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“You held up your end of the deal, I’m holding up mine. Semester starts in six weeks.”
Opening the second envelope, I pull out the receipt, the breath catching in my throat. “This is just for one semester though?”
One strong shoulder lifts, and he stacks the papers on the counter into a neat pile, smoothing his fingers over the edges. He slips them back into the manila envelope, then squares it in front of me. “Keep up with Dr. Zhang, and I’ll keep paying for school. You can’t have that much left, anyway.”
My heart swells as it reaches for the pride emanating from his body. I smother a grin, the weight of his words taking a moment to register. “You’re bribing me?”
“I’m ensuring your future is bright. Free and uncomplicated.”
“And you’re just trusting me to continue on with therapy? What happens if I quit?”
He squints, his gray eyes questioning. Probing, trying to see through me as usual. I don’t know what it is with him and my sister thinking they have X-ray vision into my soul, but I’m surprised at this point they haven’t discovered I’m not as transparent as we’d all like me to be.
“I guess we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Glancing over his shoulder to see my sister through the kitchen window, he turns back, hooking his thumb in her direction. “Register for classes tonight, and as long as you’re officially enrolled somewhere in the morning, I won’t tell her you flunked out of Farmington.”
My hands roam the paper envelope, disbelief scattering my thoughts. “Okay.” He starts to turn and head back into the kitchen, probably to fuck his wife in the utility closet—like he thinks the people in the storefront can’t hear them—but I reach out, grasping the sleeve of his Armani suit. “Thank you.”
He smiles softly, and his terrifyingly handsome face transforms into something otherworldly. “You’re worth it, kid. I don’t take bets I can’t win.”
I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face, stretching my cheeks painfully, as I stare at the plain envelopes in front of me. Pulling out my phone, I inform my group chat with Selma, Avery, and Carter about the new development—leaving out the therapy contingency—and pull up another number, requesting a midnight rendezvous in the spirit of forgiveness and celebration.
He shows up that night in gray sweats and a Yale pullover, looking ridiculously gorgeous andnormal. I have to remind myself as he climbs in, making my heart squeeze and my pulse kick up, that I need pacing when it comes to him. That the feelings blossoming inside me need time to sort themselves out, determine if they’re ready for the maelstrom that is Kieran Ivers.
But it’s so hard to focus on that as he stands in front of me, takeout from the only Chinese restaurant in King’s Trace dangling from one hand. “I know you said dinner wasn’t a good idea, but I figured if I brought takeout to you, it didn’t count.”
“You might be right,” I breathe, trying to ignore the annoying pitter-patter of my heart, the shock against my skin as our fingers brush trading Styrofoam containers.
We settle on top of my bedspread; he flips on the television, queuing up some nature documentary and settles back against my headboard, tearing into his egg drop soup. I push my broccoli and chicken around in my container, watching him for a few moments; I try to commit the angular planes of his face to memory, unsure of how much longer these nighttime trysts can last. It’s liable to cause Elia an embolism, if he ever finds out, and I don’t want anyone else’s suffering on my hands.
Kieran frowns, his gaze flitting to mine. “You okay?”
Nodding, I stab a piece of broccoli with my plastic fork. “Peachy.”
He presses his lips together, setting his bowl on the nightstand and crossing his legs. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, not wanting to share that I’m all talked out for the day.
His index finger taps on the bed, close to my thigh, and he exhales as it inches closer. “Everything go okay at your doctor appointment?”
“Mhm,” I say around the mouthful of food, my cheeks about to burst with the amount I’ve stuffed in them. And even though I really, truly,don’twant to talk about it, something about him seems to draw the truth from me, a fish caught on a hook. “It, ah… it was a therapy appointment, actually.”
“Therapy?”
Nodding, I drop my gaze to my tray. “Yeah, it’s a stipulation from Elia. He pays for my schooling, I attend therapy.”
A thoughtful look softens his features, and he nods once, pointing at me with his fork. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Who couldn’t use a little therapy?”
It’s pretty much what Elia said the day he blackmailed me into undergoing it, but I can’t deny it hits differently coming from someone without a forced vested interest in me. Not that Elia doesn’t care about my mental well-being, but the attachment of an investment to it makes it a little more important.
With Kieran, we aren’t anything official. Nothing permanent at this point. He doesn’t have to accept my issues unless he wants to.
“You don’t think it’s weird? Telling a stranger your secrets?” I tilt my head, studying him. “Have you ever been?”
He shovels in more food, chewing for a long time. “No,” he says on a swallow, “but to be fair, they’d have me committed for my secrets. Or imprisoned. And where would that leave us?”
