Page 2 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

But the Cobalt who tossed me aside—he’s not the one at this party. Of the few times we’ve crossed paths, Ben has never scorned me. We both went to Penn and transferred to MVU this semester—for different reasons, I’m sure—but if anyone can understand what this move feels like it’s him.

So it’s natural to grab the knob. And I let him in.

I’m eye-level with his sternum. He’s six- five. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulders. Being this close to his chest quickens my heartbeat. I back up and sink against the wooden cupboards, sliding to the scuffed tile.

Ben shuts the door. I can feel him assessing my state, which is mostly pissed.

I pick at the gray fuzzy bath rug next to me. “Your friend is an asshole,” I say.

“Cameron Dunphy?” He joins me, sitting against the wooden cupboard that’s covered in Kappa Phi Delta decals and beer stickers like Budweiser, Koning Lite, Coors. “He’s not really my friend.”

“You know his last name,” I say like it’s proof enough.

Ben smiles first with his eyes. Even shadowed with the curved brim of his hat, those baby blue orbs carry his emotion so clearly before his lips tic upward. “I know a lot of people’s last names. Including yours, Fisher.”

Flush tries to reach my cheeks.

Especially as he adds, “But you are my friend.”

Right. I wonder how many times he’s used this line on girls.

I glance over at him. “And we have a lengthy text thread to prove it.”

Ben pulls out his phone at this. The last encounter I had with him, we exchanged numbers, but we never texted, never called, never did anything other than exist in each other’s cellphones.

I considered sending him a casual message about a cool grunge band I like, but I figured he has a thousand randoms spamming him with memes and invites, and he didn’t need one more.

To sum it up, I would be absolutely delusional to consider a Cobalt a real friend off a five-minute interaction at Penn.

His thumbs fly over the screen.

My phone suddenly buzzes on a clip at my hip, resembling an old school pager. I see his text.

Ben

I like what you did with your hair.

I let my buttery-blonde bangs grow out a little this summer, and they touch my eyelashes as I stare at his message. I remove my phone from my hip and text back.

Harriet

Thanks, Friend.

He’s fast.

Ben

I knew we’d get there again.

He’s slipping me coy glances, and I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep this strange feeling at bay.

Harriet

Were we ever here before?

I anticipate his response more than I should. I watch his fingers dance across his phone with precision. There is no hitting the delete button. He’s not overcomplicating his response. He just presses send.

I look.

Ben

Yeah. We have been here before. This isn’t the first time you’ve called me Friend.

Harriet

That’s right. It was your birthday.

Ben

Happy you could remember.

His side glance at me steals my breath, and I have to look at the tiny hole patched in my checkered pants.

It was March. His birthday. That was our last encounter. He ran into me in a science lab at Penn. This isn’t the first time Ben has been in the right spot, the right time, and helped me.

I don’t respond, and my phone vibrates in my palm.

Ben

Unless you’re trying to forget?

“Sorry to bring it up,” he says out loud. “I know it wasn’t a great day for you.”

I shrug. “It happened, it passed. I’m not letting it fester or anything.” I wrap my arms around my legs, bringing them closer to my chest. “You know, I saw online that you were transferring here,” I say, resting my temple against the cupboard.

He does the same, looking at me. “Tabloids?”

“Yep. Sorry to say you weren’t a headline, just a footnote.”

“That’s preferrable,” he breathes. “The siblings and cousins who are headlines have it harder. My fame is easy in comparison.”

I nod. “How long have you even been on campus?”

He checks the time on his blue-plated Omega watch. It’s one of the only evident signs of his wealth right now. “Two hours. This is actually my first time at MVU.”

I frown. “But you toured the campus and met Cameron Dun-fuckface weeks ago, right?”

Ben laughs, the corner of his mouth pulling higher.

It sends a flutter throughout my entire nervous system.

I don’t know what it’s like to be overcharged.

I probably exist on 30% battery life. I’m not chipper.

I’m not fucking bubbly, that’s for sure.

If I’m a dying battery, then I’m also a flat beverage, but who cares?

I’m not trying to be Miss Energizer Bunny.

I tear my gaze off his. Get it together.

Some of his brothers can be described as lethally charming, and he could fall into this quadrant of the Venn diagram too.

“I never took a tour,” Ben admits as his smile softens on me. “I just met Cameron and half the row team an hour ago.”

Of course he did.

Ben isn’t a loner. He’s not a loser.

He’s a social fucking butterfly. Who could make friends with the sun, the moon, and a trashcan. Within an hour or less.

