Chapter 7 – Lena #2
"Look, I don't know you anymore. You're right. I just…wonder about you sometimes.”
He thinks about you. And you like that, you idiot. You like it way too much.
I picked at a loose thread on the chair arm because looking at him right now would be a catastrophic mistake.
"I was surprised to see you at the party. I never see you at any parties."
"Well, I don't usually go out,” I murmured. Between classes, my library job, and weekly calls with Mom's doctors, there wasn't much time for anything else.
"Yeah, I get that." He shoved a hand through his hair, jaw tight—a move I'd catalogued years ago and apparently never deleted. Damn it. "But you were there."
"Only because Kimmy begged me to go with her."
"And Kimmy is...?" he prompted, frowning slightly.
"My roommate."
"Well, I’m glad she dragged you out then." His voice dropped half a register as he spoke.
Don't. Don't do that thing where you read into everything he says.
I couldn’t let this go on. Whatever fucked-up alternate reality this was—where Trace Coulter was eye-fucking me in the Commons on a Sunday morning—I needed out before my body did something my brain would never forgive.
"I'm going." I stood up, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood, and grabbed my jacket off the back.
"Look, I can pay you something."
I spun back around. "Pay me? I don't want your money. Never did."
But you do need something else.
He exhaled hard, dropping his head and staring at the floor between his feet. "Fuck. I know. It's not what I meant. I’m just desperate okay?”
I turned to go and he moved fast, catching my elbow. His hand was warm and rough.
I didn’t pull away. I should have pulled away. Every functioning brain cell I had was screaming at my arm to move, and my arm, traitorous, touch-starved, absolutely useless, stayed exactly where it was.
"Look, I'm fumbling this? I do need your help. You name your price. Anything." His voice was low, almost urgent, and he was close enough that I could smell his soap—clean and woodsy, filed under things I will not be remembering later tonight.
I pulled my arm free, but the skin where he'd touched me still tingled.
Get it together, Hartwell.
Fuck it. It was worth a shot.
"Actually, I don't even know if you're capable of doing this, but there's this doctor. Mom's been trying to get in to see him forever. His schedule is booked solid. If you can pull any string you have to get her in, I'll do whatever you want."
The words left my mouth before I fully processed them, and I sat back down on the edge of the chair. My hands were shaking, so I laced my fingers together in my lap to hide it.
His brow furrowed and the smirk disappeared. He sat forward, knees close enough to almost brush mine. "I had heard your mom wasn't doing well. I don't know, I just thought if it was bad, someone would have said something to me. I'm sorry she's still sick."
I shrugged and stared at the worn leather of the couch arm. If I looked at his face right now, at whatever softness was there,I'd lose it. "She's tough. And we have each other."
"Your dad's not helping?"
My jaw tightened. "No. He's not helping. Besides, even if he did want to help, I wouldn't accept it. I don't need help from liars."
"Look, consider it done. Whether you help me or not, I'll see what I can do to help your mom."
Consider it done.
I pressed my nails into my palms under the table until the sting kept me steady.
Don’t you dare cry. Do not fucking cry in front of this man. He is not your savior. He is a Coulter, and Coulters come with strings whether they show you the thread or not.
“Anything else that you want?"
At that moment, movement caught my eye through the tall glass windows—Matt, his arm slung around the pretty blonde from the party, and she was laughing at something he said, leaning into him.
Matt glanced through the glass, and for a second his gaze caught mine—then slid to Trace, sitting across from me.
His jaw clenched. He looked away and kept walking.
The weird thing was, my stomach didn't drop the way I expected it to. It was more like a dull pinch—less I miss him and more you replaced me in seventy-two hours and you want me to see it. Not heartbreak. Wounded pride. The kind that made you want to win, not cry.
Interesting.
I turned back to Trace. He was watching me—not the window, not Matt. Me.
"Anything?"
He spread his hands. "Yeah. You name it, it's yours."
“If you’re using me to make yourself look stable and loved up and not a risk like your brother." I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward. "I need you to help me make someone jealous."
He lifted his brows. "Jealous? Who?"
My gaze darted back toward the window where Matt was disappearing around the corner with the blonde, and I nodded.
"Poindexter?"
I nodded again.
Trace sat back, the leather groaning under him, and grinned. "You're on."
“Oh and Trace?”
“Yeah?” He tipped his chin up at me in question.
“I don’t want any blowback from Trevor. You know how he gets. And that is some bullshit I don’t need right now.”
If I was going to do this, I had to be smart.
Since when have you ever been smart about Trace Coulter? Girl. You are so fucked