Page 31 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“Since none of your business. Now go away.”
Grayson stares at me, then at Winnie, then at her hand on my arm.
I can see him trying to figure out the angle, trying to decide if this is real or some kind of joke. I hold his gaze, steady and unblinking, until he looksaway.
“Whatever, man.” He takes a step back, attempting to salvage his dignity. “Didn’t realize she was… yeah. Whatever.” He retreats to a table across the room, smoothie in hand, ego bruised.
Winnie doesn’t remove her hand from my arm. “That was dramatic,” she murmurs.
“That was necessary.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“Didn’t have time. He was circling.” Like a shark scenting blood.
She laughs softly, finally pulling her hand back. I miss the warmth immediately, which is annoying. My arm feels cold where her fingers were, and I have to resist the urge to reach for her hand and put it back.
“So,” she says, “this is happening? Right now? In the cafeteria?”
“You got a better place?”
“I just thought there’d be more… buildup.”
“I don’t do buildup.” I push my tray slightly toward her. “You want some chicken? You’re not going to get full on that salad.”
She looks at my mountain of food, then at her sad little bowl of greens. “Are you always this generous, or is this part of the act?”
“Both.” Except that’s a lie. If one of the guys tried to take my chicken, I’d stab their hand with a fork. I never share food. Not when I’m always hungry.
She takes a piece of chicken, and something about watching her eat off my plate does strange things to my chest. It’s intimate in a way I wasn’texpecting—domestic, like something couples actually do.
Except we’re not a couple. This is obviously fake.
Around us, the cafeteria has grown suspiciously quiet. I can feel eyes on us from every direction. Guys are watching, whispering, trying to figure out what the hell they just witnessed.
Good. Let them watch.
“People are staring,” Winnie says under her breath.
“That’s the point. Now they know.”
“It’s just… a lot.”
“You want me to leave?”
“No.” She says it quickly. “No, this is… this is good. It’s working.”
She steals another piece of chicken, and I slide the tray closer to make it easier for her. She flashes me a small smile—grateful, genuine—and I look away.
“So,” she says quietly, leaning in as if we’re sharing secrets. “If we’re doing this, we should probably know basic things about each other. Couples know things.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” She thinks for a second. “What’s my favorite color?”
I stare at her blankly.
“Exactly.” She points her fork at me. “A boyfriend would know that.”
