Page 16 of Spearcrest Queen

She rolls her eyes. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“If he’s giving you trouble, you don’t have to take it. Report him—Harvard’s not like Spearcrest.”

A horrible expression crosses her face.

“I know his dad’s a senator,” I tell her, “but if you don’t want to report him, then letmehandle it. I’ll make that asshole disappear right out of your life, I’ll make sure he never—”

Her jaw clenches, and she stands up from the bed, yanking her wrist from my hand, angry tears blossoming in her eyes.

“Ifthisis what you brought me here for,” she says, “I’d rather leave.”

“Don’t, Sophie. Please, I—” I shake my head, feeling defeated, powerless despite everything I know I could do for her. “I just want to help.”

She blinks rapidly, sucking in a deep breath and holding it. She’s collecting herself, tidying away all of her emotions, burying them somewhere far out of my reach.

She exhales, slow and controlled. Her body goes still, her shoulders settling. And just like that, the Sophie shield goes up, the dark, alluring charm flickering to life. She steps into me, curling her arms around my waist, and smiles up at me, that glossy plum smile, cool yet inviting.

“I know you do,” she says, gentling her smoky voice. “But what I need right now is fun, not drama. So let’s go out, let’s have some food, and let’s actually enjoy ourselves, alright?”

And even though I know this is just Sophie’s way of keeping me at arm’s length, even though I can feel her push me out of her life even as she curls her arms around my waist, I still nod, and agree, and do what she says.

Because the pathetic truth is that I’d rather be here at arm’s length than up close with anybody else in the world.

Sophie smiles up at me, her lips gleaming with that bruised colour, her eyes hooded and unreadable. She leans up just slightly—too close, not close enough—and my chest tightens, but I don’t move away.

She wins. Doesn’t she always?

7

Kicked Puppy

Evan

Sophie loosens up overdinner, becoming more chatty. But beneath the polished veneer, I can’t shake the feeling that Sophie’s good mood is nothing more than a calculated pretence.

Everything feels heady and overwhelming: the rich taste of food, the clinking silverware, the weight of Sophie’s perfume. The heat of her body pressing into mine, her fingertips skimming the rim of her glass.

She smiles, sips her espresso martinis, keeps the conversation artificial. Her performance is flawless and detached, the warmth between us as fleeting as the flickering candlelight. When she’s told me just about everything she’s willing to tell me, whatever morsels of information I’m allowed to consume, she shifts the focus firmly to me.

I know I should call her out, challenge her, demand to know why she keeps me at arm’s length even when she’s pressed against me like this.

But I don’t. I let her win because it’s easier, because sheisgiving me what I want, even if it’s just the smallest possible portion of it.

“So how are you liking working at your dad’s company?” she asks over dessert.

She’s changed for dinner: a simple black slip dress with a cowl neckline and delicate lace trim, a black blazer over it and her trusty black boots. She’s dressed simply enough, with her thick dark hair flowing down her back. But she’s tipsy by now, her body pressed into mine as we share dessert, dipping her spoon into decadent caramel and sucking it off slowly as I speak.

I’m almost overstimulated with the heady perfume of coffee, liquor, caramel, the sweetness of Sophie’s skin. All I want is to drag her into my arms and devour her for my dessert. Talking about Operations is just about the last thing on my mind.

“It’s great,” I tell her, realising how easy it is to lie when the truth is painful enough. “Bit boring, but who cares?”

“You’re learning a lot?” she asks, propping her chin on my shoulder.

I think about photocopies and endless spreadsheets and I almost laugh.

“You could say that, yeah.”

“Are you commuting? Or have you got a place in New York?”

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