Page 37 of Faking the Goal

"And respond?"

"Yes."

"Tonight?"

I give her a look.

She gives me one right back.

"Tonight," I finally say.

For the first time since she caught up with me, some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Thank you. See? Look at us. Cooperating like emotionally mature adults."

"Don't push it."

She grins, already stepping backward. "I'll expect your email tonight, Sunshine."

I watch her turn and head back down the hallway before something occurs to me.

She never answered my question.

I still don't know where she goes every evening or why whatever she's doing is apparently important enough that she can't move it even once.

And judging by the way she reacted when I assumed it was another party, there's a good chance I don't know nearly as much about Taylor Lewis as I've convinced myself I do.

Which shouldn't bother me.

Unfortunately, when it comes to her, a lot of things that shouldn't bother me fucking do.

*****

The library lights hum above us with the same exhausted energy I feel, washing the table in a dull yellow glow that makes the scattered textbooks, empty coffee cups, and half-dead laptops look even more depressing than they already are. It's a little after eight on Wednesday night, and almost two straight hours of business strategy cases have left my brain sluggish in a way hockey never manages to accomplish. I can skate until my legs shake and still feel more functional than I do after spending an entire evening arguing about why some fictional company lost millions because its executives couldn't pull their heads out of their asses.

Across the table, Amina drops her pen onto her notebook and sighs. "I swear, if I have to read the phrase market differentiation one more time tonight, I'm dropping out."

A few people chuckle, but I'm too tired to contribute much beyond closing my laptop and rubbing the stiffness from the back of my neck. The study group always goes like this. We sit down intending to review material for an hour or two, someone starts dissecting a case study, someone else disagrees, and before we know it we've gone three hours deep into corporate strategy like the survival of the free market depends on five sleep-deprived college students figuring out where a fake company went wrong. It's weirdly addictive in the same way breaking down plays is, except there are more spreadsheets and considerably fewer opportunities to hit something.

"I'm heading out," I say as I slide my notebook into my backpack. "My brain stopped retaining information about twenty minutes ago."

Amina glances at the time on her laptop and groans. "Shit. It's already eight?"

"That's generally what the numbers in the corner of your screen mean."

"Asshole."

I give her a tired salute before slinging my backpack over one shoulder and heading out. The cool night air feels good after being trapped in the library for hours, and campus has mostly quieted down, with only a few students cutting across the walkways and music carrying faintly from somewhere farther off. My truck is parked near the back of the lot beneath a light that can't seem to decide whether it wants to work, and I'm halfway toward it when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket.

It's Dad.

Again.

Third time tonight.

I watch his name flash across the screen until the call finally goes to voicemail, then shove my phone back into my pocket without listening to whatever message he's undoubtedly going to leave. He's been calling more frequently lately, and I already know what he wants. The same thing he's wanted since I told him I was staying in the States for college instead of following the path he'd already decided for me back in Tokyo. The company. The family legacy. My responsibility to eventually come home and take my place in an empire I never asked to inherit.

Not tonight. I'm too fucking tired to listen to another lecture about duty and tradition.

I hit the unlock button on my key fob, but before I reach my truck, a flash of red a few spaces over catches my attention.