Page 39 of Wrong For Me

I try to block out his presence so I can concentrate on the speaker down front. She introduces herself as the dean of graduate students. Which makes her a pretty big deal at the university, and definitely someone I should pay attention to.

So why is it so hard to keep my focus on her instead of the scowling, tense man at my side?

It had been bad enough sitting in the same room as him in our advisor’s office, but this is much worse. He’s so close to me that I’m finding it impossible not to be acutely aware of every little thing. The sound of his breathing. The small shifts in his seat as the dean drones on. His body heat. The movement in his neck when he swallows.

And the way, every so often, that his eyes flick over to me before darting back to the front of the room. Is it possible that he’s as aware of me as I am of him?

Wishful thinking,I tell myself.Don’t forget that he’s the one who never called.

The orientation seems to stretch on forever. After the dean’s speech, someone else gets up to go over policies and rules. I’m so out of it that I don’t even catch his name.

This isn’t like me. Not at all. I’m a nerdy, overachieving perfectionist. Under normal circumstances, I would have taken pages worth of notes by now. But nothing feels normal with Leo so close.

We’re given a handbook with all of the policies, which hopefully covers everything important I missed while I was distracted. Another handout contains information about our pay and benefits. A final speaker, a second year PolySci doctoral student, gets up to talk about his experiences as a TA. Then, finally, we’re dismissed.

I gather up my things, refusing to look at Leo. I just need him to move so I can exit the row and then I can get out of here. My first class isn’t until this afternoon, so I have time to find a quiet coffee shop first. Missing out on my caffeine fix this morning certainly hasn’t helped my disposition. And some alone time might allow me to sort through the overwhelming thoughts and emotions plaguing me.

When I can no longer pretend to keep organizing the new handouts in my bag, I finally look over at Leo to see him sitting motionless in his seat, watching me. His expression is drawn, tense, and I can’t read the emotion in his eyes—but I can’t seem to look away from them, either.

“I guess I’ll see you around,” I say, looking pointedly at the aisle behind him. In other words,move it, buddy.

“I’m supposed to show you our office.”

I close my eyes. The last thing I want to do right now is walk all the way across campus back to the psych building with this guy. “Can’t you just tell me the room number?” I ask.

His voice comes out stiff. “Dr. Hernandez told me to show you.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Leo.”

He smirks, the expression taking me right back to the festival, when he’d captivated me with his easy charm and just the right amount of arrogance. “Are you always this difficult?”

My mom is a big believer in breathing exercises. From a young age, she taught us all that managing our emotions can be as easy as taking some controlled, soothing breaths. I try one of her exercises now, counting to five in my head while I inhale then hold the air in my lungs.

It doesn’t work. Leo’s smirk only grows, like he knows exactly the affect he’s having on me, and that destroys any progress I might have made in calming down.

“Fine,” I say shortly. “Show me the office.”

His eyebrow arches. “You could at least say please.”

What I want to do is smack that smirk right off his face. Instead I grit my teeth and force an obviously fake smile. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Malone. I would very much appreciate you walking me to our office.”

Something flashes in his eyes, his expression growing warmer. Softer. His mouth twitches, like he’s battling a laugh. And suddenly he doesn’t look like a condescending, scowling jerk anymore. He looks like the gruff but sweet guy I met at a concert all those weeks ago.

The guy I got way too attached to in such a short amount of time. The guy who made me feel better than anyone else ever had in bed. The guy who kissed me like his life depended on it.

The guy who didn’t care enough to call me.

And in that moment, I realize that nice Leo, bartender Leo, is far more dangerous than the scowling, clench-jawed asshole I met this morning. Because nice Leo has the power to hurt me. Nice Leo already has.