Page 35 of Cross My Heart
Saint looks… bashful? “Uh, yes. Thanks.” He nods at me, then heads for the door. “I’ll see you tonight,” he adds, shooting me a quick smile. Then he strides out.
The minute the door shuts behind him, Jia gives me an arch look. “I knew it!” she crows. “You’ve been holding out on us!”
“What? No!” I protest, flushing, then turn to busy myself with the teakettle again. “Who wants a cup? Kris, one of your herbal blends?” I offer, hoping to change the subject, but my gossip-hungry roommates won’t be distracted so easily.
“Yes, and also, nice going,” he applauds me, as he strips off his coat. “I hear great things about that man’s teaching style, if you know what I mean. Excellent reviews.”
“I’m not interested in his reviews,” I lie. “He just gave me a ride home from the station, that’s all.”
“The flowers he brought over say otherwise,” Jia pipes up.
“Flowers?” I pause.
“They’re in your room,” she says, smirking. “He came by looking for you, earlier.”
“He didn’t say.” I feel an unfamiliar glow, and when I go check my room and see the gorgeous bouquet, it only grows.
But fancy flowers and expensive gestures don’t mean anything, I remind myself. I’m not going to this dinner party for fun tonight.
I’m on a mission.
* * *
I showerand blow-dry my hair, and pick out a chic, simple sweater dress, doing what I can to make myself seem less bedraggled before I head over to the address Saint sent for his get-together. The wayward hormones and lustful looks from earlier willnotbe repeated, I decide sternly, as I walk briskly past the Ashford College gates. Tonight, I’m purely there to gather information about Max Lancaster and Saint’s other guests. The host can keep his brooding good looks to himself.
I inhale the crisp scent of rain-damp trees and hedges. The rain has stopped, and the city is washed clean, streetlights reflecting off the wet pavements and painting the night with inky color. It’s pretty out, peaceful, and I take the chance to brace myself, pulling on my mental armor and getting ready to lie through my teeth again.
This is for Wren. It’s all for Wren.
I check the directions again, but this is it: a chic townhouse on an exclusive cobbled street, just a stone’s throw from the college. Not exactly your typical faculty housing, but of course, Saint isn’t your average professor.
I ring the doorbell, and he answers with a smile. “Tessa. You made it.”
“You thought I wouldn’t come?” I ask, trying to ignore how good he looks in a pair of washed classic jeans and a casual button-down, the sleeves rolled up.
“Well, you do like to keep me on my toes,” he replies, standing aside and inviting me in.
Inside, the house is warm and elegant, with pale walls and vintage art. “Let me get you some wine, and introduce you,” Saint says, taking my coat. He leads me past a staircase and down the hall to the back of the house. “Everyone’s here.”
I take a deep breath, and follow him, pasting a pleasant smile to my face. The house opens up to a big open-plan living space, with tall ceilings, packed bookshelves, and an old fireplace blazing—where a group of people in their late twenties and early thirties are hanging out.
“I opened another bottle,” a tow-haired man announces, brandishing the wine.
“He picked the most expensive one, too,” a perky blonde in a pink Chanel jacket pipes up, rolling her eyes. “Sorry if you were saving it. Honestly, Hugh,” she scolds him, as a man sporting a designer watch wanders over, and plants himself right in front of me.
“Well, who do we have here?” he asks, giving Saint a look.
“Everyone, this is Tessa,” Saint announces. “Tessa, meet Hugh—” the tow-haired, friendly man, “Max, and his fiancée, Annabelle—” Rolex guy, and the perky blonde. “And this is my cousin, Imogen.”
He finishes with a polished blonde woman who I recognize from the pub that night.His cousin. I shouldn’t feel relieved, but I do. “Great to meet you,” I give a wave, and then steal a look back at the famous Max Lancaster, heir to an empire.
Except, I guess they all are, in a way.
Max smiles at me, every inch the charming playboy. “Delighted to meet you,” he says formally, taking my hand—and raising it to his lips to kiss.
“Oh, knock it off.” His fiancée, Annabelle, gives him a little shove before greeting me. “Hi,” she exclaims, dropping air-kisses on both of my cheeks. “Don’t mind him. He’s genetically predispositioned to flirt with every woman around. And some of the men, too, if he gets drunk enough.”
“Hey!” Max protests. “Are you calling my masculinity into question?”