The voice belonged to a Hispanic guy who, in spite of the lingering baby fat in his face, was a certified hunk of meat in a security guard’s uniform. His hair was buzzed, his mouth hard in a way that made you think things, and his tawny eyes were frank and assessing. Right then, they were assessing Nico, and Nico had been on that end of the camera long enough to have an idea what this guy—whose name tag said Heeley—was thinking.

And that was most definitely, most certainly, not why Nico had come to this seminar.

“I’m good,” Nico said. He held up the glasses, as though that explained anything.

Heeley’s hard mouth cracked at one corner—not a smile, but something even more interesting. Tawny eyes flicked up and down. “Can I help you find something?”

Well, Nico thought, if that wasn’t an opening, he didn’t know one.

“I’m good,” Nico said again. He strode off into the union, pretending he hadn’t seen the way the corner of Heeley’s mouth twitched, pretending he couldn’t feel Heeley’s eyes following him.

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for—the stream of people, more than he would have expected during the campus’s fall break, led him straight to the coffee shop. A long room, complete with vaulted ceiling and oil paintings, more in line with a Harry Potter-style banquet hall than anything else, served as a coffee shop, and it was surprisingly busy. Nico got in line behind a muscularly built man, put his glasses back on, and scanned the menu.

His basic bitch mode activated almost immediately: pumpkin medley latte.

They couldn’t call it a pumpkin spice latte. Or maybe they didn’t want to. It was one way to be different from all the bougie white ladies with their seasonal Starbucks cups. But they could call it whatever they wanted; it didn’t make any difference to Nico.

More men queued behind Nico. Big guys. Muscular. And then a single Latina who Nico would have bet his left nut was a lesbian. Something ticked in the back of his head. He gave the room another long look. A lot of beefy guys in polos and khakis—business white dude’s equivalent of an invisibility cloak. Not much talking. Even the ones sitting in pairs were looking at their phones. But Nico had spent enough time around cops—around one cop in particular—to recognize the breed.

When he turned back, the man in front of him was holding a boxed cinnamon roll, studying it. Then he looked at Nico. He was shorter than Nico, his skin a deep brown, and he had strong features set in a wide face—a wide nose, a wide mouth, a wide jaw. He had to be a cop too, and the way he held himself, the thick hands, the strong fingers, gave him an unexpected air of roughness, somewhere on the scale between boyish and thuggish. Then he smiled, revealing the deep tear troughs under his eyes, and Nico inched him toward boyish. Trouble, but definitely boyish.

“This is way too big for one person,” he said, displaying the cinnamon roll.

Nico made a noncommittal noise.

The man’s smile got bigger. “Okay, that was weak.”

Nico raised his eyebrows.

“How’s your morning going?” the man asked.

“How’s my morning going?”

It only made his smile get bigger. “Come on, that was polite.”

“The line is moving.”

The man shuffled backward, still keeping an eye on Nico. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

“You’re definitely not making it easy on yourself.”

“Vic,” he said and held out his hand.

“Hello, Vic,” Nico said. “It’s your turn to order.”

Vic gave him a final, appraising look. Then his grin flashed to a hundred. “Could I buy you a coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Sir?” the barista asked.

Vic shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying. Have a nice day.”

He ordered, and then he moved down to the pickup area with a parting wave for Nico. Nico placed his order next (ignoring the face the barista made when he asked for the latte at kid temp). He snuck a look at Vic, who was playing on his phone now. He was a nice-looking guy. More attractive than handsome, but confident and polite. He’d taken the losses with good humor. Hell, he’d wanted to split a cinnamon roll, and most of the guys interested in Nico thought he should be living on air and water to keep himself thin. Would it be so bad to have coffee with a guy who was interested in him? Maybe—just maybe—to share a few bites of the cinnamon roll?

Yes, Nico decided. It would. Because the minute Nico let his guard down, Dr. Chapman would appear, or Dr. Young, or Dr. Meza, and they’d see him flirting and hanging out and wasting seminar time, and that would be the end of it.

He waited until Vic had collected his coffee before moving down to the pickup area.