“Let’s work,” he said.
And just like that, the spell broke.
But the ache in my chest?
Still there.
Still waiting.
Still burning.
We were supposed to be working.
There was a laptop open, notebooks spread out, and the smell of truffle fries drifting in from the hallway like the universe was mocking me.
But every time Leo leaned over my shoulder, the air shifted.
Every time his hand brushed mine while reaching for a pen or a highlighter, my skin sparked like a faulty wire.
I was trying—I really was—to focus on the project. Something about 18th-century colonial trade and the economic decline of British influence. Riveting stuff.
But I couldn’t concentrate with him this close.
Or with his voice that low.
Or with the way his knee kept tapping mine beneath the table like a silent dare.
“You spelled tariff wrong,” he said, nudging my notebook with the back of his hand.
“I did not.” I looked down.
Okay. I did. My brain was fried. My body? Buzzing.
“Do I distract you, Gitanilla?” he murmured.
“Not even a little,” I lied.
Leo leaned back, letting his fingers trail lazily across the rim of his iced coffee. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I forced myself to look away. To jot something—anything—down in the margins. Except now I’d drawn three hearts and a sword through them.
Awesome.
I slammed the notebook shut.
“You know, some of us actually need this grade.”
He smirked. “I’m acing this class.”
“I’m trying to.”
“You are. Trust me.” His tone softened for just a second. “You’re sharp. Too sharp to hide in shadows.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Compliments from Leo Holt felt like rigged coins. Shiny, heavy, and probably cursed.
That’s when the door creaked.
Tristan walked back in, tossing his phone on the couch and plopping into a leather chair across from us.
