Page 12 of Ruthless Edge

"That was exactly what I'm talking about."

“Enthusiasm can also be serious.”

I lean back. The rink below us is empty now, just the cleaned ice catching the overhead lights as the Zamboni makes its way around, and I'm aware that I'm sitting closer to Emma Lawson than I have in three years. It should probably feel stranger than it does, but it feels like the most natural thing that's happened to me all week.

"Okay," I say. "Tell me the plan."

Something shifts in her expression. Like she expected more resistance. She glances at me once, then back at her notebook, and the pen stops clicking.

"First meeting tonight," she says. "Both of us, working through the initial structure. Timeline, budget, division of responsibilities. I want a framework in place before we bring anything to Dr. Neely."

"Tonight works."

"Library at seven. I'll text you if I need anything else." She pauses. "English section. Third floor."

The English section. Third floor.

I went to that section of the library twice a week for four months freshman year, because that’s when Emma went to the library to study. I knew her schedule well enough by September to plan around it, which I never told her, because that would have been a lot to explain to someone who thought you were just a guy who needed help with reading comprehension.

I look at her profile. She's writing something in her notebook, not looking at me, and she said it like it was just a practical detail. The English section. Like she picked it because it was quiet and available.

Maybe she did.

But she remembered it.

"English section works," I say.

She nods, still writing. "Seven sharp. Don't be late."

"Have I ever been late?"

She looks up.

"Okay," I say. "I've been late. But I'm working on it."

"Yeah, sure." Her voice is flat, but there's something underneath it that I can't quite read. Not warmth exactly. Something less hostile than everything else she's given me since that conference room, which at this point I'm taking as progress.

I watch her write for a second. She's left-handed, which I'd forgotten, or not forgotten exactly, just not thought about in a while. The pen moves quickly, neat and precise, and she has very good handwriting for someone who also types everything, which I know because I've seen her work. Her SAB documents that I saw were immaculate. Someone said she sends the most organized emails of anyone they’ve corresponded with through university systems, and I've thought about that more than once over the past day, which is a perfectly normal thing to think about. Or at least that’s what I’m calling it. Perfectly normal.

"Emma?"

"We're done," she says. "Seven o'clock."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

The pen stops.

She looks at me, slowly, with an expression that could strip paint. "That's not any of your business."

"Just asking."

"It's not relevant to the auction."

"It's relevant to me."

She stands up. She caps her pen and closes her notebook, already pulling her coat tighter, and I watch her do all of it from my seat without trying to stop her.

"Seven o'clock," she says, and she doesn't look back.