She winces—at the question or my voice, I’m not sure—then sputters, “You havegotto be shitting me.” Her expression instantly darkens as she scowls at me. “Also, it’s notpilllover, it’spilover.”
My brow furrows. “Pie? Like the dessert?”
She lets out a disdainful sigh. “No, like the mathematical constant.”
The furrow deepens. “Well, that’s…needlessly confusing.”
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she snaps, “It’s notconfusing, it’s a play on words, you illiterate jackass.”
I knew she looked familiar—and give or take another moment, I might’ve put two and two together—but it’s the way the word “jackass” falls from that now very recognizable mouth that turns the light bulb on in my head. The epiphany hits me like a brick wall, and just like that, it’s Friday morning again and she’s storming out of my dorm room, the picture of fury. The recollection is fleeting, changing into something else, and now, it’s Thursday night after the Phi Sigma party and I’m fucking her into my mattress. That particular flashback is more of a vague interpretation of what I imagine happened versus an actual memory thanks to the insane amount of alcohol I ingested that evening, but it, too, flicks past quickly, and next, I’m transported to the campus library eight months ago, to the first time we had sex. Two months before she found out about the list. I remember that moment vividly—the way my hips snapped into hers as I drove her up against the book stacks, and the heat of her breath on the palm of my hand as I covered her mouth to keep her quiet.
Funny, how the only fuzzy part of that memory is her face. A face, which, yet again, makes me realize just how fucking stupid and inattentive to detail I am. Only a matter of days ago, I was dwelling on how I didn’t recognize her the last time we fucked, and now, here I am, making the same mistake once more. I’m starting to think I need to make a murder board of my conquests seeing as I’ve clearly developed face blindness. I mean, Christ, she’s even wearing her glasses this time, and I still somehow didn’t make the connection.
To say Clark Kent looks less than pleased about it would be an understatement.
“Poor Girl?” I blurt out when nothing else comes to mind since I apparently have a death wish.
She places an indignant hand on her hip, and I swear I see her left eye actually twitch. “I have a name, asshole.”
“Right. Uh…” Shit. And here I thought I couldn’t seem like any more of a twat.
“Lexi. Dornan,” she growls through clenched teeth. “Not that I expect you to remember that since you obviously didn’t the last time.”
“You got me there,” I say with a forced laugh before my brain circles back to why she’s standing in front of me in the first place. “Are you seriously the chick who answered my ad?” Then another thought occurs to me, and I take a step back. “You aren’t, like…stalkingme, are you?” Just in case this woman is as deranged as I’m beginning to fear, I cup a hand over my crotch to protect Damian Jr. and his two friends.
“Stalking you!” Her eyes bug out, and she huffs an incredulous breath. “As if I would waste my time stalking you when I have zero interest in being on the sameplanetas you!” Her chest heaves, and an outrage that would impress even my father ignites in her gaze, like a wildfire intent on consuming me, flesh and bone. I take another cautious step back, eager to escape the searing heat of her glare.
I imagine this must be what it’s like to be trapped in a cage with a hungry lion.
Lioness,I correct myself. They’re the real hunters in the animal kingdom, and to Poor Girl, right now, I probably look like a gazelle.
I resist the urge to give her a thumbs up—or my personal favorite, the finger gun—in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood. From the way she’s looking at me, I have a feeling thatwould only piss her off more than my mere existence is already accomplishing on its own. Instead, I shove my free hand in my pocket where it can’t antagonize her further, while the other restlessly grips the empty coffee cup. She glares at it, and I can’t help wondering if she’s imagining her own hand strangling my neck.
“So, if you’re not stalking me, why are you here?” I ask when she doesn’t move closer, and I’m no longer in immediate fear of her kicking the balls off my body.
At my question, her face turns ashen, and she clutches her stomach as if she’s about to throw up. She swallows loudly. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating and you aren’t really the one who posted the…” She hesitates, taking a moment to glance around to make sure no one in the general vicinity is listening, then hisses in a whispered rush, “Fake girlfriend job on Craigslist.”
I gape at her, unable to mask my surprise. “Wait, you’re seriously here about the job, and not because…” I trail off.
Because what? Because she’s obsessed with me? Because she wants to cut off my dick and feed it to her eighteen cats? As a dog person, Iknowan enemy when I see one. And she looks like a cat lover.
I suppress a grimace. As hard as it is to believe, I have to remind myself the world does not, in fact, revolve around me, and this could just be a very weird, very unlikely coincidence.
My concentration drifts as I consider the probability of that. I mean, really, how could this even happen? What are the fucking odds? I chose Craigslist of all places to specifically avoid the possibility of anyone from our college stumbling across the listing by accident. It’s not like Conwick students need jobs when they have trust funds and Daddy’s credit card to burn a hole in their pockets.
Then again…I’m guessing Poor Girl doesn’t have a trust fund. She’s one of a very small number of students at Conwick on a scholarship, and based on what little I learned about her when we first met—and what I’ve deduced about her since our paths crossed again—I can say with absolute certainty she doesn’t come from the same financial background as most of the other students at our university. She definitely isn’t due to inherit a billionaire dollar corporation, like me.
Hm. Maybe she’s worse off than I thought.
Poor Girl scoffs, and my attention snaps back to her. “I am such a moron.” There’s a slight wobble to her voice, which is a barely-there breath now, only just perceptible past the late summer breeze. She shakes her head, lowering those gorgeous green eyes that bore into me with intense hatred only seconds ago. “I should’ve known something like this would happen.”
Before I can fully process the situation, or summon up the brain cells to remember the NDA, Poor Girl turns on her heel and walks off, just like she stormed out of my dorm room last week. Except, unlike the vengeful rage that encompassed her then, this time, she only exudes a deep shame.
I stare at her back, noting the way her shoulders hunch as she wraps her arms around her torso, like the restraints of a straitjacket. Hit by an unexpected sympathy—and because I need to stop her before she runs off and tells someone about this—I surge forward, trailing after her like I’m her shadow. “Where are you going?”
She glares at me over her shoulder, alarmed, like an animal that knows it’s being hunted. “Leaving,” she replies in a curt breath, quickening her pace.
“Hey, wait.” When she doesn’t, I break into a jog. Though she’s fairly tall herself, my long legs catch up to hers with ease. “Hey, hold up.”
