Lessons in Faking: English Edition by LYX E-Book

Selina Mae

• Herausgeber: Lyx.digital
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 474

Beschreibung

IT HAD TO LOOK REAL TO EVERYONE, FROM EVERY ANGLE, ALL THE TIME. NOT JUST TO MY BROTHER. ALWAYS

There’s one thing Athalia Pressley wants more than anything: her twin brother’s affection. Since their parents’ death, Henry hasn’t given her much of it - until a halfway-to-failed class and the need for a tutor land Athalia in his enemy’s lap. Suddenly she’s awarded Henry’s undivided attention, and if she wants to keep it that way, she needs Dylan McCarthy Williams. She’s not fond of her brother’s rival, his slick comments, or that know-it-all attitude. Not even the fluffy hair, dreamy eyes or body of a college soccer player help. But through forced laughs and fake dates, it seems the two can leave their bickering behind to chase one common goal: a Pressley’s attention.

»The banter and tension work in perfect harmony to create a book you are unable to put down.« DOM FROM ITS_TN_BITCH

English edition of LESSONS IN FAKING by WATTPAD-superstar Selina Mae featuring the popular LYX-paperback-format

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

About the book

Dear reader

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Author’s Note

The Author

Books by Selina Mae published at LYX

Excerpt

Imprint

SELINA MAE

Lessons in Faking

A Novel

English Edition by LYX

ABOUT THE BOOK

There’s one thing Athalia Pressley wants more than designer bags and daily takeout: her twin brother’s affection. Since their parents’ death, Henry hasn’t given her much of it—until a halfway-to-failed class and the need for a tutor lands her in his enemy’s lap, and suddenly Athalia is awarded her brother’s undivided attention. Unfortunately, if she wants to keep it that way she needs Dylan McCarthy Williams’s help. She’s not fond of her brother’s enemy, his slick comments, or that know-it-all attitude. Fluffy hair, dreamy eyes, body of a college soccer player … and she still hates his guts. But there’s no one who gets under her brother’s skin quite like he does, and when Athalia proposes her risky fake dating ruse, McCarthy is almost eager to participate. Through forced laughs, fake dates, and the restraint not to strangle him whenever he opens his mouth, the two craft the perfect relationship facade and occasionally leave their bickering behind to chase one common goal: a Pressley’s attention.

This book contains explicit content.

For more detailed information, please see here.

Disclaimer: The content warning includes spoilers for the entire book!

We wish you the best possible reading experience.

Love,

Selina & LYX

To those who love without trying or realizing or wanting anything in return. Thank you.

CHAPTER 1

I was sure of exactly three things.

Revenge is just another word for justice.Money does buy happiness.Stay away from Dylan McCarthy Williams or my brother will have me murdered in my sleep.

And how badly did I need this, really?

Technically, I was failing Statistics II—yes. And sure, Professor Shaw said this weekly tutoring thing would be the only way to get through his class, after the midterm I had “completely violated” (his words, not mine).

But let’s face it. Perhaps college just wasn’t my thing. Despite my mother’s reputation, statistics certainly wasn’t. And McCarthy certainly wasn’t, either.

My eyes fell to the brunet on the other side of his desk with an internal groan. His tall frame hovered over a stack of papers, dark brows drawn together slightly, as he assessed one of them. Sitting in the small office chair, coffee-brown hair falling into his features, he hadn’t acknowledged my presence in the doorway. Not after I’d knocked. Not after I’d opened the door. Not after I’d—

“Athalia Payton Pressley,” he drawled, not looking up. Automatically, my body deflated in sync with the sound of his voice. “Would you just sit?”

The words left Dylan McCarthy Williams’ mouth with irritable indifference, still scribbling into his notes, before the red pen dropped from his grip. And somehow, that gesture in itself, felt intentionally passive-aggressive. Like he was saying How dare you interrupt my work? without ever opening his mouth.

Instead, he said, “Or were you planning on staring at me for the entire hour?” His eyes found mine and his brows rose, with a prompting look on his face that made me want to run the other way, but instead, forced me into the chair opposite his. McCarthy followed my every move, watching cautiously as I took a seat, swooping my brown hair to one side, so it wouldn’t get stuck behind my back. I crossed one leg over the other, holding the hem of my black skirt in place, smoothing a hand down the wool fabric of my long sleeve.

Innocently, I blinked at him. “I was promised Shaw’s best and brightest.” My head tilted with a smirk on my lips, not hiding the light disdain in my voice, as I got a stack of notes out of my bag. It was half the size of his, but I ignored that. “Have you seen them, by any chance?” With a loud thud, hoping the gesture would mirror the attitude of his pen-dropping, I maneuvered my papers onto the desk.

An unamused huff escaped him, as he reached for the passive-aggressive pen again. McCarthy thought, before his gaze lifted onto mine once more, lips turning into a wide, fake smile. A smile that said: I’m not here to bullshit back and forth with you, I’m here to ass-kiss for extra credit and a good reputation. A smile that also said: I’d much rather kill you now and live with the consequences than do this; the threat was hidden behind deep dimples and the words “You can’t really be surprised, can you?”

He gestured to his own frame, down the plain black T-Shirt, the silver chain disappearing under its neckline. He sported a cocky grin, when my gaze flicked up toward him again.

Dylan McCarthy Williams was, if nothing else, what my brother hated most in this world. More than strawberry ice cream (“It’s a sorry excuse of a flavor, Athalia! No, I’m not debating you on this.”). More than Eric (my first boyfriend). More than our dead parents (for… dying?).

There were a few noteworthy reasons (and a couple of hundred more).

McCarthy stole his jersey number.McCarthy stole his spot as team captain.McCarthy stole his girlfriend (Paula), three days after they had broken up.

