18 #2
As I wander from room to room, I admire the stunning stained-glass windows and the seemingly infinite shelves of books.
The collection of books were uncountable, including fiction that was tailored largely to student demand: the Bronte sisters, Mary Shelley, Charles Dickens, essentially a lot of nineteenth and twentieth-century classics, alongside contemporary writers like King and Patterson.
One could not, of course, overlook the Shakespeare section.
My personal favourite remains Romeo and Juliet , the greatest romantic tragedy ever written.
I have read every single one of his works.
Each year for my birthday my father gifts me a copy, sometimes in different editions, of them.
They sit on the shelf in my room, rather than the one in the sitting room.
But fiction is not my purpose today. I eventually got to the political economy section of the business school library.
The thought of falling behind on my own work, including my teaching assistant duties, fill me with a sense of dread bordering on the dramatic.
I know the material as well as the back of my hand, but nerves compel me to review the course thoroughly before those catty first-years find their way to my emails with even more questions.
My blonde hair is neatly tied back in a ponytail, secured with a white bow to match the crisp white blouse and tailored black skirt, complemented by black heeled Ferragamo Mary Janes.
I have my nose buried in the book I had been searching for, utterly absorbed, my legs moving almost automatically as I scan the pages, paying no attention to my surroundings.
A sudden jolt startles me; the book slips from my hands and clatters to the floor.
I look up instinctively, ready to glare at the culprit.
And there I come face to face with Arden. His arms are still brushing against mine, prompting me to shrug him off while my eyes dart around, ensuring no curious onlookers witnessed the moment.
“Did you somehow become blind recently, that you can’t tell where you’re going?” I snap.
“No,” he drawls, “but I think perhaps you might have, considering you bumped into me.”
“Did not,” I gasp.
“Did.”
“Not.”
“Did.”
I growl in exasperation. “It’s entirely impossible for you to admit when you’re in the wrong, isn't it?”
“I can,” he says, and I blink, startled at the admission before he adds, casually, “Except I’m never wrong. About anything.” It’s true, he took pleasure in being an insufferable know it all. I shoot him a scathing once-over.
“Piss off.” I say with spite and a smile. He simply returns it with a smile of his own. It is unnerving, the ease with which he smiles at me now, after years of refusal to look my way unless obliged.
His dark hair flops forward slightly over his thin glasses, and he wears a crisp collared shirt.
I blink rapidly to stop myself from falling under his spell, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?
It’s Wednesday.” A day he would normally spend in the weekly student union meeting, considering he is president.
“Why don’t you let me worry about my schedule,” he replies lazily. “Let us talk more about how you have been avoiding me.”
Yes, ever since he came over declaring that he is going to get me back after revealing years of secrets, I have been avoiding him. It is too much at once and I need time to process it.
“Negative. My mind has been consumed with more pressing matters,” I counter, edging toward a different aisle. He follows, silently, as my eyes pretend to concentrate on a book I no longer had the intention to read.
“I’d believe that,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “if I haven’t had your tongue down my throat.”
I whip my head around, horrified that anyone nearby might have heard, and hiss, “Can you keep your fucking voice down?”
I know what he is doing, playing cocky to pretend he hadn’t bared out his soul.
Now he is trying to avoid getting hurt, thinly afraid of rejection.
So, his plan is clearly to appeal to my lustful side.
Even as I move away from him, I feel the familiar, maddening tension between us.
My composure, once again, is paramount to keep a hold of, but I suspect it is on its way to tatters.
“That is not what you were saying when it was happening.”
“Stop it. You seduced me,” I protest, though my voice betrays far more than I intended.
“Now it’s my fault, is it?” he laughs, humour dancing in his tone.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Then you made it worse with your big profound revelation to make me confused and lose practical thinking. Everything we said that night, I’ve thought about it and we can’t do this, Richard. We’d be hurting someone very dear to us, and I can’t do that to her.”
We reach the aisle furthest from prying eyes. He brushes my hair aside, his hand lingering against my cheek, and I can’t help leaning into the touch despite my better judgment. Like his hands were made to feel me.
