The welcome banquet is held in one of the larger galleries on the ground floor. They call it abanqueteven though the only foodoptions are catered sandwiches and a few hors d’oeuvre trays of sad-looking stuffed mushroom bites. As soon as we arrive, I scan the room, looking for Ely—I can’t help myself—but she’s absent. I can’t decide if I have mental fingers crossed that she stays that way or if I’m secretly hoping she does show up, if only so I can see her again.
No, definitely the first one. I’m a responsible, ethical human.
“How were the first two days, Wyatt?” asks Carmen Moreno, one of the Parker old guard; she’s been faculty here since the program was founded. “Still in one piece?”
“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” I say. “The students took pity on me.”
“It gets easier,” Carmen says, and gives me a sympathetic pat on the arm. “First week is always a little awkward. Especially when you’re young. I remember being your age—so worried the students wouldn’t take me seriously.”
I’m not sure precisely how old she thinks I am, but I decide to take it as flattery. After thirty you’re supposed to start worrying about fine lines and gray hairs, right? Then again, I found my first gray at eighteen.
But if she’s trying to imply that I should be concerned about my ability to assert authority over the students…well, I’ve already failed on that front pretty miserably. Cue the world’s most pitiful cheer.
“We should mingle,” Ava says, her gaze scanning the slowly swelling crowd of students. Most of them are bunched up in the corner by the refreshments table, like a herd of deer wary of encroaching predators. “I don’t want Scott accusing us of cliquishness again.”
I try to shoot Ava my bestEt tu, Brute?look, but she is—possibly very intentionally—not looking at me.
And that’s how I find myself clutching a tepid lemon water and a little cup of cheese cubes, cornered by Elisheva Cohen.
“Good day so far?” she says while I’m still struggling to figureout how a normal person is supposed to interact with other human beings, specifically ones they’ve never seen naked.
“Oh, you know,” I say, which doesn’t quite live up to the eloquent vision of myself I had in my head.
But Ely doesn’t seem to mind. She has a plate of those stuffed mushrooms and keeps fiddling with them—she’s as nervous as I am. Only where I choose avoidance, she’s clearly decided overt confrontation is the best solution.
“Hope you’ve been settling in okay,” I say, attempting an olive branch. Normally I can’t stand small talk, but right now I’m incredibly grateful for whoever invented meaningless, space-filling platitudes. “Getting along with your roommates, and so on.”
“Oh yeah. They’re great. If they’re hiding dead bodies anywhere in the apartment, I haven’t found them yet.”
“I’m sure there are still plenty of nooks and crannies you haven’t investigated.”
“Surely the smell would give it away,” she says, and the corner of her mouth quirks up. She’s wearing red lipstick. The contrast of that shade and her near-black hair with the creamy white dress she’s wearing makes her look like a figure in a painting. Not that I’m supposed to be paying attention to students’ lipstick choices.
“A dedicated serial killer would find a way to disguise the stench. Maybe some discreet potpourri.”
She makes a face. “Oh god. That reminds me of the time my roommate in LA adopted this tiny little kitten. Then she kept going on, quote,mission tripsand leaving the cat with me. That thing puked in my room and I didn’t find the source for like two weeks. I just kept spraying apple cinnamon Febreze and hoping for the best. Trust me, the only thing worse than the smell of rotting biomatter is that plus synthetic fragrance.”
“Dead bodies might be an improvement, then.”
The comment earns me an arched brow and another one of those crooked smiles. God, those smiles are gonna be what getsme. The first time she looked at me like that, at Revel, it sent a jolt of adrenaline rocketing through my gut, and not much has changed on that front. Ely Cohen still has an impressive talent for turning my veins electric.
I need to get out of here. But of course Ely won’t let it be that easy.
“You know, it’s kind of weird seeing you in this environment,” she says. “You’re wearing actual clothes, for one.”
My face goes bright red. I can feel it, blood flaring hot beneath my skin. “That does go with the professional territory.”Be professional, be professional, be professional.
“Don’t get me wrong. The clothes look great on you.”
I feel like she’s pushing me, trying to press every button she can reach just to see what happens. It’s the kind of thing I should be immune to, as a thirtysomething grown-up. But being around her clearly turns me into a flushing teenager. It’s my first crush all over again, the shiver that uncurls down my spine when she lifts her drink to cheers me. The way I keep looking at her lips, lacquered in burgundy lipstick, and wishing she would leave bloody trails of that lipstick down my throat, my chest.
When I do manage to drag my attention away from her mouth, I discover that she’s every bit as distracted as I am. Her gaze has caught on something lower down—my chest, maybe, or my hips. I’m abruptly hyperaware of the fact that this girl—woman—has seen every part of me. She doesn’t need to imagine what’s under my clothes, because she knows.
She glances up again and I barely,barely,manage to look over toward the refreshments table before she realizes I’ve been staring.
If I harbored any hopes that Ely might change the subject…well, she doesn’t. “The whole outfit is very redneck chic. The flannel is a nice touch.”
“Flannel is cozy.”
