Page 3 of Cross My Heart

“Bathroom,” I say vaguely, my body still wired with adrenaline.

“There are such amazing professors here,” she continues, munching on a scone. “I’m just hoping I get assigned to the seminar with Professor St. Clair.”

“Uh huh…” I’m barely paying attention, recalling that teasing smirk on the man’s face, and the way he seemed almost amused to find me snooping somewhere I shouldn’t be.

“Are you talking about Saint?” Another new student asks, joining our group. “Anthony St. Clair, he’s next in line to be the Duke of Ashford, you know. His ancestors founded this college.”

“A duke?” Lacey’s jaw drops.

“Yes. He’s not a real tutor, he just drops in to give lectures sometimes. Perks of the family name. Probably why he gets away with it.”

“Away with what?”

“Everything,” the other student says, looking scandalized. “He dates students all the time, hosts wild parties, he’s nothing like the other professors. Look,” she says, nodding across the lawn.

I glance over to see who this infamous tutor is, and find myself staring directly athim. The man who just interrupted me. He’s standing apart from the crowd, his jacket slung over his shoulder now, looking so cool and composed that it reminds me of that song lyric, about a guy walking into a party like he was walking onto a yacht.

Because this is clearly a guy who’s strolled onto plenty of yachts in his time. He has that rich guy confidence just radiating off him, and he’s watching us all with what looks like amusement on his face.

Handsome. Dark. Sensual.

The kind of man who knows exactly how to make you moan...

His eyes meet mine across the lawn, and there’s something so direct in his gaze, blatantly assessing. I feel a shiver of awareness, like he can see right through this innocent role I’m playing.

But that’s impossible. I look like every other eager new student in this place. Nobody knows why I’m really here—and I’m going to keep it that way.

I turn away.

“Not your type?” Lacey asks.

I shrug, acting unimpressed. Because even though this Saint guy would be anyone’s type… He’s definitely not mine. I’ve come to Oxford looking for a man, but not for some illicit fling.

There’s only one man I’m interested in, and I’m going to hunt him down, no matter what.

The man who attacked my sister, and made her take her own life.

Chapter2

Tessa

What happened to you, Wren?

My sneakers pound the cobblestones as I run through the center of town, passing quaint cafes and bookstores, the city just coming to life for the day ahead. It’s barely six a.m., and dawn is still streaking the sky, but I couldn’t sleep. I don’t sleep much these days, my head filled with the same questions that have haunted me for the past year now.

Questions I’ve crossed the world to answer, no matter what.

I keep running, trying to exhaust the anxious buzz in my veins. I turn off the High Street, past the old colleges, with their high walls and ancient turrets. Oxford is like a federated system of schools, made up of over two dozen individual colleges, each with their own staff, rules, and students; dotted around the city like little walled kingdoms.

And Ashford College is the richest, most exclusive kingdom of all.

I remember Wren clutching the letter in triumph, when she got the offer of a placement to continue her research there. A cutting-edge biomedical program, some neuroscience center that would revolutionize the field. I never could follow exactly what she was researching. My older sister was always the brains in the family, not me.

She got straight As, while I stumbled along as a B-average student. She got a full ride to college, then medical school, while I bounced around liberal arts programs, changing my major a dozen times over—and partying more than I studied. After graduating, she was head-hunted to do research for a major biochem company, while I strung together odd jobs, working in a coffee shop, volunteering at charities and non-profits in Philadelphia, falling in and out of love with toxic tortured artist types.

But Wren never judged me, or acted superior because she had her life together. She loved hearing about my misadventures whenever I’d go stay with her. “You’re reallyliving,” she would say enviously, and I would feel like maybe I wasn’t a loser for not having my shit figured out, like her.

My whole life, she was the person I looked up to, my first emergency call after every bad breakup or minor win. My brilliant, kindhearted, optimistic sister. Just twenty-seven, and ready to change the world. At least, that’s what we all thought, when she packed up and moved to Oxford, with her bright future ahead of her.

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