Of course, it was pure coincidence McCarthy had ended up with the number seven on his jersey. In the end, their bickering had cost both of them their chance at captaining the HBU soccer team, though Henry Parker Pressley was of the firm belief that McCarthy had been out to get him, from the moment he’d laid eyes on him, three years ago. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t particularly care, either. All that mattered was that I stood in solidarity with him—which put McCarthy high up on my own metaphorical hit list, for the mere fact he was #1 on Henry’s.

There wasn’t much history between McCarthy and me. Although my brother didn’t care about much regarding my life, he’d obviously made sure of that. What I knew of him, though—the arrogance, the sarcasm, the general attitude—it seemed he’d done me a solid. One that didn’t change anything about the fact I was still sitting across from McCarthy now.

While I usually didn’t mind facing conflict head-on, the thought of asking Professor Shaw for a different tutor was appealing now. His office was just next door. I could knock, apologize (for… failing his class?) and promise to get to a passing grade by the end of the semester, all by myself.

And with anyone else, that might’ve worked, but Shaw hated me enough as it was. Plus, what’s to say I’d actually manage to pass by myself? The odds were stacked against me.

I shook my head with a sigh, eyes scanning the room. Honestly, whoever had chosen it couldn’t have found a smaller one if they’d tried really, really hard. Compared to the vast dining halls of Hall Beck University (in which I’d eaten a total of four times), the massive library on the main campus (that I’d been forced into more often than I would’ve liked) and lecture halls, with hundreds of seats (that still ended up completely packed whenever I’d get there, two minutes before a lecture began); this was a broom closet. Crammed into it a wooden desk full of loose papers, a bookshelf filled with folders of various colors, and then a man too large for the chair he sat in.

Behind McCarthy, a window looked out onto one of the courtyards of the university, showing the mild fall weather of the east coast. Dust collected in the corners of the glass. The space was too small, too packed for this to end well.

“What makes you think this is a good idea?”

“It’s not.” McCarthy shrugged, technically agreeing with me.

The thought of the both of us agreeing on anything—even if it was the mere fact that we wouldn’t get along—struck me as odd.

Odd enough, that I must’ve made a face, because he went on to say, “Poor Princess Pressley.” A note of amusement lingered within his otherwise dismissive tone. His head tilted slightly. “Can’t believe someone wouldn’t be thrilled to spend time with her.”

My last attempt at civility, was letting that comment slide. By now, I’d been called far worse than ‘princess’. I watched him silently scan through the few notes I’d collected in the first weeks of the semester and hoped he could feel my glare, even if he wasn’t looking at me.

“Jesus Christ.” His silence had been far too short. “How did you pass Statistics I like this?”

I didn’t need confirmation to know he’d found the midterm, that had gotten me into this predicament in the first place. The way his lip curled upward said enough, but for emphasis, he turned the pages and huffed, “A D? Really?”, in the worst possible way he could.

My nose twitched, before I deadpanned a “Fuck you.” McCarthy just snickered in amusement.

The truth, though? Blind as a bat, and with his long, greasy hair hanging into his face at every given opportunity, how would Professor Shaw have noticed little old me last year—with my phone under the table—snapping photos of the questions and sending them to someone who did know the answers? Exactly.

My brother, uptight and smart enough for the both of us, would probably call that cheating. I’d call it being resourceful.

The problem: my performance in the last class and my final, acceptable grade, didn’t correlate. Hah, statistics. And though Shaw hadn’t had any proof of my cheating last semester, he sure had been determined to get it, this time around. Hence the seating chart he’d introduced in our first lecture of Statistics II, and why I was seated in the front row. It forced me to take my midterm fair and square, and, well, here we were.

With a D.

McCarthy snorted with amusement, as if he’d heard my inner monologue and knew my answer to his question, even before it formed on my tongue. “Of course.” He nodded knowingly. He rolled his eyes. “When do the Pressleys not throw Daddy’s money at their problems?”

“It’s Mommy’s, actually.” I smiled innocently, watching him place my notes on the desk between us, turned, so we could see them from either side. “And clearly,” I continued, “this is me not throwing it at my problems, or you’d have noticed by now.”

“That’s funny.” He didn’t laugh.

And after he didn’t laugh, he cleared his throat like we were really doing this. Like he would really teach me ‘A-B tests’ and ‘bandit algorithms’. And like he really expected me to get it.

I honestly had believed him to be as opposed to this as I was. To figuratively scream and fight, until Shaw would let him out of it, throw a tantrum if he had to. As long as we wouldn’t be sitting here by the end of it…

“Why would you want to torture us like this?” I hoped my words would divert us from the path toward hypotheses and variables. “You’re out of your mind if you think—”

“It’s my job, Pressley,” he said, face straight, expression unreadable for a second. Then, the right corner of his lip twisted, just the tiniest bit, in a cruel, yet irritably intriguing way. “You know,” he teased. “That thing where you show up, do what you’re told, and get money for it at the end of the month? With your background, I don’t know if you’re familiar—”

“Wait.” I was just beginning to get it. “You’re TA’ing for Shaw?” I shook my head a little, confusion lingering in my expression. “Why?” I basically spat the word.

“Why not?”

“You don’t need the money,” I assessed, green eyes narrowing slightly. Very quickly, they flicked to the watch around his wrist (that had probably cost as much as the pair of Miu Miu’s in my closet). “You definitely don’t need the money.”

“And yet here I am.”

And yet here he was.

So, on I went. “What happened to the cute senior from last year? I liked him.” I faked a pout.

“Believe it or not—he graduated.”

“And you just had to be the one to replace him?” The smug smile on my lips was a complete lie. A front that kept the realization from manifesting on my face. My chances of getting another tutor had been slim before, but knowing McCarthy was TA’ing for Shaw had just reduced them to zero, and I was dying inside.

There was no way he’d bother assigning me another tutor, when he had McCarthy—his TA to do it. “No one else up to the task?”

