“We agreed that you don’t need to waste your nights on me. And I don’t need to sit here pretending I’m interested in policy and governance when I’d rather take a hit from Noah than read one more paragraph about educational oversight committees.” His look drilled into me. “But you made a show about a text you got from Daddy Dean, and now here we are. Bored and pissed off.”
I tapped my fingers against the desk. “I knowwhywe’re here, and I gave you the reading list, but as the text from ‘Daddy Dean’ points out, we need to make sure youactuallydo the work. We still need check-ins, public ones because I don’t mean selfies in your PJs.”
“You liked it didn’t you? You hate that you did, am I right?” He grinned when I rolled my eyes. “Keep a hold of that, it’ll be worth something one day.”
“Your arrogance is outstanding.” I shoved a book across the desk. “Read this.”
He tilted his head, amused. “So... we’re doing this?”
“Call it professional preservation.”
We stared each other down, neither of us blinking first. How could one man be so alluring and infuriating at the same time?
Finally, he sat back, hands up in mock surrender. “This is fucking pointless.”
I gave him the flattest look I could muster. “Trust me, the feeling is mutual.”
He stretched out like he owned the table. “So what do we do now? Just... sit here and pretend?”
“Yes. Exactly that. Or you could actually read. And I... take notes.”
“About what?”
“None of your business.”
His grin was slow, infuriating. “You always take notes in an artist sketch pad?”
I froze just long enough for him to notice.
“Relax, Cole,” he said, flipping open to a random page in the book I’d shoved at him. “I’m not asking for details.” His eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Yet.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Make sure you don’t. Because I’d hate to be arrested for murder before midterms.”
Dante snorted. “Cute.” His gaze dropped to my sketchpad. “Just make sure you get my good side, yeah?”
I didn’t know whether I admired him for his confidence or hated him for it.
I bent over and took my sketchpad out —notes, for anyone passing by — and told myself I was focusing on the curve of copper wire I wanted to bend next, not the weight of his gaze on me from across the table.
We didn’t speak for the next fifteen minutes, but it wasn’t quiet. Not really. The air between us was its own conversation — one neither of us wanted to admit we were having.
“Quit staring at me,” I muttered, glancing up and seeing his sharp smirk.
“Why?” Dante pushed his chair back so that it balanced on two legs. “Maybe I find you more interesting than this book.”
“I’m not playing this game,” I warned him.
“What game?” He sat back down with a thump. “The simple art of conversation?”
“Nothing is ever simple with you, though, is it, Ten?”
He shrugged. “I’m really not that complicated. Ask me anything.”
Soooo tempting.But I knew better than anyone not to get tangled up in ‘simple’ conversation — I’d attended enough benefits and dinners with my father to hear the subtext in every conversation.
I also knew when to change the subject. “So, what I think would be best is if we do a token twenty minutes here, and then I do my thing, while you do... whatever it is you actually do when you’re not here.”
“You sound jealous again.”
