Like Damian needed to see my viewpoint of his stupid fake profession of love,I sullenly muse.
I grimace at the unwanted image of his face in my mind and at the mental whisper of his name. It’s been five days since we last spoke, since our not-so-private fight at Fernando’s and my dramatic exit (and subsequent escape in an Uber), and I honestly don’t know what’s worse—that he doesn’t seem to understand why I’m so fucking mad or that I’m mad at all.
This agreement was a stupid idea. Ronnie said it. Andie said it.Iknew it. And yet, I had foolishly convinced myself I could do this, that I could stomach our past and what being his girlfriend would mean for the sake of my mom. And I could. Iwasdoing it. And even though I would never admit it aloud except, perhaps, under threat of death, I was enjoying it. For the most part. Even if I actively made it seem like I wasn’t.
And that, I now realize, is the problem. That over all these weeks of forced proximity and fake flirting, I allowed myself to forget that he is the sort of guy who would hurt me. Whohashurt me. I began to think (albeit not consciously—not until now), that he wasn’t the same selfish asshole who pursued me and tricked me into thinking he was interested in me just to win a bet. Who spentdayswith me, smiling, flirting, pretending to need tutoring, just so I’d turn around and fuck him. Which I did. In public. Because I apparently have no fucking self-control.
But despite all that, what really pisses me off is that I let myself believe he meant it when he said he wanted to spare me from the toxic bullshit of the internet, and that maybe…just maybe…he was a decent person deep down, and not the same narcissistic fuckwad I had sex with in this very library. I was swayed by his pretty words, and easy charm, and by my own raging hormones…which I’m starting to think I should probably get checked out.
But then I saw that post and realized I was wrong. Because if Damian actually cared about me—about anyone other than himself, even a tiny bit—he wouldn’t have been so self-serving and insincere.
And what’s worse is, even though I know I was right to be mad—to call him out on his bullshit apology—the truth is, I’m just as bad as he is. Because more than anything, at this very moment, I’m only thinking about myself. Not about the other women on the list, who might see his post and be gullible enough to actually think he meant it. Not about his parents, who might be getting their hopes up that their son is actively trying to change. But aboutme—about whatI’lldo if Damian decides to call off this arrangement and I lose out on his money.
Because as angry as I am, as much as I’m hungry for vindication, I can’t call this off, even though I’m tempted to. Mom’s health—and making sure she gets her medication—is far more important to me than my own injured pride.
Beside me, Warner clears his throat, and I shake the thoughts away, willing my brain to focus. A new viewpoint, yes. That’s exactly what Warner needs. Hell, I think I could do with one, too.
“Imagine you’re driving toward a stop sign,” I say, picking up my pencil and moving it along my open notebook like a car. Warner’s eyes follow the movement, simultaneously hopeful and apprehensive, though mostly the latter. “I’m trying to guesswhere you’ll stop based on how you’re slowing down. I don’t care if you hit the sign”—I draw a line at one end of the page—“or slam on the brakes too soon.” I draw another line several inches away, then place the pencil down in-between them. “I just want to figure out where you’resupposedto stop.”
I’m about to ask Warner if that analogy in any way helps when a towering presence appears before our table, and my blood runs cold. I don’t even need to look up to know who it is; I can sense him like my body has some kind of built-in fuckboy detector.
My eyes dart up, locking on Damian’s obnoxious, smug face.
“Hi,” he says in a chipper and unnervingly polite voice, as if we’ve never met before. “I’m looking for a tutor, and I hear you can help me.”
My face hardens into a mask of stone. “Look elsewhere,” I grumble. “Can’t you see I’m already helping someone?”
I gesture vaguely to Warner, but Damian doesn’t even spare him a glance.
“It really can’t wait,” he insists. “Big test tomorrow, and all that.” When I don’t respond, he places his hands on the table, and leans in until our faces are practically touching. “Please?” That single word escapes him in a quiet, pleading breath. “It’s important.”
Though my lips curve into a pleasant enough smile, my eyes narrow in disdain. “You know what else is important? Limits.” I nod toward the calculus book, but my comment is double-edged. It isn’t just math limits I’m talking about, but my own. Limits that he shamelessly crossed. “Now,” I say, shifting my focus back to Warner, who looks exceedingly nervous to be trapped in the potential crossfire between Damian and me, “if you’ll excuse us?—”
“Uh…I think I get it now,” the freshman stammers, stumbling as he jumps out of his chair and gathers up hisbelongings, clearly eager to be as far from our impending fight as possible. Or maybe he’s just allergic to drama. I know I certainly am, though I seem to be at the center of a lot of it lately. “Thanks,” he adds, actively avoiding both my gaze and Damian’s as he shuffles away.
Damian raps his knuckles on the table. “Looks like you’re free now.”
I scowl. I needed Warner’s signature on my timesheet for this session for it to count toward my work study hours, and now, thanks to Damian, the last sixty minutes were nothing but a big waste of time. “Well, that’s just great. I hope you’re willing to pay my tuition when they strip me of my scholarship for not completing my required work study.”
“I mean, you know I’m good for it,” he murmurs, then immediately backtracks when my expression turns mutinous. “Okay, that was clearly the wrong thing to say.”
“Everything you say is the wrong thing,” I mutter as I stand and begin to pack up my books.
Rounding the table, Damian spins the now vacant seat around and straddles it. “Aren’t you even going to hear me out?” he asks. Folding his arms along the back of the chair, he plants his chin on top of his hands and peers up at me, pushing his lower lip out in a pout. “I came here to say I’m sorry.”
I freeze with my hand halfway in my bag and bark out a loud, churlish laugh. “Oh, this should be good. Go on, then. If it’s anything like your Instagram post, it’s sure to ooze sincerity.”
Damian frowns when I snatch up the last two books on the table and turn on my heel with a sneer.
As I storm off into the quiet stacks, I note the thud of hurried footsteps behind me. “Look, I know I messed up.” He throws himself in front of me to block my path, and when our eyes lock, he holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “The post was impulsive. I can admit that. Shit, it was an act of desperation.But,” he quickly adds when I try to sidestep him, “mommy and daddy issues aside, I really did think it would help our situation. I honestly wasn’t trying to make you feel used.”
I snort. “Yes, because nothing says, ‘I respect your autonomy,’ quite like shoving words in my mouth.”
He flinches. “Come on, that’s not what I was trying to do. I was trying to”—he waves a flustered hand as if reaching for the right explanation—“control the narrative, not…force you into an uncomfortable position, though I can see now how you would take it that way.”
I clutch the books tight to my chest. “That was almost an apology. Congratulations. Anything else?”
Running a hand through his hair, Damian pushes out an exasperated breath that hits me square in the face. I despise how my body reacts to it, how an unrelenting heat blooms deep in my core at this unwanted proximity of him. I hate it. I hatehim. And yet…I can’t deny how badly every atom of my very being desires him.