“They dodged a bullet.” He was beginning to get annoyed. I could feel it. In the way he impatiently drummed his fingers on the wooden desk and the way he fumbled with the papers between us, to steer my attention onto them. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Man,” I sighed with a victorious smile, dragging the word out. I couldn’t help it. I leaned back into the uncomfortable chair, and his exasperated groan almost made me laugh. “TA’ing for Shaw, huh? Must be the worst.” Our eyes stayed connected; the bags under his told me he couldn’t have slept more than a few hours last night. Still, somehow he looked more put together than I would, after a full night’s rest. “Do you get in trouble if you can’t get the job done?”

He leaned his forearms onto the desk. His dark hair fell into his face, and the glimpse of a smile played on his lips—not an amused or happy one. Challenging. “That depends,” he said softly. “Will you get in trouble if you fail his class?”

“What’s his punishment? Do you get your pay cut? Overtime?” I ignored his words. “Or do you just get fired?” I swallowed hard; smile still on my lips when my head tilted. “Could I get you fired, McCarthy?”

I could see the gears in his head turning, the corner of his mouth twitching, and his Adam’s apple bobbing before he answered. “Doesn’t matter.” Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he shrugged as he leaned back into his chair. “I always get the job done.”

Then he sighed, and I shifted in my seat, uncrossing my legs. “And just so you know,” he began once more, gaze falling to my right. “That door connects to Shaw’s office.” He nodded toward it. “In case you want to make sure he can hear your insults, speak up just a little more next time.” He huffed in light amusement. “You can guess how thin these walls are.”

I tried to prevent the panic currently seeping through every fiber of my being from showing on my face, as best as I could. Quickly shifted my eyes from the alleged connecting door. To distract him, I cleared my throat, leaned forward, and flipped through my own notes.

“Right,” I exclaimed, and I could tell how pleased he was. “You were saying? About…” My voice trailed off, reading the half-hearted notes I took in the last lecture. “About ‘two-sample comparison’?” My eyes batted open to find the victorious smile I’d expected from him, and I almost regretted caving.

Though, if there was one thing worse than McCarthy’s presence, it was the wrath of a certain Professor Simon Shaw.

My brother would understand.

CHAPTER 2

I heard my best friend before I saw her.

The rattling of her crowded keychain when she opened the door to our shared loft on the edge of campus. The thudding of her rushed steps, only briefly interrupted as she kicked off her shoes by the door. And finally, “You can’t be serious.” Her tone clipped and annoyed, she rounded the corner into the open kitchen.

“Unfortunately.” My gaze trailed from my laptop toward her as she came into view. “I’m dead serious.”

Wren frowned, and slowly but surely let go of the grocery-filled tote bag over her shoulder. It slid to the ground as she, undoubtedly, thought of the string of text messages she’d received as soon as I had left McCarthy’s office.

“No,” she insisted.

“Yes.”

“McCarthy?”

I nodded again.

Finally, she let go of the deep breath she must’ve been holding for a while, blowing strands of short, split-dyed hair out of her face in the process. The black and white of either side of her hair parted in the middle and barely reached her shoulders; the color was a DIY project, from way before we’d known each other. Now, unpacking the bag she’d maneuvered onto the kitchen island, it was moving in sync with the motion. With a sigh, I jumped off the stool to help her.

“You should’ve seen his face,” I continued mid-motion.

“I’d rather not.”

“It was just so—” I struggled to find words that would describe what had been an equal mix of arrogance, confidence, and smugness on his face. I gave up with a frustrated groan. “As if his ego isn’t big enough as it is.” I opened the fridge a little too forcefully. “Now I’m stroking it every time I accidentally learn something from him—which is supposed to be the point of the whole thing, right?” I closed the fridge with a thud. “Learning something, I mean. And thanks to him, it’s the only thing I don’t want to do now.”

Wren gave me her best attempt at a sympathetic smile, which meant her nose twitched and she grimaced more than smiled. But I got the message, took my first deep breath since I’d broken into a fit of rambling a few minutes ago, and slumped back onto the stool.

“I doubt he’d be able to teach you anything to begin with,” Wren muttered, head cocked. Another twitch of her nose, then a sigh—a sound filled with both pity and determination. She turned toward me again. “I’m sure I could pick up Statistics in a heartbeat,” she said. “I’ll be your tutor. Fuck McCarthy.”

A low, almost defeated laugh rattled through me.

“I’m serious,” she added, sounding convinced.

For a second, I let myself imagine it. Wren in that office chair opposite me. Wren asking me questions I didn’t know the answers to. And asking me again and again, until I eventually did. No McCarthy in sight. It was beautiful, almost utopian.

“I know.” I dragged the last word out, sounding almost whiny. “Which is why the offer is so terribly inviting.” A pout formed on my lips, turning into a half-hearted smile at the prompting look on Wren’s face. Okay, so? it was asking. She crossed her arms, revealing the stick and poke tattoo of a knife along the side of her hand—the result of our procrastination, during summer exams last year.

I shook my head in amusement. “I cannot possibly in good conscience steal that much of your time. Again.”

Wren Inkwood was the kind of friend who accompanied you to every party, every get-together, despite the fact she didn’t like to drink and she did not like people. She was the kind to beat up your boyfriend when she’d found him cheating on you—before she even told you he had. The kind to take you home for Thanksgiving, despite only knowing you for ten weeks.

And because she was clearly the ‘above-and-beyond’ kind of friend, and I was the ‘average-at-best’ kind, I wanted to take less and give more. I wanted to be there for her, instead of the other way around. Which is why I was persistent in my stance.

“You can’t be serious, Athalia.”

“I am.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

The knock on our front door felt like my saving grace—a way to get out of an argument before it had really even started.

I jumped off the bar stool with a faked apologetic look on my face, then basically broke into a sprint to the door. Though, once I was greeted by the less-than-pleased expression on my twin’s face, I immediately missed the childish back and forth with Wren as she disappeared into her room.

