Page 15 of Don't Be in Love

“I’d push you toward the murderer and hop out of the car.”

“I’m so happy I decided to walk a woman home who’s willing to sacrifice me,” he commented as we took a turn. Marylebone’s row of brick buildings sat quietly without the morning chaos I usually left it in. Cabs were still whizzing by, and apartment windows were still illuminated. But the bike racks were empty, and the shop windows readClosed. “Write something nice in my obituary while you’re at, will you?”

“He had a lovely accent, terrible manners, and was always full of himself,” I recited.

“You think I have a lovely accent?” he asked, only a small curve to the corner of his lips.

“Don’t be fooled, everyone around here has a nice accent.”

“Well, I think you have a lovely accent too,” he commented, his eyes bright. Whimsical and boyish. A second later, he cleared his throat. “Have we not converted you?” He lifted my blue Boston Red Sox hat keychain from the strap of my bag. “Shouldn’t you have some ridiculous phone box keychain on here?”

I smacked his hand away. “Those keychains aren’t ridiculous,” I huffed. There was a tiny red telephone booth hanging from my bedpost in my room as we spoke. The epitome of adorable. “They just don’t match my … collection,” I pointed out. The blue and gray of the silk scarf, white pearls, and gold rings looped through the strap of my leather bag would clash with red.

His brows rose. “If you could even see it,” he criticized, shooing the pile of charms around.

“Good thing they’re mine and not yours.” I smacked his hand away. “We’re here.”

I stopped in front of the black door of the apartment building. The tree that greeted me from below my balcony each morning curved above us. A branch was close to poking Dorian in the head. He looked up at building’s dark red bricks and wrought iron railings.

“Is that your flatmate?” he asked.

My head snapped up, where Brina stood in front of the window—

“What are you—” I shoved him off the sidewalk and pulled him behind the tree, rustling the branches as we hid. Slowly, I peeked out from behind the trunk to look back up at the window.Phew. She was just brushing her hair.

If she had seen us, I … What would I have done? Act like Dorian and I happened to run into each other? Ignore him? Explain that he lost a contact and needed help home? (Convenient because we apparently had the same exact route home!)

Ahem.

I twisted, but my face came within inches of his. His eyes were lowered toward my mouth. A fast breath came from his lips. The same espresso scent on his clothes that peppered his room surrounded me. I could count his eyelashes from this vicinity. Long blots of ink that drained into dark eyes.

“Is there a reason we’re hiding behind a tree or do my eyes just look better in this light?”

I immediately pulled my hands off his chest as if it was covered in cyanide, seeping into my skin.

A glare riddled my brow. “I’ll see you Wednesday,” I said, walking away.

“Wait.” He grabbed my wrist, humor gone. “You’re not going to tell me what that was about?”

Maybe I could trust him. Maybe it was possible that he’d keep the caveat to my secret about Sabrina. But the articles I read about him—Dorian Blackwood Runs Through Women like They’re Shoes—the privileged lifestyle and gawking from all the girls in class were already glaring red flags smacking me in the head. And the fact that he was holding our night together over my head so that I’d tutor him was gnawing my skin down to the bone.

I was better off not trusting anyone.

“Goodnight, Dorian.”

8

Don’t Hide with the Enemy — Adelaide

Forty-eight hours ago, waves of anxiety had been rolling off my chest as I recovered from Sabrina almost seeing us from her window. Forty-eight hours and I still couldn’t get rid of the smell of Dorian either. It was nauseating. Glued to the sweater I had been wearing, which now sat in my hamper begging to be cleansed. But the speed at which my heart was racing behind that tree was nowhere close to the pace it was beating at now.

“The paper will be worth fifty percent of your grade,” Professor Hudson explained—and not to be dramatic but—ruining my life in the process. My pen almost snapped in my hand. His mouth was moving but that didn’t matter, I already knew what the assignment was. One hundred pages on globalization and its effect on British industries.

One hundred pages.

Going out on Saturday nights justpoofedout of thin air. Going outanynight, actually. At this point, I was going to have to pencil in my meals.

Fifty percent. Fifty percent of my grade. A grade that needed to be an A in order for me to keep my scholarship and afford the tuition here.