Why the hell is this so hard?
Her hand slips up my arm to my bicep.
“Did you—” I start to say.
“You must—” she says at the same time.
We both break off, but she’s the only one who laughs.
It grates on my already-frayed nerves. Two people talking at the same time is not funny.
“Please,” I say. “Continue.”
“You must work out.”
“Exercise is important for both cardiovascular health and mobility. So, yes. I do.”
“Of course you do,” she says with a smile that can’t possibly be real.
Her smile is disproportionally wide, therefore it can’t be genuine. It is also disproportionally white, given that most people have some discoloration in their teeth by the time they reach their mid-twenties.
Instead of pointing out either of those facts, I blurt, “Did you know that many amateur gardeners consider caterpillars to be parasites?”
She blinks, looking a little surprised. “I didn’t.”
“However, they’re able to complete their life cycle beyond their host plant. So they’re not true parasites, like fleas or ticks, which depend on a host species for all stages of their life cycle.”
For a second she just stares at me, her mouth falling slightly open. Then, slowly, her lips curve into a smile, except this time, it looks like a real smile. Not that fake shit she was throwing my way before.
Her hand falls away from my bicep. “Am I the butterfly or the tick in that analogy?”
“I—”
Well, fuck.
I am colossally bad at reading people.
And even by my standards, this is an epic fuckup.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean . . .”
She laughs. Not the loud artificial laugh from earlier, but a soft chuckle.
“No. Don’t.” She looks around the room, before taking my elbow and nudging us both toward the double doors that lead out onto the patio.
I let her guide me, which is surprising in and of itself. Ten minutes ago, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere alone with this woman.
It’s not that she’s not beautiful. She is undeniably gorgeous, with sleek dark hair and the kind of cheekbones and lips you’d usually see on a sixties pinup. It’s the predatory undercurrent of everything she’s done since the moment we met that I have a problem with.
But all of a sudden she seems less predatory insect and more . . . human.
So I follow her out onto the patio. Even though it’s after eight, the temperature is still in the nineties. The staff set up fans and a mister, which makes it almost bearable to be outside. Almost. It means we’re the only people on the patio, despite the stunning view of campus the sixth-floor balcony allows.
As soon as we’re alone, she drops her hand from my arm and walks over to the railing to look out at the view.
I follow more slowly, more cautiously, because I don’t know what the hell is going on, but clearly I’ve already fucked things up.
At some point, she glances over her shoulder at me, gives me a shrewd look and then sighs. “This isn’t going to happen, is it?”