I’d like to see him more often, yes. But never when he was in a bad mood.

“Henry.” My brows rose as he slipped into my apartment without another word. “Why don’t you come in?” I muttered, waving him in with an unnecessary swat. He’d taken a right turn and reached the open kitchen by then, rummaging through cupboards and shelves unbothered. I could hear it from here. With a roll of my eyes, I slammed the door and followed. “You know I love your annual visits, but a bit of a heads-up would be… great.”

Henry was still in his jersey, crimson shorts on full display, a little eight stitched onto them, and a black hoodie thrown over the matching shirt. He was probably sweaty and gross and still, he looked as put together as ever. Light brown hair parted in the middle the way it always was.

“They’re not annual,” he acknowledged after a solid fifteen seconds, finally resting once he got his hands on a half-brown banana from the otherwise empty fruit basket. Taking it forced him to first place the stack of papers in his hand onto the island, drawing my attention to them.

I stiffened. “Where did you get those?”

The question was unnecessary.

Henry’s green eyes followed my gaze pretend-casually. “Oh, these?” He shrugged, using the banana as an extension of his finger to half-heartedly point at my statistics notes.

He took a bite, then with a full mouth went on to say, “Funny story, actually.” The expression on his face told me it wasn’t—or at the very least he didn’t think so. “McCarthy gave them to me after practice.” Disdain sprawled across his face at the mention of him. “Told me my little sister must have left them at his office; if I could be so kind to get them back to her, and if I was already stopping by anyway—”

“Not that you were going to,” I reminded him quickly. “Stop by, that is.” Not if it hadn’t been for my notes in his hand, and the fact they’d previously been in McCarthy’s.

Henry ignored the dig pointedly. I wasn’t surprised. “He wants me to let you know that, apparently—” My brother was nothing if not dramatic, and he paused like he needed the moment to collect himself.

My eyes closed, head falling back as I stemmed my hands on top of the counter behind me. I braced myself for impact—for whatever message McCarthy had left my brother.

“Apparently,” Henry repeated, waiting until I looked back at him. “He really enjoyed himself today—is looking forward to next time, even.” And as if it couldn’t get any worse: “But remind her how thin the walls are, he said. I won’t go as easy on her again.” I wouldn’t be surprised if the last words were an exact quote. That they were half the reason Henry was here to begin with.

We stared at each other in disbelief––of very different kinds.

Mine was: I cannot believe McCarthy would feed my brother this bullshit.

His was: I cannot believe my sister is hooking up with my arch-nemesis (like I said, dramatic).

And when I didn’t say anything in my defense—because I was still too stunned to say anything at all—the accusation shot out of him. “You’re sleeping with McCarthy!”

His unfiltered words snapped me out of it. “Good God,” I gasped, grimacing. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

“Then explain these!” He waved my notes in the air, desperately. “Please.” And he sounded the part, too.

“Tutoring!” I sputtered. “He’s my tutor.” I took a deep breath. “Statistics.”

Like the word was all the explanation he needed. I could see the realization seep into every single one of his features. The relief of the explanation was immediate. The way his shoulders sagged, the deep breath he took. Henry closed his eyes in what seemed to be a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in.

“Tutoring,” he affirmed to himself in a half-whisper, then took another bite of the banana, as if the fit he’d just thrown never happened. Swallowing, he nodded in another self-assuring gesture. “He’s your tutor.”

“Yes.”

His voice was calm, his gaze gliding through the room almost distractedly, when he said, “So get another one.”

I snorted, and wondered whether he really believed that thought hadn’t yet crossed my mind. “I can’t simply get another one,” I huffed, sitting back on the bar stool.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I groaned. Henry’s brows rose, waiting for the end of that sentence. “Because Shaw said this is my only shot at passing his class.” I pinned him with a look when he still seemed unbothered—like it was a mere inconvenience I hadn’t put enough effort into fixing. “McCarthy as my tutor. Once a week.”

Henry shook his head as if he’d been there, during mine and the professor’s conversation, and as if that wasn’t what he had said at all. “I’ll be your tutor instead.”

And hello, offer number two.

“Are you Shaw’s TA?”

“No,” he said. Before I could retort anything, he went on. “But I’m better at statistics than McCarthy.”

“You think you’re better than him at everything,” I pointed out with a sigh, giving up on this conversation as my head fell into my arms on the island.

“Because I am.”

“Sure.”

“Athalia—”

“What?” I didn’t mean to shout the word at him. His demeanor had been entirely too calm for that, and yet my head jerked in his direction forcefully.

A short silence hung between us before Henry gave me an apologetic smile, rounding the kitchen island. Propping himself against it by my side, his hand ruffled my hair in that way he knew I hated, but I knew he loved. Even if it felt like one every time, it wasn’t a malicious gesture. Actually, it was probably the way Henry said You know I love you, right? the way siblings usually did. Only he never said the words—I couldn’t remember the last time he had.

“I’ll talk to Shaw,” he suggested, voice low. As if he knew even the smallest thing could set me off now. Like I was a bomb only waiting for a reason to explode. Maybe I was?

“That’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had, Henry,” I said calmly, mostly to compensate for my outburst seconds ago. “Shaw hates your guts almost as much as mine.”

“So what?” he asked. “He should know better than to put you and McCarthy in the same room. I’ll talk to him.”

I didn’t mention that Shaw probably had other things to worry about than a stupid rivalry between his top students.

“There’s no point.” Shaw wasn’t going to budge, McCarthy wasn’t going to quit. That was all that mattered.

Henry rose back to his impressive six foot one, and circled the kitchen island again to throw the banana peel into the trash under the sink. “I’ll talk to him,” was all he said.

“No you won’t,” I retorted, suddenly fierce in my stance.

“Athalia,” he groaned.

“Henry.”

