Chapter 20
TARA
“Hey.” Alfie catches my arm as we’re leaving the restaurant, letting Paige and Ethan walk ahead. “We might have a problem.”
Something in his expression makes my stomach drop. “What kind of problem?”
He rubs his neck. “I just found out why my family’s really in town. There’s a university donor event on in two days, and they’ve extended their stay an extra couple of nights because apparently, they love it here so much.”
“Okay?”
“My family are major donors. Mother’s already told the organizers you’ll be at our table.”
“What?” My voice comes out too high. “Alfie, that’s- that’s like, actual university people. Professors and- oh God, is your mom friends with the dean?”
“More like she’s on three different advisory boards with him.” His jaw tenses. “I’m sorry. I should have checked the family’s summer social calendar. I didn’t realize—”
“This is getting kind of big,” I mumble. What started as helping him avoid one awkward family dinner is spiraling into something much more complicated. “What if someone recognizes me from class? Or asks about our relationship? Or—”
“I know.” He steps closer, and for a moment I think he’s going to touch me. He doesn’t. I hate how much I desperately want him too. “You can say no. I’ll figure something out.”
I look up at him, catching something almost vulnerable in his expression. “What would happen? If I said no?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.” But his voice is tight. “Mother would just... adjust some things.”
“What things? Eurgh, just...” I take a shaky breath. “Just tell me what I need to know. About the university politics and donor stuff. I don’t want to mess this up for you.”
His hand drops from my face and he takes a step back, suddenly looking tired. “You really want to know how fucked up my family is?”
“Tell me.”
“They’ve got their fingers in everything - research grants, faculty appointments, building funds. And they love to remind me that my PhD funding comes with strings.” He lets out a harsh laugh. “Sorry - that’s not your problem. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“Hey.” I catch his arm before he can retreat further. “Talk to me. What kind of strings?”
He won’t quite meet my eyes. “The Spencer Family Foundation funds most of the geology department’s research.
Including my boss’ summer project. My Grandpa set it up years ago.
He has a trust that gives money to CalTech and UMS but now.
..” He sucks in a breath. “Mother’s made it clear that if I don’t ‘maintain appropriate family connections’ whatever that means, things might get. .. complicated.”
“They’d really pull your funding? Their own son?”
“You don’t know my family.” His voice is bitter. “They think they’re doing me a favor. Teaching me about the real world or whatever bullshit they tell themselves. To them, everything’s a transaction. Even family.”
“That’s messed up.”
“Yeah.” He finally looks at me, and something in his expression makes my chest hurt. “Look, I’ll figure something else out. You didn’t sign up for all this—”
“I’ll do it.” The words come out before I can second-guess them.
“Tara-”
“No, listen. They can’t just- just hold your future hostage like that. Not over some stupid social politics.” I realize I’m still gripping his arm and make myself let go. “Besides, how hard can one donor dinner be?”
His lips quirk slightly. “You say that now. Wait until you meet the board of trustees.”
“Bring it on. I’ve survived family Thanksgiving with my drunk uncle doing magic tricks. I can handle some stuffy academics.”
He smiles. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“I know.” I bump his shoulder. “Now tell me everything about these trustees before I completely freak out. And Alfie?” I wait until he looks at me. “Your family sucks.”
He actually laughs at that, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah. They really do.”
The next morning, we’re in Alfie’s room while he briefs me on the trustees I might meet at dinner. He’s been pacing, scratching his stubble, his jaw clenching and unclenching. It’s unfairly distracting.
“And Richard Delany is basically a massive douchebag I try to avoid...” Alfie continues, but I’ve lost track of which wealthy asshole is which. The message is clear enough: smile, be charming, don’t give his mother any ammunition.
I’ve deliberately planted myself at his desk, the furthest possible point from where he keeps stopping to lean against his dresser.
It’s a strategic choice. Because we’re both completely sober now, and it’s the first time we’ve been in a small space together since the other night.
There’s this pull between us I can’t ignore.
Every time he moves, I track it. Every gesture, every frustrated sigh, it’s like my body’s tuned to his frequency.
“Are you even listening?” He stops pacing to look at me, really look at me, and heat crawls up my neck.
“Absolutely. Delany’s a douchebag. Got it.”
His lips quirk. “And the other fifteen people I just mentioned?”
