Chapter 3 #2
I hurry to catch up, again, cursing both his long legs and my choice of sandals. “You know, normal people wait for an answer before walking away. They also make eye contact and use complete sentences, but I guess we’re not aiming that high today.”
“You were going to say yes.”
“That’s not the point—”
“You’re following me, aren’t you?”
I groan—somewhere between frustration and a dying whale. Very attractive.
CC’s is mercifully quiet for a Monday morning. Most students have already fled for summer break, which is probably why we’re even in this mess to begin with. If campus hadn’t been so empty that night... if Alfie hadn’t started talking about the universe in that stupidly passionate way of his…
I shake the thought off as Alfie steps up to the counter, already pulling out his wallet.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“I can get my own coffee,” I mutter, rummaging through my bag.
It’s a disaster zone in there—half a granola bar, a stray pen, receipts from places I don’t remember going. Where is my wallet? My brain flashes to the mess I left behind in my rush this morning. Great. Probably buried under my laundry.
Alfie just watches me. Waiting.
Then he sighs and turns to the barista. “Black coffee. And she’ll have a peppermint tea.”
“And a muffin!” I blurt.
He raises an eyebrow at me. The muffin judgment is palpable.
I glare. “Yes, fun sponge, a muffin at ten a.m.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I swear I see a flicker of amusement as he hands over his card before I can protest.
And that’s when it hits me.
He didn’t just guess my order.
He knows it.
Not only the tea—because coffee makes me bounce off the walls after noon—but the fact that peppermint is my default when I’m stressed.
A slow, traitorous warmth spreads up my neck.
I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat soak in. “You remember my order,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around breathless.
Alfie shrugs. “You’re at our house enough.”
His fingers twitch against his own coffee cup. It’s subtle—barely a movement—but I see it.
Right. Einstein’s. Their house. The safest, least romantic place imaginable.
Einstein’s, as I’ve nicknamed it, thanks to the ridiculous poster of Einstein sticking his tongue out in their living room like some kind of physics department fever dream.
Home to four guys who’ve become fixtures in my life these past two years at UMS. My brother Troy (resident mother hen with his perfect golden-boy looks that match mine a little too well - thanks, genetics), my best friend Alex’s boyfriend Freddie (gym bro with a heart of gold), the human golden retriever Ethan who is typically sprawled across their couch, his 6’1” frame taking up way too much space, strawberry blonde hair standing out against the dull colors in the room.
And, of course, Alfie.
Alfie, who is still watching me over the rim of his coffee.
We grab a table by the window, and I try to ignore how quiet campus feels now. How empty.
Alex is in California, living her dream. Freddie’s still here, pretending he’s fine, but I know he checks his phone every five minutes for her texts. They make long-distance look easy, but I already know from Alex that it’s not.
I take a sip, watching Alfie over the rim of my cup. “You don’t even like tea,” I comment, narrowing my eyes.
He shifts slightly. “What?”
“You always make a face when Alex orders anything herbal. You called chamomile ‘sad grass juice’ last semester.”
He huffs out a reluctant chuckle. “It is sad.”
“But you remembered mine.”
That throws him. Just for a second.
His grip tightens on his coffee, his mouth pressing into a flat line. Like he didn’t mean to give himself away.
My pulse trips.
“So,” I say, fiddling with my tea bag, trying to fill the sudden charged silence, “about Friday night—”
“Nothing happened Friday.”
I blink. Okay, wow. Straight to the shutdown.
“I mean, not what happened, because obviously we’re not talking about that part.” My face heats up. “The hallway part. Or any parts involving…”
His mouth twitches.
I absolutely do not think about his mouth.
“…anything involving your lips on mine,” I finish weakly, clearing my throat.
“What I meant was the sprinkler incident. Which was totally Ethan’s fault, by the way.
And now we’re stuck doing sixty hours of community service because we’re covering for him, which is actually kind of nice of us, if you think about it, but also kind of unfair because we were trying to get Alex’s poster and—”
“Tara.”
His voice cuts through my spiraling ramble like a scalpel.
I snap my mouth shut.
He leans back in his chair, watching me. Unreadable.
“Breathe.”
I take a sip of tea instead. A long one.
It doesn’t help.
It doesn’t help that he’s looking at me with those dark eyes that I now have seen up close. Very up close. Like, pressed-against-geology-display-cases-while-discussing-rock-formations close. That I know exactly what he sounds like when he loses control.
Not that I’ve been replaying it or anything.
Much.
“Right. Breathing. Good idea,” I mumble.
He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “This court-mandated friendship is already going great.”
I brighten. “That’s what I was saying! We should probably talk about it.” I clear my throat.
“The situation,” he deadpans.
“Yes! The situation where Ethan channeled his inner pyromaniac and somehow we’re the ones suffering.”
Alfie says nothing.
Because he knows exactly which part of this situation I’m actually talking about.
I shift, lowering my voice. “And the security camera footage conveniently only caught us...”
I hesitate.
His eyes flick to mine.
