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“I gotta go. Send me the Apex details and the remix proposal. Don’t bother sending me anything explaining how I should pretend to fuck a stranger.”

“This should be the most fucking impor⁠—”

I hang up before he can say anything else.

I stand in the hallway for a second with the phone in my hand. Ok, we’ve got some time to figure out something worth walking into that room with Apex with. Either a fucking brilliant sound or some press that nobody wants to miss out on. The second one isn’t an option right now, so I better get over this writing block.

One problem at a time.

I roll my shoulders back and put Callum Fox on again. Easy smile. Loose posture. Nothing important has ever touched me.

When I open the door, Bea is still at the bench.

Her eyes lift to my face and linger there.

Fuck.

I get the uncomfortable feeling she can see where I’ve fastened the mask.

“Miss me?”

“Desperately,” she drawls.

“Where were we?”

“Um, we were just about to move on to the next section. Just start by reading from here.” She points to a section in the textbook.

I sit down and pick up my pen, but my head is still in the hallway thinking about a fake relationship I really, really don’t want to fucking enter, and my three guys who are already running out of patience.

Bea watches me stare at the same question for almost a minute.

“Is something wrong with the band?”

My head snaps up. “Sorry?”

“You’re usually focused, but now you’re not.” She shrugs. “It’s out of character. What’s up?”

“Doctor—future Dr. Beatrix—are you telling me⁠—”

“Don’t say, Beatrix.” She scrunches her nose. “You sound like my mother.”

“Are you telling me you’ve known who I am this entire time?”

“Of course, I know who you are.”

I lean back, offended. “And you couldn’t pretend to be impressed once?”

“You seemed impressed enough for both of us. Plus, I never said I didn’t recognize you.”

“You implied it. Heavily.”

“I implied nothing. You assumed. Because I didn’t fawn over you.” She rolls her eyes.

“You knew.” I accuse.

“Callum, I’m not a hermit. I live on the same planet as everyone else. I knew who you were in September. I knew who you were when you crawled under that desk like”—a small, precise hand gesture—”a little snail.”

“Don’t call me a snail! And I’m just surprised you didn’t mention it.”