“What are you doing here?” I ask, too quickly.
He nods toward the carpet beside me. “Mind if I sit?”
“It’s a public library.” I give him a shrug. “You don’t need my permission.”
He lowers himself onto the floor with an ease that doesn’t match his size—close enough that I’m aware of him, far enough that he can pretend it’s nothing.
I tilt my laptop partly closed. He doesn’t need to know what I’m up to.
“Justin.”
“Rowan.”
“You’re everywhere I am.”
His head tilts slightly, considering. “Am I?”
“Yes. You know you are.”
“It would seem that my showing up at random points in your life has worked in your favor,” he comments.
It grates on me that he’s probably never going to let me live down the fact that he bailed me out of jail.
“I’ve seen you too many times-on and off campus-to chalk this down to coincidence. It doesn’t feel that way at all.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “And what does it feel like?”
I don’t answer.
“You keep showing up,” I say, lower now. “And you never explain why.”
We look at each other. Something passes between us—not attraction exactly. It’s like we’re both reaching the same conclusion at the same time, and deciding, silently, not to name it.
I break first.
“Let me see your ID.”
His brows lift a fraction. “You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” I say. “If you’re really campus security, you’ll have some sort of ID.”
Without a word, he reaches into his back pocket and hands me a leather fold.
“And what will seeing my ID change, Rowan? Will you be more open with me about what you’re looking for?”
I open the leather wallet and check his photo and his name. It seems legitimate. It doesn’t mean I mistrust him any less.
“This could be fake,” I say.
He doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t seem to be offended. He smiles like I just confirmed something for him.
“You’re a cynic.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re difficult.”
“Same thing.”
