Rin

The weekend was over too soon.

Movies had been watched, books absorbed, pizza and bonbons consumed. And my plan, which was shaky at best, was in place.

I would go to work and pretend like it never happened.

I didn’t say it was a good plan.

Active avoidance was the name of the game. I would not entertain an audience with him under any circumstance beyond the absolute minimum required to do my job. I would not consider what he wanted, what had happened between us, or any conversation on the matter, and if he tried to make a move on me again, I would say, Nuh-uh, no sir, no way, no how.

If he gave me a choice.

He’d better not even bring it up. Even to say he was sorry.

Because I would not forgive him.

Probably.

Ugh.

I looked over my reflection in the mirror with a new level of scrutiny. My outfit had been chosen on the advice of Katherine, who suggested I wear something that made me feel powerful enough to withstand gale-force pheromones. So, I’d settled on a black pencil skirt and a maroon chiffon blouse. My heels were tall and black, and my lips were a deep, deep burgundy, courtesy of our fairy godfather Curtis at Sephora.

Not gonna lie, when Curtis had seen me walk into the store so changed from the silent girl in the baggy sweater and his jaw had come unhinged, I’d floated a few inches off the ground—until I made it to the register at least. He’d foisted two new lipsticks—liquid this time, less smudging—upon me and a pile of other things I would have to YouTube to figure out. He’d also taken the time to answer questions I had in my foray into makeup (How do you stop your mascara from getting on your eyelids when you put it on? Look down when you apply it. How do you get a perfect wing? Draw the wing lines first to make sure they match.), and when I’d left the store that time, I hadn’t felt scared at all. I’d felt like the boss bitch my lipstick said I was.

Of course, that morning, I felt like a lost bitch. But my eyeliner was even, I’d figured out how to curl my hair, and my lipstick was perfect, which was just about the best thing a girl could ask for on a Monday morning.

I turned my head, marveling at the swing of my hair. I’d intended to have it trimmed and shaped up, but Amelia had busted out Pinterest again, searching for something called a lob—a long bob, shorter in the back and longer in the front. And somehow, I’d ended up getting peer-pressured into letting a guy named Stefan cut a solid foot off at the shortest point where it brushed the very top of my shoulders.

It was sleek and sophisticated, fresh and edgy—for me at least. I reveled in the feeling of it sweeping my bare skin, in the way it moved when I turned my head. I looked together, and I felt more like the me who wore heels and pencil skirts and red lipstick.

Stefan had also convinced me I needed a big, fat curling iron and showed me how to use it as the peanut gallery—aka my friends—watched on, fascinated.

I’d become everyone’s favorite guinea pig.

What I didn’t admit aloud was that I was starting to enjoy it.

I kept another, much worse thought even closer—I hoped Court would see it and regret walking away from me.

I realize how pathetic it was that I should give a shit what he thought. And really, I hadn’t cut it for him. But if he happened to notice? And if the sight of me happened to drive him crazy and send him into a frothing, foaming frenzy? If he threw me up against a wall and kissed me like he meant it, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I’d be mad as hell and would probably do him bodily harm, but I most definitely wouldn’t hate it.

The war between wanting to slap his beautiful mouth and wanting to kiss it was at a stalemate, locked in a standoff in my heart.

I reminded myself I only had to survive long enough to get to Bianca’s office to check in and scurry to the library where I could hide from Court all day. I had no plans to check in with him for the day, and I told myself again that if he could leave me like he had, he could also resort to emailing what he needed from me.

The truth, which I immediately buried in my heart, was that I couldn’t bear facing him. I could pass him in the halls. I could take his instruction. But I couldn’t sit across from him and share his mind like nothing had changed.

And that unwanted thought was the one that followed me as I left the house to face the firing squad. Every step I took toward the subway was measured and self-assured, my earphones blasting Santigold as I hyped myself up. But I was too distracted to successfully read on the train, instead spending forty-five minutes scrolling through my phone, fidgeting with my cuffs and skirt hem, and obsessing over what would happen if I saw him.

But when I made it into the museum, he was nowhere—not in the halls, not in his office when I passed it, and not in Bianca’s when I stepped in.

Most of me was relieved. A sliver of me was disappointed. And yet another smaller, louder part of me took every step braced for a land mine, turned every corner expecting him to pop out of a foxhole and open fire on my heart.

I forced myself to raise my chin in an act of braveness I didn’t feel as I met Bianca’s eyes. “Good morning, Dr. Nixon,” I said, the speech prepared and rehearsed, my voice surprisingly strong and smooth though still quiet. “I just wanted to let you know I’m here. I’ll head to the library and out of your way. Email me if there’s anything I can do for you.”

Her delicate jaw was set, her eyes flinty. “Focus your efforts today on the Botticelli pieces and turn in all cited work by the end of the day. Tomorrow, you’ll be shadowing me, so wear comfortable shoes.” She glanced at my feet with a critical look on her face.

A nervous tingle crept up my neck and to my cheeks, followed by a blooming warmth as my cheeks flushed. “All right. Thank you,” I said, ducking out of the room, hurrying for the elevator, relieved when I didn’t see Court anywhere, thankful I was safe.

Until the doors opened.