Exasperated, his hands flew up, pinning me with a grim look that almost made me slip a smile. Henry was so easy to aggravate, I almost saw the appeal in McCarthy’s actions. At least that way he was paying attention to me. “I just don’t want that asshat—”

“Asshat?” My smile did slip out now. “Very original.”

Henry waved me away half-heartedly. “Whatever,” he huffed. “I just don’t want that guy anywhere near my little sister, that’s all.”

“I’m twelve minutes younger than you.” I shook my head slightly. “Which is why I don’t need you to baby me. In fact, I don’t need anyone to baby me. I’ll handle the situation with McCarthy like any adult would—by myself.”

He pointedly ignored the last statement. “And yet, you’re born a day after me. Twelve minutes or not, Athalia, you’re my baby sister. Period.”

“Henry—”

“Either way—” He shrugged like he hadn’t interrupted me, heading for the door. He made his way out of the apartment backward, eyes on me. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it, little sister.”

“Don’t you dare—” I was by his side again before I could even finish my sentence. “I will handle it.”

Unfazed, Henry opened the door, only hovering in the doorway long enough to give me an unbothered smile as a parting gift.

Little shit.

I took a deep breath, leveling my voice. “Dylan McCarthy will not get anywhere close to your little sister—” I mocked. “At least not closer than the desk separating us at all times. Now, let me just deal with this by myself. Okay?”

“Sure,” Henry said as he left, but he didn’t mean it.

CHAPTER 3

“You’re sure this isn’t a costume party?” Wren’s voice traveled through the barely lit street, accompanied by the music blaring through the walls of the colonial-style home we stood in front of.

Shifting my attention from the Greek letters sprawled above the entrance, I grinned at her. “Positive. Though even if it was—” My eyes danced across her: the military boots, the run in her dark tights that disappeared under a skirt—the same shade as everything else she usually wore (black). “You might still qualify for Halloween.”

“Fuck off.” Wren rolled her eyes as she matched my smile, probably rethinking the entirety of our three year-long friendship when I nudged her up the porch and reached for the door. I gave her one last look, lips turned up into a full grin by now. When she matched it again, I pushed the door open.

A few cheers erupted through the crowd, welcoming us—not because they necessarily knew who we were (or cared), but simply because, to them, more people equaled more fun. More singing, more dancing, more possible hookups.

“Athalia!” By the time my head shot in the direction of the sound, two arms already pulled me into a bear-like hug, before a big hand ruffled my hair in that way I hated.

Henry.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I muffled against his chest, already too tipsy from pregaming to care about the fact he’d just ruined an hour of hairstyling in five seconds. Probably too taken aback by the fact that I was in Henry’s arms. That he was hugging me.

My brother was hugging me and I did not remember the last time he’d done that. Had been affectionate beyond his hair-ruffling at all.

Before I could fully understand what was happening—why it was—Henry shrugged, letting go to embrace Wren just as enthusiastically. I took the time to consider my twin. His brown hair was styled just enough to seem casual, when I knew it took him almost as long as it took me to get ready. He wore a black polo tucked into tailored pants, somehow pulling off that ‘golf-course’ vibe as casual.

While Wren patted his back—waiting with an upturned nose until he was ready to let her out of his hug—I considered another fact. Henry was drunk, and Henry did not usually drink.

Help me, Wren mouthed, pulling me out of my thoughts before I could figure out what had gotten Henry to this point. Not that I could ever figure out anything about my brother in the first place.

He wasn’t usually around enough for that.

“All right!” I announced, wrestling Wren out of Henry’s grip. Falling out of his arms, she took in a deep breath—basically a gasp. I barely managed a “See you around!” shouted in Henry’s general direction before my best friend dragged me through the crowded living room of the frat house. The last thing I saw was Henry giving a “see-you” salute.

Wren huffed, dusting off her black top in a way that was just so her, it had my heart swell with affection for no real reason. At the wide, distracted grin on my face, she did a double take. “Athalia—” she warned, taking a tentative step back that I immediately followed. “I know that look. Don’t—”

But my arms were slung around her before she could finish the sentence. In defeat, she grunted against my body. Her five foot two came up to my shoulder, on which she slumped her head in resignation. “This is my least favorite thing about you,” she muttered into my hair, relaxing into the inevitable.

“My great hugs?”

She barked a laugh before correcting my assumption. “That you get so touchy when you’re drunk,” she tsked. “Apparently, you and Henry have that in common.” Letting her go, I shrugged, delighted to find a lazy grin on her.

“Speaking of drunk…” I wiggled my brows. Wren sighed.

“Right. The drinks are over there.” She laughed, gently turning me toward the kitchen counter. “I’m gonna find the bathroom, then meet you there.” With a pat on the shoulder, Wren disappeared, turning back toward me only when the crowd had almost swallowed her whole.

My best friend pierced me with a look I knew all too well. One that had the corners of my lips edge up. “Take. It. Easy!” she shouted over the music, her voice taking on that motherly tone as she enunciated every word. What she meant by that was, don’t be black-out drunk by the time I get back.

Naturally, I honored her words with a shot.

If there was one thing about Wren Inkwood that was almost as certain as death and taxes, it was the fact that she’d be looking for a bathroom within the first ten minutes of arriving at any party.

She didn’t drink alcohol––never had––but while I’d been pre-drinking to our ‘getting-ready’ playlist at home, she couldn’t not drink something. It’s the principle of it, Athalia, she’d always say. So, she opted for water.

Gallons and gallons of water. I suspected that’s why her skin was porcelain-like. Inevitably, it also sent her looking for the nearest bathroom by the time we got to our destination. Like clockwork. She went to pee; I waited wherever she’d park me that night.

Tonight, it was the makeshift bar on the granite counter of the open kitchen.

