Page 35 of The Exception to the Rule

“Maybe I’m intrigued by a woman who goes off to hang out alone at a boring party. Maybe I want to know more about a woman who hides when she’s tipsy.”

“You like a hermit who can’t handle her alcohol?”

I like the way he tilts his face back when he laughs. “Okay. Maybe I’m curious about a woman who played lacrosse at the number-two-ranked school in the country and said that her team was ‘all right,’” he says. “Maybe I’m curious about a student who was the only one in the class to get every question right on a notoriously difficult neuroanatomy exam.”

My eyes go wide. Iacedit? “Shut up.”

“Dr. Ashkar cc’d me on the grade distribution. I’m happy I get to give you the good news in person.”

“That is”—I cup a hand over my forehead—“that is really hard to believe, actually, because I was such a distracted mess yesterday.”

He studies me for a mysterious beat. “Well, it didn’t show.”

I make fists, hold them up at shoulder height, and do a little dance. I am so fuckingelated.

Callum watches me with sparkling, amused eyes. “Can I take you out to dinner?”

His question comes out of absolutely nowhere, and my fists drop like stones. “What?”

“Dinner.” He cutely mimes spooning food into his mouth. “Sun goes down. People eat.”

“Like a date?”

“I hope so? I intend to flirt.”

“When?”

He smiles and gives a happy shrug. “Whenever you want.”

It feels genuinely impossible that this is happening. Callum Sundberg is asking me out on a date? After two and a half conversations and zero makeup or wardrobe efforts on my part? I look behind me.

When I turn back, he’s fighting a laugh. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Double-checking there wasn’t someone behind me.”

He releases the laugh, tilting my face up with a finger under my chin. “I’m asking you.”

Something crystallizes when our eyes meet, and I realize this is actually happening. “I’m in.”

His reply is instant. “Tonight?”

I nod, numbly, and when he holds out his hand, palm up, I carefully set my mittened hand down upon it.

Callum laughs again. The sound is addictive. “No. Give me your phone, Terra.”

“Oh.” I reach into my pocket, pull my phone out, and hand it over.

He texts himself and hands it back. “Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

In shock, I watch him walk away.

I look down at my phone. He’s created a new contact with his number.

The Hot TA.

Oh my God.

Until you’re able to be right in front of me, connecting my face to my initial, don’t feel guilty for spending time with other people and wondering about them, even romantically.

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