Chapter 10
TROY
Alex, Freddie, and I walk toward CC’s Coffee House, the best spot on campus for overpriced caffeine.
“I just don’t see how pushing electric cars fixes the bigger issue,” Freddie is saying, shaking his head. “Most of the world’s electricity still comes from fossil fuels. Making batteries isn’t exactly great for the environment either.”
Alex lets out an exasperated sigh, clutching her reusable coffee cup.
“Okay, but it’s still better than gas-powered cars. You can’t tell me a Tesla is as bad as some gas-guzzling truck that gets twelve miles to the gallon.”
“I’m just saying”—Freddie shrugs—“people act like electric cars are this magical solution when really, we need way bigger structural changes—”
“Tell that to Alfie,” I cut in, smirking. “Good luck prying his precious BMW M4 out of his hands.”
Alex groans dramatically. “Don’t even get me started on Alfie and his car. I already tried to have that conversation, and it did not go well.”
Freddie grins. “What do you mean?”
“He gave me a 45-minute lecture on synthetic fuel research and the future of hydrogen engines,” Alex mutters. “And then he had the audacity to ask if I wanted a ride to CC’s after.”
“Did you take it?”
“Well, yes. It was cold!” she admits.
Freddie laughs. “I love that guy. And you, Lexie.” He pulls her in, and she giggles into his chest. I shake my head as we step into CC’s, about to say something else—until I spot Delilah.
She’s already here, sitting alone at the farthest table in the back corner, curled around a coffee like it’s a shield. Hood up, earbuds in, gaze fixed on her laptop like she’s trying to block out the entire world.
She hasn’t seen me.
I glance at Freddie and Alex. They’re still caught up in whatever inside joke they’ve slipped into, brushing past the counter like they don’t even notice I’ve slowed down.
“I’ll catch you guys later,” I say, already peeling off toward the counter to quickly order.
“Yeah, see ya!” Alex calls, not really looking.
“Bye, man,” Freddie echoes, distracted.
Sure, Delilah Greer and I butted heads at Camp Pinehaven all summer, but that was different.
There was a competition involved between us.
We were on separate teams. And maybe I was a little smug about winning.
And maybe she accused me of cheating. And maybe I did call her an uptight control freak who needed to lighten the hell up.
But this time we’re working together. The past is in the past and all that.
Grabbing my iced coffee, I head toward her, hands in my pockets, trying not to smirk.
Delilah’s scowl deepens as I settle into my chair. She looks so deeply unamused that I almost feel bad.
Instead, I stir my iced coffee with my straw, letting the silence stretch out.
She glares harder.
I grin wider.
“Hawkins,” she finally says.
“Greer,” I lean back like I have all the time in the world. “Now, firstly, and I only ask for the health of the project, did you get your orgasm the other night? I prefer my project partners nice and relaxed.”
She exhales through her nose, like she’s trying to keep herself from strangling me.
“We need to set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” I raise a brow.
“Yes. Rules. You know, the things people follow so they don’t completely ruin each other’s lives?”
“Sounds fake.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Jesus Christ, I hate you already.”
“Give it time,” I say cheerfully. “I grow on people.”
“Like mold.”
“Yes.”
Delilah pulls out a notebook, flips to a fresh page, and uncaps a pen like she’s about to draft a legal contract.
“Rule one,” she says, not looking up. “No being late.”
“I wasn’t late,” I point out.
She snaps her eyes up. “You weren’t early. That means you were late.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
“If we have a meeting, I expect you to be there on time. I have a busy schedule and I cannot afford to waste time waiting around for you.” She underlines it twice.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, purely to be obnoxious.
“Sure thing, boss.”
Delilah narrows her eyes, “Rule two, and I cannot believe I have to specify this. No asking any questions about my sex life,”
“You were the one who told me about it the other night!”
“That was before we were partners.”
I pout. “Ok well, just so you know that’s a one-way rule. Anything you want to know about a good sex life, go ahead and ask away. I’m an open book, Mittens.”
She purses her lips and ignores me.
“Rule three,” she continues. “No half-assing this. If you’re not going to pull your weight, tell me now so I can find someone else.”
“Relax, Greer. I’ll pull my weight. And also, you can’t find anyone else. That’s why we’re paired up.”
“Forgive me if I don’t have faith in the guy who said his top skill is winning people over with his ‘movie-star smile.’”
I bark a laugh, she’s referring to day one of camp Pinehaven when we had to all share our top skill.
I feel bad that I can’t remember hers, the only reason I even said that was to make this kid, Rae, in my group smile because he was feeling homesick that morning and I told him I’d make him laugh all summer.
“Hey, it’s a documented skill for a reason,” I say, flashing it at her.
She does not look impressed.
Which is kind of a shame. I mean, not that I care.
It’s just that most people—hell, basically everyone—tends to be at least a little susceptible to my charm.
But Delilah seems completely immune. It makes me want to explain to her the real reason I said that at camp, not to be a dick but to make Rae laugh.
“Rule four,” she presses on, ignoring me completely. “No disappearing when there’s work to do. I’m not going to chase you down if something needs to get done.”
“Got it,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows. “Now, my turn.”
Delilah frowns. “Your turn?”
“Yeah. I want a rule too.”
She crosses her arms. “Fine. What’s your rule?”
“No stress-monstering.”
Her brows pull together. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to want to spiral over every tiny detail,” I say, waving a hand at her aggressively neat workspace.
“You’re going to make a color-coded timeline and stress out when we’re not three days ahead of it.
You’re going to assume I don’t know what I’m doing, even though I’m gonna be the one holding this team together. And I would like a rule to ban that.”