“And as I told you. I’m going to get you back,” he murmurs, each word deliberate and measured, the prelude to the inevitable. Then, without warning, he leans in and kisses me again.
Instantly, I am lost to the sensation: the feel of his fingers entwining in my ponytail, the way our mouths meld together with a ferocity that leaves me gasping.
I try to stifle every sound, yet when our tongues meld fully, a groan escapes us both, deep and involuntary.
He moves us further into a corner from where we were standing to keep us hidden.
His free hand goes under my shirt and kneads my breast over the bra. God.
Sudden, loud chatter makes me flinch, and I jump back from him, chastising myself for becoming so thoroughly comfortable.
“Oh my God, stop kissing me!” I exclaim, darting away, desperate to put as much distance between us as possible. I bury my face in my hands, and attempt to smooth down the wrinkles in my clothes brought on by our indiscretions.
And then I see her. Harley. Walking toward me, still looking hopelessly out of place with her boots, piercings, and what I can only describe as an excess of jewellery, something she has flatly refused to relinquish despite my polite protests.
But her utter indifference to what others thought makes it work.
She doesn’t notice me at first, so I jog lightly toward her, ignoring the persistent shadow of Arden behind me. I link arms with her instinctively, and she immediately goes on the defensive, whipping her head toward me as though ready to bite.
When she finally realises it is me who hijacked her, her expression softens slightly, though I was sure she’d have my head for touching her without asking. Clear signs of progress in our relationship.
“What are you doing?” she asks, barely paying Arden, who is trailing behind, any mind.
“Taking you with me to get lunch, so you can get a proper introduction to everyone where no alcohol is involved. Please, we’re finally all in one place,” I plead.
Daniel spent time at UAL because his course, Fashion Design Technology, is a shared programme between the two universities.
Daniel is also a master’s student but part time because he is secretly building his own brand without telling his mother, who is still pressuring him to join hers.
As a result, his one year course had become two.
Meanwhile, MJ is doing a two day placement every week for her creative writing course at her family’s publishing house, which is part of why her brothers are in the city.
She had initially gotten one at Penguin but they found out.
Bash had taken over the London office, mostly as a promotion but also to keep an eye on MJ.
The others followed because they move like triplets, they are born year after year of one another.
Bash is twenty-eight, Nate is twenty-seven and Gabe is twenty-six.
Next comes Devon, who is too busy with Swan Lake and one-on-one’s with Gigi, who also received a very kind reminder from above that the Showcase counts towards my final grade so she can’t not let me back on. We are too busy to spend time with one another during the day.
Harley’s eyes flick toward Richard, who has his hands in his pockets, watching us both. “Thorne.”
“Banjo,” he says.
That is all they give one another, which confuses me because after the incident at the bar they gave me the impression that they know one another more than they let on, but judging by that exchange, perhaps not.
She looks back to me, “I’d rather not but thanks.” She starts to pull her hands from mine but I keep it there firmly in place.
“Pleasepleaseplease, you promised to try.” I give her puppy dog eyes and pout but her face scrunches up in response. Which had me thinking she'll object once again but she mutters, “Fine. I’ll come.” A squeal leaves me and the joy radiating from me inescapable.
“Our conversation isn’t done, Saint.” Arden pitches in from behind.
“If we pretend he’s not here, maybe he’ll go away,” I murmur as we head toward the canteen.
“In your dreams,” he replies before I even finish speaking. I can hear the smirk in his voice without needing to look back.
“The two of you are so strange,” Harley says, eyebrows pinched as she darts a glance between us. “Honestly, proper weird.”
I ignore her quip and keep walking. The dining hall at Thorne can fit a small village, and considering almost everyone eats here, it is worth it.
The chefs are paid far too much not to make use of them, after all.
Once we collect our food, Harley and I begin weaving our way across the hall.
I offer a few polite waves to familiar faces, until a low whistle cuts through the chatter. Daniel.