I shook as the alcohol burned down my throat, wiping the residue off my lips. Turning back toward the counter, I knew (before I even touched anything), that the drink I was about to mix myself would end up way too strong.

“Oh, heavens.” It came from behind me, lingered between the loud music––my reaction delayed. “This has never ended well before.” By then, I realized the words were directed at me, and I twirled toward them, startled by the proximity of the body now in front of me.

My eyes wandered up the white dress shirt—the top two buttons open—before my eyes found his in panic-riddled recognition. His gaze fixed on me. A playful smirk hung in the corners of his lips, his piercing blue eyes digging into mine.

When you thought of the devil, most imagined horns and hooves, red skin, and even redder eyes. When I thought of the devil, however, he was all blond hair, blue eyes, and cute curls. Coincidentally, as ‘Highway to Hell’ played in the background and drunk college students blurted it louder than it was playing, he stood right in front of me.

“Let me take care of that.” He swooped the red cup right out of my hand, fingers brushing mine in a gesture I knew was deliberate. I found out a little too late that, with Jason Montgomery, everything was always deliberate. A little wistfully, he added, “Your mixers were always way too strong.”

I had that same thought around a minute ago. The realization freaked me out enough to keep my mouth shut and accept my full cup when he turned back around. Maybe the alcohol already in my system had something to do with that? Maybe the unwanted insecurities still riddling my thoughts around him did too.

Taking a sip, I had to begrudgingly admit that my ex-boyfriend was as good at mixing his drinks as he was at cheating on me.

“You used to talk more.”

Great observation, I wanted to say. The possibility that I still talked just as much to the people I actually wanted to talk to hadn’t even crossed his mind. I knew him well enough to know that it wouldn’t either.

Stunned by his audacity—and my audacity to still let myself be stunned by him—I simply nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line. Jason turned to look at me, body leaning against the bar behind us. Meanwhile, my eyes desperately searched for a familiar face in the crowd around us. I couldn’t see anything in the colorful, flickering lights.

“Used that mouth of yours quite often, Pressley,” he continued.

I groaned loudly, letting my head fall back in what became annoyance the more he talked. I doubted he even heard me over the noise around us. (I wasn’t sure if I could still consider it music. I probably would after a few more drinks).

“Pretty skillfully, too.”

Fuck. Me.

My entire body hurtled in his direction, quick enough that I lost balance for a dreadful second. With my hand holding onto the bar he still leaned against, the full weight of the alcohol I’d consumed until now kicked me. Hard.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I finally snapped. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Oh,” Jason hummed quietly, nodding to himself. His eyes flew to the makeshift dance floor. “She speaks.”

Honestly, the J-name should’ve been my first blindingly red flag. Yet, despite all odds and previous beliefs, I fell head over heels for Jason Montgomery, just three weeks into my freshman year. Probably more so because my parents would’ve loved him, because my brother had loved him, and because everyone (excluding Wren) had told me we were practically perfect for each other. The thought was repulsive now.

But back then, knowing nothing of Jason—apart from the fact that he was the Montgomerys’ golden boy, with a bright future ahead of himself, and the charm of someone who had been trained to be nothing but charming—he was perfect. Handsome, too.

“This.” I gestured between the two of us, finding an amused gleam in his eyes. “Is not happening.”

“What’s not happening?” Jason’s hands flew up in mock surrender. “I’m not trying to make anything happen, Athalia.” He shrugged, unbothered. The only thing giving him away was his smug, subtle smirk. I hated the way my name sounded on his lips. “But honestly, after you egged my car and slashed a tire, I thought we were even.”

The tire was an accident. Sort of.

He leaned closer, his voice lower when it reached me over the music. “I’m just trying to catch up with an old friend here.” As he straightened back up, I hoped to God it was the alcohol that sent a light shiver down my spine. Taking a step forward to stand opposite me, he added, “We are friends, right?”

And I was trying to come up with the best way of telling him that I would rather eat my own foot—

“I think I’d know about that.”

For a moment, I wondered whether it was my own voice that had become deep and sulky, carrying a cool kind of indifference. Perplexed, my hand reached for my mouth. I was pretty sure I hadn’t said a damn thing. If I did, though, it would’ve been just a little more rude than that.

Then, my head snapped to the arm that carefully placed itself around me, a beer in one hand, hovering by my shoulder. I jerked at the touch, taking a step away, only to bump into a body that hadn’t previously been there. My hazy mind couldn’t put two and two together. The loud music—it could be classified as that again—roaring in my ears, had sucked the last bit of coherency from my brain.

What I did notice, though, was that Jason took a step back at whoever’s presence lingered around us now. And that was all it took for drunk, simple-minded me to relax into the stranger. I even managed to whip up a smile. My eyes dug into Jason’s, suddenly fueled with a confidence that usually went out the window with him around. Meanwhile, he wasn’t even looking at me.

“McCarthy,” he said by way of greeting.

The name alone was enough to almost startle me again. Jason still focused on him, and my own eyes carefully drifted to the body beside me. They skirted up the black T-shirt, noticed the silver necklace hidden underneath it, and dashed across an annoyingly familiar jawline, before taking him in as a whole.

McCarthy lazily draped his arm around my shoulder, getting comfortable after I’d unknowingly relaxed into the touch. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence much more than that. His attention was entirely on Jason.

In any other situation, I would’ve shoved McCarthy off me before I could even be sure it was him. But now, with Jason here—with the way he straightened in alertness… McCarthy was useful enough for me to stick by his side.

“What a sight to behold,” Jason said, snapping out of it. His eyes flicked back and forth between us in record time. I swallowed deeply, the room spinning, the alcohol continuing to catch up with me. “Never thought Brother Dearest would approve.” His eyes slid back to me. “Where is Henry, by the way?”

Henry wouldn’t approve. He’d kill both of us if he saw McCarthy’s arm around me the way it was now, standing as close as he was. I had to keep myself from looking around frantically, just at the mention of my brother.

