First, there’s the Troy factor. My best friend has made it crystal clear that none of us, especially not the guy withcommitment issues, are good enough for his baby sister. Can’t even blame him. He’s probably right.
But the bigger issue? I don’t dorelationships. Period.
Growing up watching my parent’s marriage was better than any anti-relationship PSA could ever be. The Spencer family guide to matrimony, treat it like a hostile corporate merger, with power plays and calculated moves.
My father was the hungry young entrepreneur, determined to make his mark in aviation. My mother came with old money connections and even older family prestige. He made her look modern and ambitious and she gave him access to conversations he couldn’t have dreamed of otherwise. A perfect business arrangement masquerading as a happy marriage.
They had kids because that’s what society expected. Two boys, perfectly spaced, like they were following some upper-class breeding manual. I still remember overhearing my mother at one of her endless charity luncheons, telling her equally plastic friends how relieved she was that her “reproductive duties” were complete after me.
And now Drake. Different players, same game. He’s marrying Lisa because she comes with the right connections, the right background, the right everything. Like our parents. Like their parents before them.
Maybe it’s genetic, this inability to form real connections. Maybe the Spencers are just wired for strategicalliancesinstead of actual feelings.
Ahead of me, Tara turns and grins, holding up something she’s found with her picker. “Look! A perfectly goodtravel mug! After I sanitize it like fifty times, this might be totally usable.”
“Please put it in the bag, Tara. I can’t have you off sick with tuberculosis.”
She scoffs. “Don’t be cruel to the little mug; it hasn’t done anything wrong and still has some life in it.”
“It’s got a hole in it.” I step closer, enjoying how she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Though I have to admire your dedication to trash collecting. Very thorough.”
“I’m thorough about everything,” she says primly, then immediately flushes as she realizes how that sounds.
I can’t help myself.
“Everything?” I let my voice drop lower, watching with satisfaction as her cheeks turn pinker. “That’s good to know.”
“I didn’t mean—” she stammers, her bright eyes wide, her blush a fiery contrast to her pale skin.
“You’re horrible,” she mutters, shoving the mug into the bag I’m holding.
“I thought you wanted me to talk more. Just making conversation.” I maintain my innocent expression even as I step closer. “About your... thoroughness.”
She shoots me a glare that would be more effective if she wasn’t still blushing. “Don’t you have trash to collect?”
“After you.” I gesture ahead with my free hand, enjoying watching her walk ahead of me.
And that’s exactly the problem. Because watching Tara get flustered shouldn’t make me feel this…warm.
I need to stop this before it starts.
Even if making her blush is becoming my favorite hobby.
7
TARA
Istare up at the wall of the humanities building, tilting my head sideways. “When Janine saidunsavory graffiti... she really undersold what we’re dealing with here.”
“You mean the anatomically detailed phallus gracing our halls of learning?” Alfie studies it with exaggerated scholarly interest, hands in his pockets. “I’d say it’s rather... striking.”
“It’s actually quite beautiful.” I tilt my head the other way, squinting. “I mean, the attention to detail is impressive.”
“Must’ve been a medical student.” Alfie muses. “Though if they’re using themselves as a reference model, I have some concerns about scale.”
“Maybe they were compensating?”
“Or partaking in art therapy.”