“…kissing,” I finish, barely above a whisper.
The air between us pulls tight.
I immediately take a huge bite of my muffin. Mostly to shut myself up. If I’m eating, I can’t talk.
Alfie takes a slow sip of his coffee. Unbothered.
Except for the way his fingers tap once against his cup.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” His voice is low, smooth, infuriatingly amused.
I pause mid-chew. “Excuse me?”
He tilts his head. “Because if I remember correctly, you were practically mouth fucking me.”
I nearly choke.
I manage to swallow, my face burning nuclear hot. “Excuse me! You’re the one who had me pressed against the display case trying to tongue-fuck my—” I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified, as several students turn at the only other occupied tables.
He lifts a single eyebrow. “And?”
“And you started it!” I whisper, loud enough to reach only his ears. “You pulled me into that hallway like some sexy science nerd—”
“Sexy science nerd?”
I wave my hands aggressively. “Not the point!”
His lips twitch. Like he’s fighting a smirk.
Oh my god.
He’s enjoying this.
I stab my muffin with unnecessary force.
“Anyway”—I huff, regaining control—“the point is, we’re taking the fall for Ethan’s fire experiment, just because the only working security camera caught us engaging in… extracurricular studies.”
He takes another sip of coffee.
Doesn’t react.
Doesn’t deny it.
I narrow my eyes. “Nothing to say?”
Slowly, he leans forward, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping to that low, measured tone that should not make my stomach flip.
“Tara.”
I swallow. “Yeah?”
A pause.
Then, a smirk so subtle, so infuriating, it should be illegal.
“You’ve got muffin crumbs on your face.”
I die.
“Oh my god.” I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Can you—can you maybe say something useful?”
His brow lifts. “Like what?”
“I don’t know!” I wave a hand. “How about acknowledging that we’re in this weird situation? That we now have to spend sixty hours together after… after—”
He just watches me.
Waiting.
Asshole.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I accuse.
His lips press together, like he’s barely holding back a smirk.
I point aggressively. “That. That face. You are enjoying this.”
“Enjoying what?” he asks, all innocence and indifference, which is a bold-faced lie.
“Watching me spiral while you sit there being all…” I gesture at him wildly. “You.”
His head tilts. “All me?”
“Yes! All tall and broody and probably thinking deep thoughts about rocks or something while I’m over here—”
He actually laughs.
A real one. Deep, effortless.
And I hate how warm it feels.
How it sends something traitorous and stupid fluttering in my chest.
But as rapidly as it appears, it vanishes—his expression closing off like a door slamming shut.
And I hate that even more.
He exhales, eyes dropping back to his coffee.
“This can’t happen again.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs.
I blink. “What, the breaking and entering or the… other stuff?”
His gaze flicks up, steady. Unreadable. Too careful.
“Any of it.”
Something cold and sharp settles in my stomach.
I know he’s right.
If Troy ever finds out what really happened that night—not just the kissing, but the fact that we’re lying—he’d lose his damn mind.
Still.
Alfie says it so easily, like it’s a switch he can just flip off.
I slump back in my chair. “Yeah.”
His fingers tap once against his coffee cup. A single, fleeting movement.
“So.” His voice is steady. Practiced. “We do our sixty hours, and we forget it ever happened.”
I nod.
But my mind doesn’t.
Because right now, it’s very much remembering—his hands tangled in my hair, the way he’d smiled against my lips when I whispered something about wanting his tongue on mine. Not very creative, I’ll admit, but it was effective.
He clears his throat.
“We should figure out our schedule.”
I latch onto that topic like a lifeline.
“Right,” I say quickly. “Schedule. Good. Very professional.”
His lips twitch.
Oh no.
I cannot be attracted to a twitch.
We agree to start this week, as soon as possible.
I offer to email Janine for us to organize meeting her.
“I should go,” I say, grabbing my bag.
Alfie nods.
“Wait.”
I pause.
He stands, looming over me (of course, he does), and steps closer.
Too close.
Dangerously close.
His hand lifts—slow, deliberate.
My breath catches as his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.
“Crumbs.”
The touch is barely there, but it might as well be a lightning strike.
My pulse rockets.
His eyes flicker—just for a second—then drop to my lips.
My stomach tightens.
We’re standing too close. Too warm.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne, mixed with something distinctly him.
Close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw that I definitely do not want to drag my fingers over.
I swallow. “Thanks.”
Neither of us moves.
His hand lingers—a breath away from my skin.
For a psychotic moment, I think he might lean in.
A laptop crashes to the floor somewhere behind us.
We both jump.
Alfie steps back—too quickly, like he’s just remembered himself.
His expression is smooth, unreadable.
“You should go.”
And he doesn’t even look flustered.
I practically flee.
Skin still tingling where he touched me.
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.
I am so screwed.
Like, failed-your-midterms, drunk-texted-your-ex, agreed-to-sixty-hours-with-the-hot-geology-nerd-who-kisses-like-he’s-trying-to-prove-a-scientific-theory level of screwed.