McCarthy did what Jason hated most: he ignored him. Instead of answering, his eyes landed on me for the first time. His brows rose slightly, an edge of—surely faked— concern in his features. “Care to join me outside?” he asked coolly, nodding to the backyard.

And I wasn’t even lying when I said, “Yes, please.”

CHAPTER 4

“I’d thank you—” The crisp autumn air only accelerated the alcohol’s impact as we’d made it outside. I was swaying and hiccupping, even before we reached the garden bench to the side. “But this is probably just as bad.”

To be honest, nothing was worse than spending another minute in the suffocating presence of Jason Montgomery, but McCarthy didn’t need to know I was lying. So, I doubled down. “Maybe even worse.”

“You could just say thank you, you know.” I felt the bench shift underneath his weight when he sat beside me, and without looking at him, I knew a self-satisfied smirk played on his lips right about now. The same one that he couldn’t seem to suppress whenever he realized just how lost I was during our tutoring.

“I didn’t need your help,” I clarified, only because the sheer thought of that cocky smile irritated me.

“Of course not.” Still that same undertone in his voice.

“I had it under control.”

“Of course you did.”

I groaned, eyes trying to find his to shoot daggers at him. I expected a mocking grin, could practically see it before I even looked at him. But when I did, his eyes were on the night sky above, not even glancing in my direction.

There were too many lights surrounding us to see anything significant up there, and the few stars you would usually see were covered by clouds. Still, his attention didn’t waver.

“I’m being serious,” I pressed once more. The short silence probably wasn’t longer than a few seconds, but to me, intoxicated and annoyed, it felt like minutes passed by before I went on. “For all you know, you could’ve been cockblocking me.” When the accusation finally made him look at me, I gasped. “Oh my God.” The words were slurred more than usual, spoken as I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “That is what you were trying to do, isn’t it?”

He shook his head with a resigned huff, and I think for the first time, I saw what could’ve been classified as a smile on his lips.

“Got me.” His hands raised playfully, though despite his words, he gave me a look before elaborating. “I think I’d definitely end up aiding and abetting something if I saw any girl in Montgomery’s vicinity without heroically rescuing her.” His nose crinkled at his own joke.

“We used to date.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to clarify that. Now, in the five seconds of silence that followed, I felt stupid for doing so. But I had.

“I know.”

I jerked back to look at him, surprised above all else. McCarthy keeping up with my dating history was… unexpected. I couldn’t help the smirk on my lips. “Of course you—”

“Did you just wink at me?” He honest to God sounded baffled, laugh catching in his throat before it made it out of his mouth. If I weren’t so drunk, I would’ve probably been just as taken aback by myself.

“Or did something fly into your eye? I can’t tell the difference.” He leaned in closer, pretending to examine my eye with faked worry in his features. For a second, my attention lingered on him, taking in his dark silhouette, before I could stop myself. Then, I kicked his leg lightly enough to get nothing more than a scowl before he leaned back.

The only light came in waves and flickers from inside, and yet, it was fairly easy to make out his jawline, the tip of his nose and chin. I imagined his eyes examining the clouds, his cheeks tinted a light pink from the chilly air around us. Every now and then, he would blow one of those floppy brown hairs out of his face after the wind had knocked them into it.

And as my head began to clear just slightly, I wondered how I had ended up here: drunk and alone with Dylan McCarthy—who hadn’t said anything in a few minutes—his eyes still set skyward, looking somewhat… content.

I cut those thoughts short, attention lazily drawn to the opening sliding door as someone stepped through. Scanning the backyard once, their eyes fell in our direction. They hesitated, then walked toward us, somewhat determined.

“Athalia?” My name rang out in the dark, and I only recognized her—and her voice—when she stood right in front of me. I blamed the alcohol.

“Wren!” The corners of my mouth curled up, and I jumped off the bench, determined to give my best friend a hug. And while she allowed it, even through the haze of alcohol, I could tell she wasn’t feeling it. Not even in that Wren way of hers.

Untangling myself from her, I caught her glance at the man behind me, just before her eyes returned to me. She blinked, then couldn’t help going back for a second look at McCarthy.

“What are you doing?” She didn’t bother lowering her voice; wasn’t concerned about letting McCarthy know she wasn’t thrilled to see him here—probably wanted him to hear. It made me smile and forget to answer what had been a question. “Here,” she specified, speaking slower. “With him.” Her eyes flicked toward him one last time, probably to make some kind of point.

And I couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped me when I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my head tipping back in a soundless laugh. “I really don’t know.” Funnily enough, I was just asking myself the same thing. McCarthy decided to perk up from behind me at that.

“Hello to you too, Inkwood,” he huffed in that sarcastic tone of his, taking a sip of his beer before getting up. His brows rose with the movement, eyes trained on my best friend, who was vigorously glaring at him.

Instead of answering, she looked back at me, and I only vaguely registered McCarthy passing us to get back inside.

“What did I say about taking it easy?” she muttered, though her features relaxed and she was almost smiling when I shrugged once more.

“Sorry, Mom!” I let my head fall onto her shoulder with a laugh, and as if that one gesture brought back the events she’d missed, I groaned loudly. Dragging my best friend back inside, I filled her in on my encounter with the blue-eyed devil; so occupied, that I didn’t notice him talking to my brother at the other end of the room.

CHAPTER 5

I couldn’t quite remember how I got home. All I knew was that my body ached, my head thudded, and I felt my comfortable bed underneath me when I woke the next morning.

For five terribly short minutes, I contemplated my plans for the day. As I thought of the study session written in my calendar in bold, capital letters (underlined twice with a red pen), I tried not to hear an “I told you so” in Wren’s voice. Obviously, she had. And I barely remembered my own excuse when she’d explained, in great detail, how I was going to regret going out just ten hours ago.

