Page 7 of Don't Be in Love

As excited as I was for this class, it was impossible to pay attention now. I wrote down the words coming out of Professor Emmerson’s mouth about the semester-long project, but I didn’t register any of it. The back of Dorian’s head kept pulling me back to Saturday night when we ran along the Thames River, moonlight flickering off the top of his head as if to create a constant halo.

I needed to get as far away from him as possible.

Maybe it was possible that he could be a gentleman about this situation and never speak a word about the other night. But I wasn’t taking any chances.

The moment the class hour was up, I followed him out of the room. Time for crisis management.

His long legs were difficult to keep up with. But I did my best to rush without looking like a maniac to catch up. Then the hall flooded with students as a nearby room emptied out.

I lost him.

Ugh. I brushed a hair out of my face and continued down the corridor. I squeezed through the groups of students, whose fancy tweed and wool brushed my shoulders. I’d have to leave the Dorian-situation alone until I could talk it over with Mia. She’d help me formulate a plan.

Pulling my phone from my bag, I began typing a message in our group chat, until a hand latched onto my arm and yanked me into an empty classroom.

“What happened the other night?” Rye—Dorianasked, closing the door behind me.

“Excuse me?” I asked, pulling my arm from his grasp.

“The other night: the club, the dancing, the Tube, my flat. You left while I was sleeping.” He waited for my reaction or some realization.

Maybe I could convince him that he had the wrong person. He’s probably dated enough women to mix them up.

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong person,” I apologized. I turned and grabbed the doorknob. But he was speaking again.

“I may’ve drank but I wasn’tthatpissed, Jesus. You wore that same skirt. And I remember because I took—”

“Fine, fine, you caught me. I may’ve lied about not remembering you, but you lied about your name.”

His eyebrows scrunched together. “I didn’t lie about my name—it’s a nickname. They don’t have those back in the States?”Smartass tone.

“Who gives someone they’re meeting for the first time a nickname?” I questioned.

“A person with privacy problems.” He crossed his arms. “Who pretends not to recognize someone they slept with?”

“Someone who obviously thinks it was a mistake.”

His brow ticked upward with surprise. “I could’ve sworn I wasn’t the only one who had a good time.”

“Piss-drunk though, remember?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Now, I’d prefer if you never spoke to me again. Or acted like we’d never met. Yes, that would be better. So it was nice meeting you, but no.” Opening the door—

He placed a hand above mine, shutting it. “Woah, what? Why not?” he asked.

Looking up at him, all that filled me was an abundance of agitation. I huffed, “It’s complicated.”

“I can be very persuasive.”

How could someone be handsome enough that I wanted to lean into their cologne-like coffee scent, while also being equally maddening? I wanted to push him off the London Bridge and let the problem float away.

“Are you always like this?” I asked.

“An amusing conversationalist?”

I narrowed my gaze. “Do you know what people say about you? They call you the ‘UK Bachelor.’ ‘The Man That Doesn’t Repeat.’ One article even called you a drunk pig.”

“I don’t remember it being a crime to drink.”

“Maybe not, but it’s an unappealing look.”