“Wait, back the actual fuck up.” Lily Vasquez nearly launches her oat milk cortado across the table. “Grayson West? As in, walking-red-flag Grayson West?”
I slide into our usual booth at Meridian—overpriced campus café where rich kids cosplay having problems. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Girl, I leave for one teeny Bahamas getaway and you get partnered with the Antichrist?” She sets down her cup like it personally offended her. “This is what I get for prioritizing my tan over your academic survival.”
“Your ‘teeny getaway’ was two weeks during midterms.”
“Daddy’s conference got extended. The yacht was already there. Basic logistics.” She waves her perfectly bronzed hand like this explains everything. Because for Lily, it literally does. Her father owns half of Silicon Valley, her mom curates art for people who buy countries as hobbies, and Lily treats school like an extended social experiment she can pause whenever wanderlust strikes.
“You missed three exams.”
“Professors adore me. I’ll batting-eyelash my way through makeup work.” She leans forward, eyes sparkling with that manic energy that usually precedes total chaos. “But seriously—Grayson fucking West? That boy’s a walking health department warning.”
My stomach drops. “Gross.”
“Accurate though.” Phone out, scrolling with professional efficiency. “Want the receipts? Because honey, I keep detailed notes on campus predators.”
“Why would you—”
“Self-preservation, babe. Information is survival.” Screen tilted toward me. “This semester’s damage report: Cassandra Mills, lasted two weeks. Madison Torres, three days—possibly a personal record. Brooke Harrison was more of a weekend situation—”
“Stop.”
“—then mystery girl from Westfield during the charity thing, lacrosse team hookup, and I’m ninety percent sure he bagged someone’s older sister at Halloween—”
“Lily, enough.”
She locks the phone, expression shifting to full protective-best-friend mode. “Is it though? Because this isn’t casual dating, Jules. This is industrial-scale heartbreaking. He collects girls like limited-edition sneakers.”
I wrap my hands around my untouched latte, needing something solid to grip. “It’s just a project. Ten weeks max.”
“Ten weeks?” Voice climbing toward dog-whistle territory. “With Grayson West? The boy who made Emma Sinclair sob in the middle of Calc? Who convinced my own cousin Rebecca they were ‘exclusive’ while literally sexting other girls from her bed?”
Chest tightening. This is exactly the intel I didn’t want.
“He doesn’t just hook up, Jules. He hunts. And you…” She studies my face like she’s reading fucking runes. “You’re premium prey.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Challenge bait. You’re the girl who’s never been kissed, never been properly corrupted, never even been adequately flirted with. You’re like cocaine for guys who get off on conquest.”
Heat explodes across my cheeks. “I have been flirted with.”
“By who? Pastor Michael’s nephew asking to share a hymnal?”
“That was legitimate flirting—”
“That was Christian fellowship, not seduction.” She reaches across, squeezing my hand. “Look, I worship that you have standards. I love that you’re not another St. Augustine’s clone throwing herself at anything with a trust fund. But Grayson West specializes in girls exactly like you.”
“Girls like me?”
“Smart girls who think they’re bulletproof. Good girls who believe they can rehabilitate bad boys. Principled girls who’ve never met someone capable of making them question every single thing they believe about themselves.”
Pulse hammering because she’s wrong. Has to be wrong.
“I can survive one semester.”
“Can you though?” Dark eyes narrowing. “Because from where I’m sitting, you already look like you’ve been hit by a truck, and this trainwreck barely started.”
Before I can argue, chaos erupts near the entrance. Shouting, laughing, the unmistakable sound of premium drama unfolding in high definition.
“Oh my God,” Lily breathes, neck craning. “Is that—”
It absolutely is.
Grayson West, pinned against the wall, tongue practically performing surgery on some blonde’s tonsils. Her hands are in his hair, his are somewhere that should require a permit, and half the café is pretending not to gawk while absolutely gawking.
“Classy as always,” Lily mutters.
But something detonates in my chest. Not jealousy—definitely not jealousy. Pure, righteous fury at his complete inability to function like a civilized human being.
“I cannot work with this person,” I say, standing abruptly.
“Jules, where are you—”
Already moving, weaving between tables, vision laser-focused on his stupid perfect hair and his stupid perfect back.
I grab his tie.
“Come with me. Right fucking now.”
He detaches from the blonde, eyes finding mine with lazy amusement. “Well, hello there, partner.”
I yank harder, literally dragging him toward the exit. “We need to discuss boundaries.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder to Blondie, that criminal smirk never wavering. “My girlfriend gets super possessive.”
“I am NOT your girlfriend!” The words detonate out of me, loud enough that every single person in this overpriced hellhole turns to stare.
His laugh trails us out the door—rich, satisfied, like he just won some twisted game I didn’t realize we were playing.
