"It'll keep," Drew says with the easy confidence of someone who's never missed a deadline. "Come on, she's only here for another hour before her study group."
His tone makes it clear this isn't actually a request. With a sigh, I stand up and follow him downstairs, mentally preparing for small talk with a sorority girl who probably thinks I'm a "project" to fix.
Emily Baker is not what I expected. She's waiting in the kitchen, perched on a barstool at the island, laughing at something Tyler is saying. She's tiny, maybe five-foot-two, with warm brown hair cut in a stylish bob and curves that her simple jeans and sweater do nothing to hide. But it's her smile that startles me. It’s so genuine and warm, reaching all the way to her eyes.
"Emily," Drew says, his voice softening in a way I've never heard before. "This is Caleb, our newest pledge."
She turns that smile on me full-force. "Finally! I was beginning to think Drew was keeping you hidden away." She hops off her stool and approaches me, extending her hand. "I'm Emily. It's so great to meet you."
Shaking her hand, I'm surprised by the firm grip. "Nice to meet you, too."
"Sit," she commands, pointing to a stool. "I want to hear all about you."
Reluctantly, I take a seat. "There's not much to tell."
"I doubt that." She studies me with intelligent eyes. "Drew tells me you're a design major?"
"Oh no, I'm pre-Law and my minor is in Digital Media and Design."
"That's perfect! I need someone with an eye for aesthetics." She glances at Drew. "No offence, babe, but you have the design sensibilities of a colorblind hedgehog."
Drew laughs, clearly not offended. "True. That's why we have James and now Caleb take care of the frats' design work."
The mention of James sends an unexpected jolt of irritation through me. Since our forced tour of the fraternity house three weeks ago, we've developed a mutual avoidance strategy that works for both of us. He stays in his tech cave, I stay out of his way, and we interact only when absolutely necessary. Which is rare, thank God.
"Speaking of James," Tyler interjects, "has anyone seen him today? The donation link on the website is glitching."
"Probably holed up in his room," Drew says. "I'll check on him later."
Emily's attention returns to me. "So, Caleb, do you happen to have any plans this afternoon?"
The directness of her question catches me unprepared. "Uh, just working on a project. Why?"
"Perfect! You're coming with me." She stands, gathering her purse. "We're getting your hair sorted out."
My hand instinctively goes to my hair, which has indeed grown too long over the past months. I've been using it as a shield, letting it fall across my face to avoid eye contact. "My hair is fine."
"Your hair," she says kindly but firmly, "makes you look like a cave-dwelling computer troll. No offence."
Tyler snorts, quickly covering it with a cough when I glare at him.
"I don't need—" My protest starts automatically.
"It wasn't a question," Emily interrupts, her tone still friendly but brooking no argument. "My stylist had a cancellation, and it's meant to be. Drew said you were pledging because you didn't have much choice, but I disagree."
The comment almost pulls a smile out of me, which…No. Absolutely not.But apparently, curiosity doesn't care about maintaining hostility.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She looks at me with those perceptive eyes. "You had a choice, and you made a good one. Now we're going to get that gorgeous haircut so people can actually see your face."
"It's no use arguing with her," Drew advises, looking amused. "Trust me, I've tried."
"Come on," Emily says, looping her arm through mine and practically pulling me to my feet. "We'll be back in a couple of hours, boys. Try not to burn the house down while we're gone."
Before I can formulate a proper protest, I'm being led out the door and toward her car, a sensible but well-maintained Subaru that somehow perfectly matches her practical but stylish vibe.
"You really don't have to do this." The protest comes out shaky. Too much. All of this is too much; her being nice when she barely knows me, the idea of sitting in that salon chair while a stranger pokes at my face and decides what to do with it.The hair's been working fine as a barrier; why mess with what works?
