He’s so tall I have to tip my head back to find his face, which is infuriatingly too attractive, with dark curls and steel-blue eyes that are currently committing the crime of looking amused.
I snap back at him, “Or if I’d stuffed a pair in your mouth, I wouldn’t have to listen to bad jokes from complete strangers.”
It comes out fast and more than a little loud, in a voice I haven’t used in nine months. It’s the old Sloane, the pre-Harrison-scandal-and-pre-Halden-Girl-Sloane, and my comeback registers on his face.
His mouth kicks up, amused. “Tempting,” he says. “Bit public for that level of intimacy though, don’t you think?”
“You’re the one making jokes about a stranger’s underwear in the middle of the quad.”
“Fair.”
He crouches and picks up the pink one —mypink one — between two fingers, then sets it on top of the duffel without once looking at it. Then he picks up the black one, also without looking, which I appreciate, and hands it to me folded.
Folded.
“Thanks,” I say, not sure what my face is doing.
“Strap or zipper?”
“What?”
“Which died first.”
“You don’t need to?—”
“Engineer’s curiosity.”
“You’re an engineer?”
“No.” He gives me a slow smile. “But I got your mind off the problem, right?”
Oh, comeon.
“I’m having a great day, actually.” I finish stuffing the bag. “This is the best a day has gone for anyone, historically speaking.”
“You’re very convincing.”
“Iam, thank you.”
“The comeback about the mouth especially.”
“I regret the comeback about the mouth.”
“Don’t.”
He says it just like that, one word, low and steady, and I feel it land somewhere south of my stomach. And as I fold the duffel’s flaps over like a broken wing, he’s already standing again, hands back in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t leave, either.
“You’re still standing here,” I say.
“I’m just making sure no lecherous hordes descend on you.” He shrugs. “And making sure you’re okay.”
“You could just ask…”
His eyes are locked on me, like he’s reading me. “You’d lie.”
I’m meant to be invisible here. Nobody is supposed to be able to see anything. That’s the whole point of the version of myself I packed for this place. And here’s a stranger, ninety seconds in, who told me he can see right through me.
I look down at the bricks so he can’t watch me decide what to do with that. “Thank you,” I say. “I’ve got it.”
