Page 139 of Ruthless Court

Forty.

Some history professor with wire-rimmed glasses, a sweater collection worth five grand, and loafers handmade in Italy. He noticed her because Hannah’s the only person in his lecture who actually read the footnotes.

Now he’s taking her somewhere quiet to discuss nineteenth-century political theory.

Over dinner.

By candlelight.

While he slowly discovers she’s funny.

And stubborn.

And that when she gets worked up about something, her eyes go bright and she talks faster.

My jaw locks.

Absolutely not.

I cross the lot faster.

Maybe it’s a tech guy.

That’s worse.

Stanford manufactures rich assholes by the thousand.

Some twenty-eight-year-old founder with an app I’ve never heard of and stock options worth enough to buy an island. He spotted Bookworm in a coffee shop, liked the glasses, liked that she didn’t recognize him, and decided she was refreshing.

Now he’s sending cars for her.

Whisking her off to Napa.

Buying out restaurants.

Putting his hand on the small of her back.

I hit the unlock button hard enough to nearly crack it.

This is insane.

She isn’t mine.

The thought lands wrong.

My phone is still in my hand.

No new message.

I type anyway.

Me: Who’s driving?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.