Delilah lets out an actual laugh. A short, incredulous one.
“You? Holding this team together?”
“Obviously,” I say, stretching lazily. “This competition is all about balancing technical skill and architectural design. That means we need my engineering expertise to keep your plans from literally collapsing in on themselves.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, very deliberately, she jots something down in her notebook.
I squint at the page.
“Did you just write ‘murder Hawkins’ in your notes?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Be on time next time, and maybe you’ll live.”
Delilah taps her pen against her notebook, watching me like she’s waiting for me to screw this up already.
I raise my coffee like a toast. “Then I officially agree to the rules of engagement.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Break them and I’ll do this on my own.”
“Beautiful,” I say, taking a sip. “This is already going so well.”
“We need to submit our names officially,” she says, cutting straight to business.
“Cool,” I say, taking a long sip of my coffee. “Go for it.”
“We both have to do it. There’s a form.”
“There’s always a form.” I groan.
“Yes, because that’s how things work in life.”
I pull out my phone, scrolling through my emails until I find the one with the submission link. Delilah has already filled out her section. I add my name, major, and student ID, then hand her my phone so she can double-check it.
She scans it quickly, then nods, clicking submit.
“There. Officially stuck with each other,” she mutters, handing my phone back.
“Try to contain your excitement,” I say.
“Okay, now we need to set a schedule,” she continues, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook.
“We just did that.”
“No, we submitted our names. We need actual meeting times.”
“Right. Can’t we just meet whenever we meet? Decide on the fly? Go wid da flow?” I move my arm in a wave motion.
Her glare sharpens.
“Absolutely not,” she says flatly.
I grin.
“Mondays and Thursdays,” she decides, writing it down before I can even pretend to argue. “After classes, around five. That work for you?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
“No gym emergencies? No ‘sorry, I forgot’ excuses?”
“Wow, the trust here is thriving.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Mondays and Thursdays,” I repeat, holding up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”
She eyes me like I’ve personally wronged her entire family, then writes it down.
“And just so we’re clear,” she continues, clicking her pen aggressively, “I take this seriously. This is a big deal to me, I have to win this grant. Ok?”
“Good thing it’s important to me too, Mittens.”
“We’ll see.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “You really think I’d sign up for this if I didn’t want to win?”
She studies me for a second, like she’s debating if she actually believes me.
“I’m a winner, Greer,” I say, grinning. “Or did you forget summer already?”
Her expression hardens instantly.
“We are not talking about camp.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Come on, Mittens, you’re not still mad about—”
“I said we’re not talking about it,” she snaps, her voice edged with finality.
I smirk, because now I’m definitely going to bring it up again.
“They said we have a week to visit the site and start brainstorming,” she says, tapping the edge of her notebook. “But I want to get ahead.”
“Why do I feel like you've already made a list?”
Delilah doesn't confirm or deny it. She just flips to another page.
There's already a list. I try not to laugh.
“I've already been by the site once,” she admits. “The location's actually pretty good—south-facing, which means we could incorporate solar panels. The structure's sound, but it's horribly outdated. I'm thinking we could repurpose most of it rather than tear it down completely.”
“Delilah Greer, you naughty girl”—I lean forward—“why have you already been to the fuck-toilets?” She rolls her eyes but I notice a slight blush when I said naughty. Interesting.
“Ok, fuck-toilets? Really?”
I shrug. “That’s what they are.”
“I have not done that there, thank you very much. And, even if I had, asking about it is an infraction on rule number 2. You’re officially on a warning, Hawkins.”
“Whatever. Handcuff me, baby.”
Her scowl deepens so far and I’m worried I might actually be towing the line of her tolerating me, so I quickly 360.
“So your idea, I like it. I feel like most people might be going down the rip it all out route since it’s so dilapidated there, so this could be a better angle,” I say. “Repurpose into what, though?”
“That's what we need to figure out. The brief says it should be sustainable, functional, and enhance campus life. I was thinking maybe a mix of study space and social area? But I want to do a proper site survey first—check out the surroundings, measure everything, see what kind of foot traffic it gets at different hours.”
“We should map the sun path too,” I add. “If we're going with solar on the roof, I'd want to calculate the optimal panel angles and placement. Also need to look at water management—that area floods every spring.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “That's... actually a good idea.”
“Gee, thanks, Greer. High praise.”
We throw around a few more ideas, narrowing down some basic directions. Nothing concrete yet—we need to visit the site together first—but at least we're not completely winging it.
When we're done, Delilah closes her notebook and exhales.
She rolls her eyes at me, and I just sit there, grinning.
This is bad. This is so bad.
Because I’ve dated. I’ve flirted. I’ve hooked up with enough people to know what it’s supposed to feel like when you’re just having fun.
And this? This is not that.
I don’t just want to kiss her. I mean, I do want to kiss her. To kiss that smart smirk off her mouth. I want to get it out of my system, but I also want to know what she’s thinking every moment of this meeting, and that is a problem.
And that’s... new.
I push those feelings down, they are not going to help me win this project.
“Okay. We meet at the site on Monday, 5pm?”
“Works for me.”
She nods, gathering her things.
I watch as she organizes everything with ridiculous precision, tucking her notebook away, adjusting her laptop, making sure her pen is in exactly the right spot in her bag. She's meticulous. You could say organized to the point of insanity.
“See you Monday, Greer,” I say, grabbing my coffee and standing.
“Try not to be late,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Wouldn't dream of it, Mittens.”
She stiffens mid-step.
Turns, slowly.
“Stop calling me that.”
I grin, taking a slow sip of my coffee.
“No promises. It wasn't one of the rules!”