And he’s out of his mind. “You’re seriously unhinged,” I say. “You transferred to this college without ever stepping foot here when you were going to an Ivy.”

“You transferred too.”

“I bought a brochure. I took a three-hour tour. I made an Excel spreadsheet listing the financial expenses of this move—not that you’d need to do that.”

“I did Google search MVU,” he smiles, almost teasingly.

“Oh, he Google-searched.” I mime pompoms to cheer him on, my lips somewhat rising with his. “That has to at least dock you a point or two with the studious fam, Cobalt boy.”

“Probably five points. Don’t tell my mom. She’d have a heart attack knowing my research consisted of typing in Manhattan Valley in a web browser and not a one-on-one with Dean Ferreira.”

“Like I would ever come face-to-face with the Rose Calloway Cobalt,” I say without thinking. His mom is a certified bomb-ass-bitch, and I would idolize her feminine ferocity if I didn’t prefer hero-worshipping the dead. The dead can’t disappoint you as much as the living.

“You never know,” Ben says like life has taken stranger turns. It causes the air to tense and for the focus to draw to us . To how we’ve run into each other again. How we’re on a collision course. Our eyes clash in the sudden quiet, fighting to stay glued for longer than a couple seconds.

“How’d you hear about this party anyway?” I ask.

“Through a friend of a friend who knows Leif Westergaard. He’s president of the frat.”

“Already three-degrees from the Kappa prez,” I tease.

He laughs, then checks the time again. “I’ll probably head back to Philly in a couple hours.”

My stomach sinks, but then twists in more confusion. “You aren’t staying in New York?”

“Classes don’t start till next week. I’m not moving here before then.” He asks fast, “What about you? How long have you been here?”

“A few days. I have to take a week-long orientation for the Honors Program.”

“Overachiever,” he calls me out.

I make a heart with my hands and crack it apart. “You want half?”

He glances down at my hands, then up to my eyes. “You always break your heart for your friends?”

He would be my only friend.

If this were real.

“It’s imaginary, Ben,” I murmur. “Tomorrow, you’ll act like I never existed until our next strange encounter. Is that not what this is?” I motion between him and me.

“No.” He shakes his head, scans the bathroom, then rests a forearm on his bent knee. “No, it’s not, Harriet.” His voice is nearly a whisper, and he lays his gaze even gentler on me. “We don’t have to be strangers.”

I’m lost for words.

So he adds, “I want to be your friend.”

Did Cameron Dun-fuckface drop me on the pavement outside? Did I hit my head? “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ben repeats, then narrows his gaze. “I get the sense you still don’t believe me.”

“I’m trying, Friend.”

He smiles a little, which is coaxing mine out. Wow, he is really good at this…

I should probably take notes on how to make friends, but what he possesses feels like a gift. A trait inherited, not one learned.

“Thanks for the backup tonight,” I say too quietly. I’m unsure if he hears until I see the ire flashing through his eyes.

“Parties like this can be such a fucking wreck.” He gazes at the wall, his jaw muscle ticking. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Someone should’ve stopped it before me.”

“At least you did something at the cost of social suicide.”

“I’m a Cobalt. That cost is low.” He exhales a long, tired breath. “We’ve been here before.” Here as in helping me.

He already said that over text.

I hold my knees, seeing him stare unblinkingly at a stain in the ugly brown paint. “Yeah, but it’ll be me helping you out next,” I promise. “Right place, right time, I’ll be there. And when I make commitments, I don’t usually break them.”

You can count on me, I think about adding, but how much weight does this cliché phrase even hold when you barely know someone and they barely know you?

Ben cradles my gaze for a steady beat, and just as he inhales like he’s about to tell me something, a knock pounds the door.

“Ben, you in there?!”

“Man, of course he’s in there. His bodyguard is standing right out here.”

“Ben, come do a shot with us!”

I rise to my feet first. “You’ve been summoned, Cobalt boy.”

He takes a taxingly long time to pick himself off the floor. He stares at the door, then down at me. I forgot about our height difference while we were on the ground. He is towering. I try not to imagine being scooped up in his arms.

I try not to imagine being held by him. I felt it for point-two-seconds tonight, and I’m worried I’ll want more when everyone already wants so much more out of him. How much can a person like him even really give to someone like me?

“I’ll probably head out,” I tell him. “I’ve got some stuff I need to get to.” Like sleep. Me and my pillow—also friends.

Does he look dejected? Or is that wishful thinking—that maybe he wanted to hang out with me for longer?

“Ben!” his friend calls.