“Yes,” I say, my voice flat. Unmoving. Unrepentant. “You knew my name. I didn’t know yours. Frankly, I didn’t even know you existed, and you knew my class. That’s literally in the stalker playbook.”
He winces. “Fair. But in my defense, you sit in the front row, and your notebook has your name on it. I sit in the back row where no one can see me. It’s not stalking, it’s… strategic seating.”
“That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”
“Also fair,” he admits.
He holds my gaze for a second but then laughs. I want to say it’s with nerves, but that doesn’t seem right for him.
“Tell me,” he says softly, almost to himself, “why do I keep acting like an idiot around you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not like this with anyone else. I’ve been media trained and filmed for TV for as long as I can remember, but when I’m around you, I can’t quite get the right words out.”
He looks at me—really looks at me—the same way actors do when they’re playing my love interest in a scene. They tilt their chin a little, let their eyes linger a fraction too long… Only it doesn’t feel like he’s acting.
Something flips in my stomach, so I back up before my brain does something stupid.
“Probably because you introduced yourself by going full windshield wiper with your giant dong across my face,” I say. I don’t even know why the joke comes out—it’s like my mouth is trying to break the tension before it strangles me.
He pauses… then lets out a quiet huff of laughter.
“Okay,” he says. “Not my finest moment.”
Then, with a shrug: “How about I try again? Thursday work for you? I’m done with practice after three.”
“That could work. I could meet you in the library.”
“Great.”
“Perfect.” I clap my hands together, noting everyone else has started packing up their things. “See, no need for my phone number.”
There it is again. That genuine smile of his.
“Yeah, no need, Princess.”
Princess?
Did he just call me princess? I shake my head, ignoring it.
“Anyway, I better go. I’ve got class and don't want to be late for that one too.”
I stand, pretending to be deeply invested in packing my things instead of noticing how stupidly well his shirt fits when he leans into his bag.
“Before you go.” He pulls out a book and hands it to me.
I take it before processing that it’s not a normal paperback. It’s a leather-bound special edition. I glance down at it, my thumbs running over the embossed letters.
The Princess Bride.
My favorite.
“It’s for you,” he says. “To replace the copy I ruined in the fountain.”
“Forme?” I choke out. “Oh, no. Scotty. This is too much. I can't accept something like this.” I push it back toward him, but he holds his hands up.
“Please, take it. It's the least I could do after everything.”
