Page 33 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Priorities, Copeland.
For now, focus. The search resumes the moment the meeting ends.
Where the hell are you, Colin?
12
COLIN
Three shotsof espresso and two hours of rationalization land me where I absolutely, definitely do not belong. The third floor of Peach State University’s main library, wedged between periodicals and a quiet study area, wearing a hoodie that used to pass for incognito before Forbes outed me as “the code gremlin prince of restaurants.” Hood up, earbuds in—classic student camouflage. Or so I hope.
I chalk my presence up todue diligence.That’s what I scrawled on the sticky note plastered over my guilty conscience. Thalassa had mentioned a monster finals gauntlet. My job—self-assigned—is to make sure she hasn’t spontaneously combusted from stress.
Purely humanitarian. Absolutely not stalking.
I circle the atrium balcony. Every table bristles with laptops, highlighter armies, and energy-drink cans. Finals week vibes hum like overclocked servers. I loop past the free coffee cart and snag a courtesy cup, because caffeine is my one true love, and then I spother.
Table by the window. Sunshine paints her braid rose gold where it escapes the beanie with tiny rabbits. She’s bent over a diagram, pencil tapping her lower lip. The lip biting is unfair. My pulse spikes like it’s running a stress test.
I should be biting that lip.
I slide behind a bookshelf, half-concealed byJournal of Aquatic Genomics. From here I can monitor her stress indicators (frown depth, snack ration) without tripping the creeper alarm.
To prove I’m not creepy, I have instituted rules. No photos. No full name googling—not today. Engage only if she looks seconds from meltdown.
Some might call it obsessive. I call it aftercare.
I sip coffee, watch her annotate a practice exam, tongue peeking when she counts hydrogen bonds. The overhead vent kicks on, and her braid flutters. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear. My brain, unhelpfully, cues last month’s breakfast, when she tasted like maple syrup and butter and possibilities.
Stop it.
I pivot to my phone, open the StarConnector sandbox, and attempt to distract myself by coding an API call. I get through exactly eight lines before my gaze drifts back. She’s rummaging in her bag, retrieving—aha, snack ration. A peanut-butter sandwich. Encouraging sign. She takes one chomp, chews like a determined chipmunk.
Then her phone flashes. She reads the screen, brow scrunching skeptical. Her shoulders slump. She does not want to take this call. Should I tap in and end it for her?
She accepts the call, stands, and heads toward the stacks for privacy. I shuffle sideways to maintain line of sight while avoiding her direct eyeline.
From twenty feet away I can’t hear words, only tone. Should have brought the parabolic with me. Next time.
She gives an initially tentative greeting, then silence while she listens. Out of nowhere, her shoulders jolt. A choked noise escapes—could be a sob? My gut drops. Her hand clutches her mouth. Tears?
Whoever it is, I’ll end them.
But then, bright laughter detonates, ringing down the aisle. She twirls once, clutching her phone. Tears, yes, but happy tears. She presses the phone to her forehead like a tiny holy relic. A wave of relief drowns me so hard I sag against the shelf, rattling the journals.
Two undergrads glare. I mime an apology.
Thalassa returns to her table, wiping her eyes and giggling. Her friends converge—Becca with the lavender-dipped hair and a pre-med guy I don’t recognize. They bombard her with questions. She reveals something. If I get closer, she’ll see me. Her hands mimic apoofgesture, and they squeal. They group-hug.
They pack up their books, chatter spilling. I inch closer under audio pretense, scanning the shelf for nothing while my ears do recon.
Becca: “—trip is gonna be legendary!”
Pre-med: “Real snow, no machine fluff.”
Thalassa: “I amsobuying thermal socks.”
Becca: “Mountain nights are like, negative temperatures, girl. We need matching beanies.”
