Page 50 of Breakaway Hearts

“That’s enough cold war,” he says after maybe fifteen minutes, putting his book down. “What are you working on?”

“An article.”

“For the paper?” he asks, but I ignore him. “I really liked your last one.”

“I’m sure you did.” I take a breath to stop myself from snapping at him for antagonizing me on purpose.

“It was funny. Not that your first one was bad. We run self-defense classes, both at the shelter and here on campus, and we’re going to use some of your tips. I may or may not have also bought each of my sisters and nieces that nail polish you mentioned as early Christmas presents.”

“You read my articles?” I stop typing.

Jason reads them, I think, and I’m sure my mom will dig them up once I tell her about them, but Owen doesn’t seem like the type to read the school paper. Or volunteer at a shelter teaching self-defense.

“We’ve already established that I can read, Madison,” he says like I’m the one who’s being silly. “What we didn’t cover was your interest in journalism. What’s your angle?” He smiles, clearly proud of his pun.

“Extracurriculars.”

“Jealous of Hargraves having a new hobby?” He says it like he’s calling me on bullshit.

“I’m applying for an internship with a law firm and need to stay competitive,” I reluctantly admit.

“Ah. I hated applying for things. Half of it is bullshitting your experience and how it prepared you, then the rest is proving you can multitask like nobody’s business, when you get here and need permission to even join a club.”

“You did not stress over applying here,” I argue instead of asking what club he wasn’t allowed to join. Knitting, I decide.

“Stress, no. But I did fill in all that fucking paperwork so I could come here instead of the dozen schools actively recruiting me.”

I don’t think he’s bragging, or trying to intrigue me on purpose, but I want to know. I just don’t want him to know that, so I can’t ask.

“Are you stressed about your application? Based on what little I know of you, I’m assuming you’re top of your class in everything, and you can definitely write.”

I know he has an ulterior motive here, but the comment still makes me blush.

“I don’t think I have enough, other than school,” I admit. “Grades are fine, and I have the paper now, but I maybe cyber-stalked the people I’m up against and they’re athletes or class presidents or running charities and I’m just⁠—”

“Awesome?” he tries.

“Nevermind.” I don’t know why I told him in the first place.

“If you want to add a no-stress volunteer thing⁠—”

“I am not tutoring you or whatever dirty thing you’re about to suggest,” I stop him.

“You have so little faith in me, Mads, it’s almost funny rather than heartbreaking.”

I want to say something about him having to have a heart for that, but just because I don’t trust him doesn’t give me the right to be even more of an asshole than I have been.

“I’m sorry.” The words taste sour in my mouth, but he hasn’t technically done anything wrong – yet. At least not that I’m aware of. Which means nothing.

“That looked painful, but I appreciate it.” He’s still smiling. He’s always fucking smiling. “I was going to suggest the shelter. They can always use help, with everything from answering phones to writing CVs, to cleaning or helping with homework and babysitting…”

“You seem very involved. At the fundraiser, they⁠—”

“Were you watching me?”

“I noticed. Unintentionally. Against my will.”

“That I was charming and helpful and awesome?” He winks and I fight the urge to smile.