"From what? Unwanted coffee invitations? I'm twenty-six and I have a PhD, Marcus. I can handle myself."
"I know that logically, but I also know what those guys are like," he says in a soft voice. "The locker room talk, the bets, the way they treat women like..."
I cross my arms. "I'm not interested in dating your teammates. I'm there to do research. That's it."
"Good. That's good." His face relaxes. Then he glances at the flower and purses his lips, brows furrowing. "So, there's no one you're interested in?"
An image of King's texts flashes through my mind. I stare at the flowers, barely stopping myself from giving them a wide smile.
"No one you need to worry about."
"Okay." He nods. "Okay, that's..."
My bladder reminds me that I was pressed long before I drove home.
"I need to use the bathroom. Give me a minute."
Before he can continue the conversation, I escape. I quickly use the toilet, then lean on the sink and stare at my reflection.
My phone buzzes multiple times. It has to be King.
My heart leaps. I need to make Marcus leave and read King’s texts. I wash my hands fast, flush the toilet, and rush out.
Marcus is standing by my coach, holding my phone.
The world stops.
"Who is King?" His voice is dangerously quiet.
Ice floods my veins. "That's private."
"Private? Where did you meet?"
I look away.
"You're not arguing back. Have you even met him?"
I suddenly realize how stupid it looks that I haven't met King yet.
“I haven’t… We’re—”
He shakes his head, his expression darkening.
“You’ve never met him,” he says, “yet he’s sending you all these texts.” His eyes drop to the screen. “‘Can’t stop thinking about what you said last night.’ ‘You make me want to be better.’”
He scrolls.
“‘I want to hold you in my arms, Ivy.’” His gaze snaps to mine. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“It’s none of your business.”
"The hell it's not. Is this why you said there's no one? Because you're hiding some relationship?"
"I'm not hiding anything. He's just..." I grasp for words that won't make this worse. "He's just someone I met through Sloane. She gave me his number. It's nothing."
“You've not met him, and it's not nothing,” he retorts, voice rises. "Nothing doesn't text you at eleven p.m. with winky faces. Does he know about you, where you work?"
"Marcus..." My voice trails off. I can't even defend myself well enough because my brother is right.
