Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
TORI
My eyes are watering, and my vision is blurred. Of course my contact lens would decide to act up today of all days. I’m already late for the monthly departmental meeting, and now I’m stuck in the bathroom, blinking furiously, trying to get the damn thing to settle back in place.
Doesn’t matter if I’m on time if I can’t see to take minutes, though. They can wait.
Finally, after a solid two minutes of furious blinking and swearing under my breath, I manage to pry the lens off my eye. It perches on the tip of my finger, wobbling there like a soap bubble about to burst. Victory feels short-lived because the sound of a toilet flushing breaks the silence.
I freeze.
Heart slamming against my ribcage, I glance at the closed stall door behind me in the mirror. My brain short-circuits. I am literally the only woman on this floor today. Who the hell is in my bathroom?!
And then—Leo.
Leo?!
He steps out of the stall, looking maddeningly casual for someone who’s just shattered my sense of personal safety.
“Jesus, Leo!” I gasp, jerking my head back from my fragile little lens like he might make me drop it just by existing. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
For a split second, panic spikes. Did I wander into the wrong bathroom? Am I the idiot here? But no—the wicker basket of panty liners, the jasmine diffuser sticks, the row of sinks exactly where they’re supposed to be—this is definitely the women’s bathroom.
Leo, meanwhile, leans against the stall frame like he has every right to be here. Smirk firmly in place.
“Your soap smells better,” he says, rolling up his sleeves to wash his hands, as if that’s a perfectly logical explanation for male faculty trespassing into the land of jasmine and tampons.
Something shifted after that afternoon two weeks ago when Chase showed up in the office. At first, I thought it was pity—that Leo had heard the venom in Chase’s voice, seen the way his hand clamped down on my arm, and started seeing me less as someone to begrudge and more as someone to pity.
But then came that night at Howard’s. And there wasn’t a trace of pity in his eyes.
Not one. He didn’t hover. Didn’t handle me like glass.
He ordered half the damn menu, kept the whiskey flowing, laughed so hard at Skye’s dumb jokes he nearly fell out of his chair.
I can’t remember the last time I’d had that much fun outside the safety of our apartment.
And for once, I didn’t have to be on guard.
Nobody could hurt me. No man was going to take advantage of me or Skye.
We laughed, we drank, we danced. Hell, I even danced with Leo—Leo—for a few songs.
And I’ll admit it: the man has some serious moves.
Suddenly, Skye’s nickname for his Tinder conquests—the Tinder twats—made a lot more sense.
I could see why they lined up to climb him like a tree.
She wasn’t wrong about him. When he wants to be, Leo is pretty great.
That is…when he’s not trespassing in my bathroom.
“Our soap… smells better?” I repeat, incredulous.
“Yep.” He smirks, rinsing his hands. “Plus, it’s quieter in here. No one bothers you.”
“You are literally killing that vibe by being here. Right now.” I blink furiously at the lens on my fingertip, trying not to think about how ridiculous this situation is. I’m half-blind, late, and dealing with a man who has apparently claimed dual citizenship in both bathrooms.
“Do you do this often?”
“Often? Naw.” He steps closer, and suddenly, he’s too close. Close enough that I catch the clean mint of his toothpaste under the warm spice of his cologne. Close enough that I remember the way his scruff brushed my temple on the dance floor.
And then, voice low, he murmurs: “Only when I feel particularly confident I’ll run into you.”
A shiver zips down my spine. I hate that it does.
No. Nope. I do not find him hot. He’s a fuckboy, Tori. A. Fuck. Boy. Every word, every movement, every bit of proximity is deliberate—designed to provoke. And right this second, it’s working.
I snap back, clinging to the one thing still under my control—the contact lens. “You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, focusing on the delicate disc balanced on my finger, as if willing it to slip back into my eye will save me from whatever game he thinks he’s playing.
“Maybe.” His smirk lingers in my periphery. “But you have to admit—it’s a good strategy.”
“A strategy for what? You work in the office next to mine. You see me every damn day. There is no reason for you to sneak into the women’s bathroom to ‘run into me.’”
He grins, cocky as hell. “For cementing myself as your GBF, of course.” And then he winks.
He motherfucking winks.