There he stood, somehow taller, somehow more handsome and infinitely more dangerous than he’d ever been. Nothing about his appearance was casual—he was hardened steel, his eyes dark and heavy, his cheekbones sharp and angular. He scanned my hair, my face, settling on my lips, the muscle at his jaw jumping.

And there was no denying his presence. I was a slave to whatever savage, animal pheromones were emitted when he was in the room. Or the elevator, as it were.

My spine was straight as an arrow, my chin high again, my heart beating so loud, he had to be able to hear it. It was all I could hear. The weekend had not been enough time to purge me of the memory of him, and I fought to find my footing, to build a haphazard defense, but I’d only managed to throw up a house of sticks, which everyone knew wouldn’t protect you from the Big Bad Wolf.

I stepped in and turned around to face the doors, pressing the little circle with the number four on it, feeling his eyes on me like they had been the last time we shared this space. Only last time, I hadn’t known how his lips tasted, and he hadn’t known how the most intimate part of me felt.

The elevator was painfully silent other than the whirring of the engine as it pulled us up a floor. But when the door began to open and I took a step, he halted me with a word.

“Rin…”

I shifted to look back at him, met his eyes, felt the spark of recognition deep in me that whatever words waited behind his lips were honest.

And I knew I didn’t want to hear them. I couldn’t hear them, or I might abandon the fight and my self-respect along with it.

“Please, don’t.” The words were quiet, trembling, and I hurried out of that elevator in the hopes I could escape whatever emotional bear trap he’d laid for me.

He didn’t try to stop me.

And I couldn’t figure out if that made me feel better or worse.

I spent the morning lost in research, my brain wholly occupied with the task at hand, which today was focused on the Botticelli research Bianca had asked for. And I was so deep in that research that, for a while, I forgot all about him. But by lunchtime, my stomach was rumbling, my snacks were gone, and I was regretting not bringing a sandwich with me. I reassured myself, as I put away the stack of books I’d gotten through, that I probably wouldn’t see Court. Dr. Lyons. Him. There were half a dozen cafés in the museum, and the odds of him walking into the one I chose were slim at best. I hoped.

Bag in hand, I decided to take the stairs down anyway, just in case.

I decided the American Wing Café would be my safest bet—it was cheap, which would hopefully be a deterrent in regard to his station, and it was in the crowded, public part of the museum, which seemed too loud, noisy, and common for the likes of him. I tried to imagine him sitting in a plastic chair drinking out of a bottle of Dasani and couldn’t. Although the thought of him sitting in that open, magnificent room, surrounded by statues modeled after men such as him, held its own appeal.

I had just turned to my notebook after pushing my salad away—it was the only thing I could eat with a fork, which I’d learned was necessary with the lipstick—when I heard my name. The words were deep, carried by a commanding voice that sounded so much like Court’s, they sent a shock of warning and desire through me. But when I looked up to find someone else, my brain tripped, confused as I scanned the man’s face who was walking toward my table.

He was a pillar of self-assured power in a dark charcoal suit the same color as his hair, which was neat and lush and shining under the natural light of the atrium. Shockingly, he even looked like Court, in the stony line of his jaw, the hard gleam in his eyes, his lips, chiseled from stone and higher on one side in a tilted smile, though it rose on the opposite side of the man I knew.

Standing before me was Court’s father. The president of the museum. The other Dr. Lyons.

He waved his colleague on as he came to a stop next to me. “So, you’re the new intern who has everyone talking,” he said, that smirk and his tone sending a panicked flush through me that bloomed from my chest and spread like wildfire.

Oh my God. He knows. He saw. Security cameras. There were security cameras! Oh my God. OH MY GOD.

He continued as I died a thousand deaths of shame, “Dr. Nixon told me you’ve been helping my son with his research. He seems to be very impressed with you. It’s been a while since he’s taken any interest in working with anyone but Bianca, so naturally, I’ve been curious to see what all the fuss is about. I’m Dr. Lyons,” he said, extending his hand, which I took, my tongue nearly paralyzed with overwhelming surprise.

“Nice to meet you,” I said automatically, relieved that he didn’t in fact know that his son had his hand up my skirt last week, forgetting to speak up or speak clearly. “You’re the president,” I stated stupidly, not knowing what else to say, wishing I’d said nothing at all.

He chuckled. “I am.” His hand was big and strong around mine, but it felt wrong. Something shifted behind his eyes that I didn’t understand and couldn’t place.

“I read over your recommendation letters. You’ve managed to impress some influential, hard-won people, which weighs a lot in my book. I’m really looking forward to seeing what you can achieve here. And who knows?” He leaned in a little, like he was admitting a secret. “Maybe you’ll land a permanent position here.”

I smiled, but the gesture felt stiff on my face. “That would be a dream come true, sir.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to finish your lunch,” he said, leaning in once more, this time closer.

And my shock held me still as my brain fired with ridiculous possibilities. Is he about to kiss my cheek? Or tell me something? Oh my God, he’s so close. Is this appropriate? What if he—

“You’ve got a little something in your teeth,” was the last thing I expected. He bared his teeth and pointed to his incisor. “Right there.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered, ducking my head as I ran my tongue over my teeth, finding a flapping sliver of basil lodged between them.

He chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Miss Van de Meer.”

“You too,” I said from behind my hand, the other waving like an idiot as he walked away.

And with that awkward business already beginning to replay in my mind, I hightailed it to the library where I was safe from salads and Lyons alike.