Page 58 of Cross My Heart

I grab my coffee, and head back to my bedroom. So much for the thrilling morning after-glow, now I’ve come back down to earth with a bump with my roomies’ oh-so-helpful reminders that Saint does this all the time. He may not take his coeds to fancy family events, but I can bet plenty of them know all about his skilled, wicked tongue…

I feel a stab of insecurity—and immediately stop it in its tracks.

Nope. I’m not going to think about him like that, like a potential boyfriend or future partner. I’m not even looking for a serious relationship! Saint’s experience is exactly what makes him perfect for a wild, reckless fling. Passionate. Breathless.

Temporary.

Feelings aren’t part of the equation… Which means that I need to be careful not to mistake our sizzling sexual connection for anything deeper. Kris and Jia’s ‘advice’ might have been wrapped up in a package of passive-aggressive envy, but they’re right. I can’t afford to be swept up in emotions, not with so much at stake.

Which means maybe I should cool it with Saint, just a little… Let him chase me if he wants, but I’m a busy woman with things to do, I don’t need to dive for my phone every time he messages me.

BUZZ. BUZZ.

Sure enough, my phone sounds on the nightstand. I coolly stretch, and then leisurely stroll over to check it… Only to find out that it’s not Saint, after all.

It’s a text from Lara, Wren’s old college friend.

‘Sorry, things have been crazy at work. But I talked to Phil, and he’s happy to meet!’

She’s shared a contact, too, for Phillip McAllister, the guy who worked with Wren at her lab here in Oxford.

A new lead.

Brightening, I send Phillip a quick text. He says he has some time to chat at lunch today, so I jump in the shower, and make a valiant effort to look at some of my reading for the week before taking a bus across town to Phillip’s work. It’s located in a more modern part of the city, with ugly office buildings and regular chain stores, and I realize how much of a bubble we are in at Ashford, all the students tucked away in the historic old part of the city, rarely venturing out of the crumbling ivy-covered walls into the real world.

Now, I climb off the bus and follow Phillip’s directions to a gleaming new building: two wide stories of chrome and glass, arranged around a central courtyard. When I step inside the sprawling, modern lobby area, the sign above reception reads, The Ashford Neurobiology Research Laboratory.

Ashford.

I stop, blinking up at the letters in surprise. That’s Saint’s family name. I knew his dad’s company was in pharmaceuticals, but he’s never mentioned anything else.

“Tessa?”

I turn. A studious-looking man in his early thirties is approaching, dressed in battered corduroy pants and a white lab coat.

“Hi, I’m Phillip,” he says, greeting me with a friendly smile. “It’s great to meet you. I mean, not under the circumstances,” he adds, the smile slipping. “But Wren talked about you all the time. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“You too.” I smile back. Phillip is nerdy and faintly awkward, just like Wren described her work husband. I glance back at the sign. “Ashford…” I say casually. “Is that the company that you work for?”

“Kind of,” Phillip makes a face. “We’re technically independent scientists, but they’re the ones funding our research.”

“That’s generous.”

Phillip laughs. “Not at all. They’ll own everything we discover. It could be worth billions, if these trials turn out a success.”

“Phil?”

We’re interrupted by a voice calling from across the lobby. It’s a slim woman in a chic navy pantsuit, her hair shining in a sharp bob. She walks over, her heels echoing on the polished concrete floors. “Did you review the data I sent you?” she asks in a French accent, barely glancing at me—or Phillip, tapping on her phone.

“It’ll be done by end of day,” he says immediately. “This is Dr. Valerie DeJonge,” he adds, introducing us. “She’s our lead researcher on the project. This Is Tessa Peterson, Wren’s sister.”

“Oh.” Valerie finally looks up and fixes me with a sympathetic smile. “I was so sorry to hear about your sister. It’s a great loss, she was a promising young woman, an excellent mind.”

“Thank you.” I nod.

“Phillip?” she asks, looking brisk again. “The data? We can’t afford to fall behind.”

“End of day, Valerie, I promise,” he replies.

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