The sound that bursts out of me is part snort, part feral laughter, and completely unhinged. It’s so violent that my poor contact lens launches itself off my finger, sailing into oblivion. RIP, little guy.
“Please, sir, enlighten me,” I manage between hysterics. “What exactly do you think that stands for?”
Leo looks at me like I’ve just asked what two plus two equals. “Guy best friend, obviously.”
I lose it. Doubled over, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, arms clutched around my stomach.
“Guy.” inhale. “Best.” inhale. “Friend.” inhale.
“Jesus Christ, you’re actually an idiot,” I wheeze, swiping at my face before the non-waterproof mascara betrays me. “This might be the single greatest moment of my life.”
He frowns, brow furrowed in confusion where his smirk used to be. “That’s what it means.”
“No, honey.” I’m still half-laughing, half-choking. “GBF stands for gay best friend. And you might be a fuckboy, but you sure as shit aren’t gay.”
“Aw, Tote,” he croons, leaning in again, crowding me with heat and scruff and confidence. “Are you jealous? Think calling me a manslut will hide the fact you want this dick?”
He did not.
I stop laughing. Instantly.
I turn, nose nearly brushing his, glaring daggers. “I called you a fuckboy. I have never, not once, called you a man.”
Then I shove him. Hard. He stumbles against the stall frame, startled.
“And I wouldn’t touch your dick if my life depended on it, Professor.”
My emergency glasses come out of my bag. Neon lime green—yes, these were Skye’s idea. The worst possible choice with this outfit. Okay, every outfit. I jam them onto my face, shoulders squared, dignity maybe, possibly, intact.
We’re late for a meeting. I’m still half blind. My glasses clash like a toddler picked them out.
Wait. How am I still half blind if my glasses are on my face? Shit, I forgot to take out my other contact.
By the time I make it into the conference room, my pulse has barely slowed.
I slip into the last open chair at the long table, grateful the lime green frames don’t clash too catastrophically with the polished wood surface.
Six professors look up from their folders and mugs of coffee as if I’ve just interrupted a sacred ritual.
Because of course, my having to remove the other contact lens meant Leo arrived before I did.
I am the late one. Or, the latest one. Super.
Dr. Johnson gives me his customary nod—for such a gentle old man he sure knows when to step into his department head shoes.
His nod is stern, efficient, already turning back to his notes.
Dr. Patel offers a polite smile. Dr. Liu adjusts his glasses and clears his throat, always ready to redirect the conversation to whatever data set he’s been obsessing over lately.
And then there’s Dr. Wallace.
Mid-thirties. Thick-rimmed glasses. Crisp tie knotted too tightly under his sweatervest, like he wants to be taken very seriously. His gaze flicks toward me and lingers—too long. Not lecherous, exactly, but weighted, like he’s trying to calculate me along with his equations.
I swear I had set my laptop in front of a seat on the other side of the table before heading to the bathroom to fix my contacts earlier, yet here it is, in front of the empty seat next to him. Did he move it so I would sit next to him?
Surely, not. That’d be weird.
Then again, he is weird. Not creepy, per se, but definitely socially awkward.
I drop my bag quietly beside the chair before taking my seat and opening my laptop to take notes. Dr. Wallace leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “Good morning, Victoria,” he says smoothly, as though I need reminding of my own name. “Rough commute?”
“No,” I answer simply, offering him a thin smile. Was that his attempt at a joke?
Leo’s chair creaks beside mine as he leans back, arms crossed. I don’t have to look at him to know his jaw is set.
Dr. Wallace chuckles like I’ve missed his joke—so, yes, there was an attempt—then launches into a five-minute “question” about the midterm schedule that is really just him showing off how thoroughly he’s thought through every possible contingency.
By the time he’s finished circling the point, all he’s really said is: I’d like my exam proctored on the 17th.
I type it in without comment.
Leo shifts again, louder this time, like the chair is just as annoyed as he is. We get the point, dude. You don’t want to be here any more than we do.
When Dr. Wallace glances over at me again—whispering something about “make sure you block out extra time, I’d hate for you to feel overwhelmed”—Leo exhales through his nose in a way that’s one step short of a growl.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Why is he acting like such a caveman?