Page 11 of The Romance Rivalry

“Now, I’d like you all to pair up—find a person you’ve never met and introduce yourselves. Go up to someone new and tell them the first line ofyourstory. Then, when you’vegrabbed their attention, continue on with the general stuff—name, where you’re from, and the key: why you want to study literature. What is it about words on a page that excites you? Okay, get to it.”

Great. My comfort zone is blown all the way to the moon.

Once again, I scan the classroom looking for someone, anyone, really, to pair up with. I watch as people turn in their seats, smile at others, nod an invitation; some people actually get up and walk to other parts of the room to find a partner. But no one even looks my way. It’s like I’m not even here.

The sinking feeling, all too familiar, that I sometimes get when my parents are too busy taking care of my siblings’ lives to even ask about mine, or when my high school friends have plans for the weekend that don’t include me, makes its way down to the pit of my stomach. No one wants me as a partner.

Nobody picks me.

I drop my eyes, unable to look up anymore. It’s too humiliating to keep searching the room for signs of interest. I should just grab my bag and make a quick exit from class. I reach down...

... just as someone plops into the seat next to me.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“No,” I say, quickly dropping my bag back down by my feet. “I was just gonna grab my, um, hairbrush out of my backpack.” My hairbrush? That’s the best I could come upwith? Who brushes their hair in the middle of class? Ew. No wonder no one chose me. This guy probably wants to escape without making eye contact.

I feel my cheeks turning a most certainly vivid shade of pink. I want to slap my forehead.Don’t ruin this, Irene.

Instead, I will myself to keep butt in chair and turn to inspect my new seat neighbor.

My eyes widen and I let out an audible gasp.

Black-rimmed glasses. And equally dark eyes taking in the whole of me. Is this what authors mean when they say someone’s eyes are dancing? Because as he inspects me, I can almost hear the background music—the vibe of BTS’s “Pied Piper”—and he’s amused.

I swallow.

He nods a few times, the right side of his mouth lifting slightly as if he’s come up with some answer to a question I had no idea was asked.

He leans back and relaxes into the chair, despite the fact that his long, denim-clad legs can’t possibly have enough room in this narrow row of seats. His elbows on the armrests, he clasps his hands on his stomach, not a care in the world, turns his head, meets my eyes, and says slowly...

“Exactly as I expected.”

I knew it! I knew he was someone familiar. But he’s figured it out before I have. I tilt my head right and then left, looking at him from every angle. I most certainly know hisface. But from where? I narrow my eyes and take a closer look, examining each feature.

As he watches me trying to figure out the puzzle, a slow smile spreads across his face. And when it reaches its full width, two dimples appear on his cheeks, one punctuating each corner of his mouth.

Darkness descends. A sudden dread lodges in my throat, threatening to cut off my airway. I hold up both hands, making a square with my pointer fingers and thumbs. I look at his face through this frame as if seeing him... on a screen.

No.

It can’t be.

Cocky smile, mischievous eyes, deep dimples, arrogant... aura.

“You...” I whisper, unbelieving.

“Once upon a time, two popular romance reviewers end up at the same school, in the same class, no less, and fall in...”

“It can’t be,” I say, still unable to process this all. “You are not here.” I want to stick my fingers in my ears, squeeze my eyes shut, and start this day over. “And ‘Once upon a time’? Really? Original.” I roll my eyes. I may be going through the crisis of seeing my online archnemesis sitting right next to me in the flesh, but the book reviewer in me can’t forgive a half-assed attempt at an opening line.

“Got your attention,” he says. He looks so smug, so self-satisfied. “Anyways, as I’m sure you guessed, I’m Aiden Jeon,eighteen, from San Francisco. And I’ve been dying to meet you.”

His name feels like a slap back to reality, the ghostly sting of it burning on my cheek.

“What are you doing here?” I shriek. It’s like seeing a monster. In a hot-guy costume. And why is he so much bigger in person?

“I go to school here. I’m sure we’ve discussed this online before,” he says.

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