“Also probably douchebags?”
He huffs a laugh. It’s too easy, this back-and-forth between us. Too natural. The way we played couple with Ethan and Paige tonight was fun. I didn’t want the night to end. But he’s made it crystal clear what this is, this is simply a means to an end. A way to get his family off his back.
And that's fine.
Great, actually. I'm not looking for another situation like I had with my ex, Liam, where I twist myself into knots trying to be what someone else wants.
Except I keep noticing things. Stupid little details like how Alfie actually smiles - a real one, not his controlled mask - when he talks about his research.
Or how he always orders a muffin at CC’s even though he doesn’t like them.
But I do. Or how sometimes he looks at me like.
.. like he's seeing everything I try to hide.
Stop it, Tara. This isn't a rom-com.
But tonight with Ethan and Paige felt dangerously real.
Too easy. Too right. And that's exactly why I need to stay on this side of the desk, keeping careful distance between us.
Because pretending with Alfie Spencer is starting to feel less like pretending, and more like something that could absolutely wreck me.
“Tara.” His voice has dropped lower, rougher.
When did he get so close?
I grip the edge of his desk. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing with your lip.”
“What thing?”
“The biting thing.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “It’s distracting me.”
Oh, so now I’m not the only one distracted.
Before I can respond, his thumb brushes my lower lip, coaxing it free from between my teeth. The touch is barely there—a whisper against my skin—but it sends a shiver down my spine.
His breath hitches. Like he wasn’t expecting to feel it too.
I hold his gaze, slow and deliberate, and wrap my lips around his thumb, sucking gently.
His body locks up. A sharp inhale. A sound—low, wrecked, involuntary.
“Tara.”
His other hand grips the desk beside me, knuckles white. Trapping me.
“You are so fucking dangerous.”
His voice is rough, like it costs him something to say it. His eyes flicker—hunger battling hesitation.
I release his thumb with a slow drag of my teeth. Watch the way his throat bobs.
“I am?”
“Yes. I can't—” He swallows hard, winces like the words hurt. “I don’t feel things like normal people.”
And I believe him.
I expected the distance. The clipped answers. The refusal to look at me for longer than two seconds.
What I didn’t expect was the fear.
Not fear of me. Fear of what would happen if he lets himself want this.
And for the first time I wonder, what kind of damage do you have to survive to be afraid of something so good?
His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide. And then his hand fists in my hair, and he’s kissing me like he’s drowning, like I’m oxygen.
There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just heat, teeth, desperation.
I don’t resist. I don’t even pretend to hold back.
I kiss him back like I want to ruin him.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” His forehead rests against mine, breath ragged.
“Why not?” I whisper, my fingers tightening in his shirt. Desperate. Defiant. Already lost.
“You know why.” His voice is rough. “Troy—”
“I don’t care what Troy thinks.” I lean into his touch, feeling bold. “I don’t need his permission to do this.”
“It’s not just that. My head’s not... I don’t know where I’m at with everything right now.”
I know what he’s saying. What he’s not saying.
This is a mistake. A moment of weakness. Something he wants to pretend never happened.
I don’t care.
“So don’t think about it.” I reach up, pulling him down until our foreheads touch. “This feels good. You feel good. Isn’t that enough?”
He makes a sound in his throat, something between frustration and want.
“We don’t have to figure everything out right now.” My hands slide up his bare chest, feeling his sharp intake of breath. “Just enjoy this.”
“You make everything sound so simple.”
His fingers tighten on my skin—just a fraction, but enough. His control is slipping.
“What if it is.” I press my lips to his jaw, feel the way his pulse betrays him.
For a second, his breath stalls. I think he might step back. But then—
His mouth crashes against mine, nothing tentative about it. Heat floods my body as he backs me against the desk, his kiss all hunger and restraint unraveling at the seams. I arch into him, fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging, teasing, daring him to lose control.
“Fuck, Tara.” His voice is wrecked against my lips, his body impossibly hard against mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
But I do. I feel it in the way he shudders when my nails rake down his spine, in the way he fits against me, all heat and tension and unspoken need.
My thighs part instinctively, welcoming him in, and he presses against me with a groan, one hand sliding down, fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns on my skin.
“Then show me.” I nip at his lower lip, savoring the sharp inhale that follows.