Emmy grabs my hand and drags me through the doorway she’d been eyeing, and we burst into a library––the floor-to-ceiling cherry wood bookcases give it away. The massive shelves are packed with books, just like the center of the room is packed with moving bodies. The only light in this room flashes from yet another strobelight, and when the light flickers near a group of people vaping in the corner, the thick billows of smoke before their mouths turn acid green, then blood red, then electric purple. Draped in neon light, the room devolves into an underground dance club before my very eyes, and I find my body moving to the music without my consent, the rhythm just as intoxicating as the beer in my hand.
“‘Atta girl!” Emmy cries, pulling me to the center of the room.
We jump, spin, and dance until our beers are empty and our minds are buzzing.
Thoroughly out of breath, I dip out of the sea of people to lean against one of the bookshelves. I rest my head back and focus on my breathing. Moments later, I’m assaulted by another bright flash of white light.
“You should really ask permission before photographing people,” I snipe at Zayne, a scowl screwing up my face.
“Oh, really?” he asks, his tone surprisingly earnest. “I just assume everyone wants to have their photo taken by me. After all, if I take their photo, it means I believe the moment deserves to last forever. Very few people are afforded that honor.”
Perhaps he’s trying to be witty or charming, but it’s not working on me.
“It’s pretty rude,” I say curtly, with the hope it’ll cut the conversation short.
But, of course, it doesn’t. Instead, he says simply, “Sometimes that’s what art is.”
I consider that for a moment as my breathing regulates.
“Well, whatever. Next time you want to take my photo, you ask permission first. Got it?”
“Sure,” he agrees with a smirk, dropping his camera to let it dangle around his neck. “I’m curious,” he continues, his voice dropping almost too low to hear over the music’s pulsing synth. “What’s your first impression of Lizbeth?”
I dip my head toward the floor as I reply, “Well, the campus is beautiful and the professors seem nice, but the students...”
“Are one in a million,” Zayne finishes for me. “That’s why we’re here.”
I study his face. Thick eyebrows with a permanent crease in the skin between them. Impish eyes, the deep blue-gray of a stormy ocean. Now I understand why the others can only trust him so far.
Emmy comes tumbling out of the throng of dancers, sweat-drenched hair plastered against the sides of her face. She’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Maeve! More drinks,” she demands.
“May I?” Zayne asks me before letting Emmy drag me away.
I eye him hesitantly. “Fine, but I’m not smiling.”
The smirk that rises to his lips tells me he’s more than pleased with my response. “Good. Smiles are always fake.”
He snaps another picture and walks away before I can fully process what just happened. Then Emmy is urging me back toward the kitchen. When we get there, we find Iris and Claire making out against the refrigerator. Until they come up for air, Emmy and I decide to give them a wide berth.
“Archibald! You made it,” a familiar voice cries from behind us. With a new beer to my lips, I turn to find Franco walking toward us. “And the newbie. Hey!”
“Hi Franco.” I smile—not fake at all.
“I see you’ve already met the woman of the hour,” Emmy says, gesturing to me.
“Yup. Gave her the welcome tour this morning.” His hair is down tonight, soft brown waves framing his angular face.
Emmy nudges me with her elbow. “Lucky for you, Maeve. The other tour guides are dull as hell.”
“You sure know how to flatter a guy,” Franco says to Emmy with a wink.
“Franco lives here with Zayne,” Emmy explains to me.
“How’s that going for you?” I ask with far more bite than I’d intended. The single beer I had must already be going to my head, which makes sense. I’ve always been a lightweight.
Franco’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “I see you’ve formed your own opinion of him already. I’m not surprised. In a dress like that, you were bound to catch his attention.”