And yet, here I was. There were too many things I needed to get done to simply skip. Again. It’s what I’d done last week. And the week before that. It’s how I had ended up here, with reading due Monday, an essay worth twenty percent of my international management grade, and Statistics II. The latter, of course, being the worst of them all.

I could type a few thousand words. I could read a few pages. I couldn’t, however, wrap my head around correlation coefficients and whatever else McCarthy had in store for me. And yes (technically), figuring all that out was what he was for, but I didn’t like McCarthy’s smug expressions, his amused hums when I didn’t know what he was talking about.

If I showed Shaw I could do this by myself, got an acceptable grade in the next test, perhaps then I wouldn’t need McCarthy at all. I’d be rid of those ridiculous looks and condescending sounds before I’d get used to them, and that was motivation enough to finally swing myself out of bed.

Just, that instead of swinging, I slowly, deliberately, carefully slid from underneath my covers—ignoring my spinning surroundings—and groaned as I clutched my throbbing head. I thought I might throw up, but I managed to drag myself to the kitchen instead.

The sun peeked through the windows—a rarity in East Coast fall, when it mostly blessed us with grey, rainy days. It was a perfect day for a stroll to the library, studying at one of the tables by its large windows. Unfortunately, it was an awful day for a hangover. Too bright.

“Fuck.” I flinched, hands falling from my face, previously shielding my eyes from the brightness. “Sorry.” I tried to give Wren my best hungover smile after almost bulldozing into her by the coffee machine. Though, all I got back was a single nod before she turned to grab the steaming cup under the machine. My brow furrowed.

“When did we get home last night?”

A few seconds ticked by. “Around two.”

I blinked at her, hesitating at the awkward tension. “Oh, okay.” My eyes narrowed as she went to leave. “Thanks.”

Now she faltered in her steps. Turned around to look me over once, clutching her cup (in the shape of Lin Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton’s head) tightly between her hands. “For?”

“Getting me home.”

“Sure.” Wren nodded, turned to leave again. She stopped right before disappearing into her room, as if she’d just reconsidered her stance on talking to me. “I could hardly leave you by yourself with the company you would’ve kept.” The attitude in her voice was undeniable now, and at least I was sure I wasn’t imagining it anymore. “Who knows, though, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I didn’t mean to snap my words; I was genuinely curious. And confused. Though my hangover seemed to be shortening my temper even further and now I had an attitude, too.

Wren snorted drily, though she was clearly not as amused as she wanted to portray. “Nothing,” she managed. Before shutting her door, she added: “Forget I said anything.”

Great.

Today was not the day for arguments. I had things to do and papers to write, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight or even speak to anyone with an attitude, which Wren clearly had. I wanted a calm day. One in which I’d spend most of my time in the library, reading, writing, and studying. Where I wasn’t required to have snappy comebacks for whoever deserved them. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone at all. A day in which it was just me—and a load of schoolwork. As a college student, that couldn’t be so hard. Could it?

So, after taking painkillers, a hot shower, and an espresso shot (in that order), I strolled to the library, ready to conquer my demons between books and burned-out college students.

And it was going great. By four o’clock I’d finished that godawful essay and was through the reading materials of the past two weeks. If you ignored the coffee I’d spilled across the wooden table, the chair I’d rammed into the knee of a student passing behind me, and the loud snore I accidentally let out (during a particularly boring chapter to entertain myself), I was thriving. Really.

Productivity over humility. Wasn’t that what they said?

“Athalia”

My head jolted at my whispered name, messy curls inches from my face when I looked up. Heather leaned across the table toward me. A wide grin played on her heart-shaped lips, and I offered one of my brother’s best friends a smile—just as welcoming.

Heather, Henry and Reuben lived in the mirror apartment across the street from us. Once I’d moved up on the waitlist and managed a last-minute spot at Hall Beck U., it had been too late to rent off campus, so I’d ended up in the dorms. The second Henry had heard about someone moving out across the street from him, he’d reserved the apartment, and Wren and I moved in at the beginning of sophomore year.

My brother and I didn’t speak often—we weren’t even particularly close. But when we did, it was always because he’d managed to fix something in my life I wasn’t able to. A problem solver, through and through.

Hey, you, I mouthed at Heather; more carefully now, having had the librarian issue me with a first warning for that snore earlier. Two and I assumed I’d be out of here. My brother’s roommate cared half as much, though. Fishing a stack of notes out of her bag, and lining them up with the book she’d taken off the shelves, Heather cheerily chatted on.

Although I relocated to one of the long, dark wooden tables—shielded from Ms. Jones’ direct line of sight, courtesy of the high bookshelves on either side—I threw a nervous glance, wanting to make sure the librarian wasn’t lingering around a corner, just waiting to kick me out. Fortunately, all I saw were the bent necks and bad postures of students hung over their pages, lots of books (of course), and the changing colors of leaves through the massive window-front on the other side of the aisle. No grey, pinned-up hair, thin brows, and tiny glasses on a sharp nose in sight.

“I’m not going to lie,” Heather quipped, English accent muddied after the three years she’d spent at HBU. “You look godawful.” A sympathetic smile followed her words, and I couldn’t help but huff. Her eyes ran across the statistic notes neatly lined up in front of me. I’d spent the past ten minutes doing that––only delaying the inevitable. The sympathy on her face turned into pity when she looked back at me.

“At least you’ll be rid of him now.” She nodded to my notes with a knowing look. “But yeah, I guess that means having to do it yourself again. Pick your poison kind of thing, isn’t it?” Her eyes had already drifted onto the book in front of her, scanning the table of contents for whatever chapter she was looking for. It’s why she didn’t pick up on the confusion sprawled across my face.

“What?”

“What?” Her head snapped up in a startle, as if she’d completely forgotten I was here, only seconds after diverting her attention. “Sorry,” she muttered, shaking her head. Then, again, “What?”