Page 16 of Trip Me Up

Gabi had tried to hide it from me, but a magazine had printed a photo of us next to an even bigger picture of my dad onstage in one of his black button-downs embroidered with the SwifTech logo, a wireless microphone curving along his jaw.

That time, I caught the flash of black as it swept out into the open across the quad. And although I’d seen her only once, I’d replayed our interaction so often in my imagination that I knew that slender frame. That long, dark hair caught up in a drooping bun. If she’d turned around, I’d have seen a constellation of freckles and the most stunning eyes I’d ever encountered.

Lobelia. No, Samantha.

“Excuse me, Kari.”

“Wait, I have—”

But I was already flying down the library steps and down the path that bordered the quad. I couldn’t let her disappear into one of the badge-access-only buildings. Fortunately, her strides were no match for my long legs, and I caught up just as she turned off the quad onto a narrow sidewalk. “Samantha.”

She stopped, her shoulders slumped. I jogged two more steps to stand in front of her. “Hello again.”

“I-I’m not stalking you.”

I felt my lips curl up. “You’re not?”

“No. I go to school here. I saw you as I was passing by.”

“Passing by, huh?” I didn’t believe her, not really. But the small chance she hadn’t sought me out made my belly twinge.

She hitched her backpack onto her shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you were a writer.”

I shrugged. “I am.”

She glared at me. “A famous writer. With a TV series based on your novel.”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t know how famous I am. You didn’t know who I was.”

She mirrored my stance. “You also didn’t mention that you’re the son of Paul Swift. Or that you date actresses.”

I spread my arms wide. “We talked for less than half an hour. I didn’t have time to give you my life story. And I don’t date actresses. It was a PR thing, nothing more.” I didn’t know why I needed to say that. I hardly knew Samantha. I didn’t have to explain myself to her.

It was the way she’d drawn herself up. She was a tiny thing, compared to me, but she managed to look taller, like she stood on a dais above me and I was a serf requesting a boon from milady. My fingers tingled.

“Who are you?” I muttered, more to myself than to her. She was no socialite, no matter what Gabi had said.

“I’m a graduate student. I was on my way to my office when I saw you.” She lifted her chin.

“You were?” She looked like a graduate student. Black cargo pants, a black T-shirt, combat boots. It didn’t fit with the socialite picture Gabi had drawn me.

“Computer science.” She flapped her hand, and the grace in that gesture took my breath.

“Huh.” My fingers tingled again. I glanced back at the squat, beige brick building with too few windows. It was no fairy palace.

An analytical mind. Was she addicted to technology, too, like Gabi? I tried to superimpose Samantha’s image today—wary, terse, guarded—with the engaging, funny woman I’d spoken with at the event. And then I tried to layer on what Gabi had told me about her socialite family. I failed. So far, Samantha Jones was an enigma.

“How’s your dog?”

“Bilbo Baggins?” A slow smile spread across her face. “He recovered from the cheese incident. He’s fine now.”

“Good.” I rocked on my heels. She was a puzzle, and I couldn’t get all the pieces to fit together. Maybe I could shake them up and see them differently.

“I know your secret.”

Her cheeks went pale, and the spatter of freckles across her nose seemed to darken. “What secret?”

“Your secret identity.”

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