hair, moving pieces out of his face like he was in a romance movie. Clad in black trousers and a rustled button-down (with a few buttons at the top undone). He didn’t look as clean-cut as he had Saturday night, but this time he looked rich . It was in the lavish fabric of his clothes and how he carried himself in front of everyone in the class. Casual. Haughty.
The way every movement felt like a slow-motion moment.
Like when Hugh Grant entered Bridget Jones’s Diary .
I could still feel the softness of that hair when it had brushed my forehead on the train and at his flat.
I cleared my throat. It went unnoticed. I could stand on my desk and start reciting the four Ps of marketing and go undetected. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the notorious Dorian Blackwood who hadn’t been spotted in London since the start of the year, according to The Scandal Sheet .
London Today, ModeSense, RBY, Celeb Chronicle , and every other news outlet I read from last night described Dorian Blackwood as the UK’s most coveted bachelor, despite the fact that he was only in his early twenties.
Rising to the limelight for his “physical attributes,” dating life, and oh—extremely famous parents: actress, Anna Blackwood, and film director, Finn Blackwood.
The parent part was buried under numerous headlines of who he was (allegedly) dating. Models, singers, daughters of iconic 90s actors, daughters of iconic 90s models.
Apparently, the men in England were as bad as the ones in America. Wonderful.
“Now take a seat so I can finally start class,” Professor Emmerson said.
Dorian finally moved away from the entryway. I turned my head down immediately.
His stare moved across the room deciding which empty seat to fill. Quickly scanning the desks, his gaze almost skipped me, almost. His eyebrows slightly rose, followed by the tilt of his head, walking toward the empty desk in front of me, and taking a seat.
There goes the dinosaur tactic.
“It’s you,” he whispered. His face bloomed with surprise. It made his lips look even fuller, making it difficult to remember that this wasn’t the person I met the other night, but the person I read about online.
My spine stiffened. I hadn’t planned for this.
“Sit down, Mr. Blackwood,” Professor Emmerson ordered.
I’d need a plan. Because apparently, I was going to have to fix this. No more hoping to go unnoticed when he was in the same class as me for an entire semester.
As excited as I was for this class, it was impossible to pay attention now. I wrote down the words coming out of Professor Emmerson’s mouth about the semester-long project, but I didn’t register any of it. The back of Dorian’s head kept pulling me back to Saturday night when we ran along the Thames River, moonlight flickering off the top of his head as if to create a constant halo.
I needed to get as far away from him as possible.
Maybe it was possible that he could be a gentleman about this situation and never speak a word about the other night. But I wasn’t taking any chances.
The moment the class hour was up, I followed him out of the room. Time for crisis management.
His long legs were difficult to keep up with. But I did my best to rush without looking like a maniac to catch up. Then the hall flooded with students as a nearby room emptied out.
I lost him.
Ugh . I brushed a hair out of my face and continued down the corridor. I squeezed through the groups of students, whose fancy tweed and wool brushed my shoulders. I’d have to leave the Dorian-situation alone until I could talk it over with Mia. She’d help me formulate a plan.
Pulling my phone from my bag, I began typing a message in our group chat, until a hand latched onto my arm and yanked me into an empty classroom.
“What happened the other night?” Rye— Dorian asked, closing the door behind me.
“Excuse me?” I asked, pulling my arm from his grasp.
“The other night: the club, the dancing, the Tube, my flat. You left while I was sleeping.” He waited for my reaction or some realization.
Maybe I could convince him that he had the wrong person. He’s probably dated enough women to mix them up.
“I’m sorry, you have the wrong person,” I apologized. I turned and grabbed the doorknob. But he was speaking again.
“I may’ve drank but I wasn’t that pissed, Jesus. You wore that same skirt. And I remember because I took—”
“Fine, fine, you caught me. I may’ve lied about not remembering you, but you lied about your name.”
His eyebrows scrunched together. “I didn’t lie about my name—it’s a nickname. They don’t have those back in the States?” Smartass tone .
“Who gives someone they’re meeting for the first time a nickname?” I questioned.
“A person with privacy problems.” He crossed his arms. “Who pretends not to recognize someone they slept with?”
“Someone who obviously thinks it was a mistake.”
His brow ticked upward with surprise. “I could’ve sworn I wasn’t the only one who had a good time.”
“Piss-drunk though, remember?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Now, I’d prefer if you never spoke to me again. Or acted like we’d never met. Yes, that would be better. So it was nice meeting you, but no.” Opening the door—
He placed a hand above mine, shutting it. “Woah, what? Why not?” he asked.
Looking up at him, all that filled me was an abundance of agitation. I huffed, “It’s complicated.”
“I can be very persuasive.”
How could someone be handsome enough that I wanted to lean into their cologne-like coffee scent, while also being equally maddening? I wanted to push him off the London Bridge and let the problem float away.
“Are you always like this?” I asked.
“An amusing conversationalist?”
I narrowed my gaze. “Do you know what people say about you? They call you the ‘UK Bachelor.’ ‘The Man That Doesn’t Repeat.’ One article even called you a drunk pig.”
“I don’t remember it being a crime to drink.”
“Maybe not, but it’s an unappealing look.”
“Unappealing to whom?” he argued. “Couldn’t have been you.”
“Maybe I was just looking for a good night!” I admitted.
“Says the woman who didn’t want to dance.”
“What do you want me to say, Rye—” I shut my mouth.
His eyes darted over my face. “I want you to say that you remember Saturday night the way I did.”
“Not all of us are great at understanding when a woman is no longer interested, and that’s okay,” I reassured him, patting his chest.
“You’re really not going to say why we can’t know each other?” he asked.
“Did my previous responses not answer that question already?” My hand waited on the doorknob.
“What do I have to do to get you to go on a date with me?” he asked with purpose, finally removing his hand from the door, and stuffing it into his pocket.
“A date? Are you insane?” I gawked.
“That’s not the usual response I get.”
“What do I have to do for you to leave me alone?” I asked with a lack of patience. I could feel my cheeks turning burning with frustration.
A moment of silence passed. God, I didn’t think he was actually going to take a moment to consider my question. What could this man possibly want from me? Wasn’t being rich enough?
He opened his mouth. “I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll keep our night quiet if you help me pass this class.”
“The class just started …”
“I’ve taken it before, so as you can imagine, it didn’t go well.”
“I work almost every day after class. So you’d have to come to me.”
“That’s fine.” He waited for me to say yes.
I considered his offer, trying to calculate how this plan could go wrong. It took only two seconds to compile the list of things that could go awry. But the bottom line was that no one could know what happened between us.
Hence why I said, “Okay.”