Page 138 of Ruthless Court

Hannah closes her umbrella, slides inside, and vanishes behind tinted glass.

I stand beneath the awning as the SUV pulls away.

Bookworm lives in one of the oldest dorms on campus and gets collected from the library by a driver?

Another piece that doesn’t fit.

I take out my phone.

Me: Where are you going?

Her answer arrives before the SUV reaches the end of the drive.

Hannah: Away from you.

Me: Helpful.

Hannah: I try.

I watch the taillights disappear.

Then I head for my car.

I’m not following her because of what almost happened between the shelves. Jealousy churns in my gut.

I’m not following her because of what almost happened between the shelves.

Jealousy churns in my gut anyway.

Which is stupid.

I don’t even know who’s driving.

Could be an uncle.

A family friend.

Her seventy-year-old grandfather with a bad hip and excellent credit.

My brain rejects every reasonable option.

Instead, it hands me some silver-haired art dealer with a penthouse in San Francisco and a private collection nobody’s allowed to photograph. The kind of guy who sends a black SUV for a girl instead of picking her up himself.

He’ll have French wine waiting.

A fire crackling.

Music low.

He’ll call her fascinating while staring at her over the rim of a glass that costs more than my monthly rent.

My grip tightens around my keys.

Nope.

Maybe he’s younger.

Thirty-five.