Page 3

“ C HUG! CHUG! CHUG!"

The chant reverberates through the crowded fraternity house, the bass from massive speakers making the floorboards vibrate beneath my feet. I press myself further into the corner, clutching a red Solo cup of lukewarm beer I have no intention of drinking.

This was a mistake. A massive, catastrophic mistake.

But Mia had insisted, her eyes gleaming with mischief when I told her everything earlier, including Declan’s plans for us tonight.

"Oh yeah, the Sigma Phi party," she'd said. "You have to go. Everyone is.” I’d immediately regretted in confiding in her, especially since she seemed to think the whole thing was incredibly amusing, instead of what it really was – a complete disaster waiting to implode in my face.

"I don't do parties," I'd protested.

"You do now," she'd countered. "If you want anyone to believe this fake relationship, you have to act like a normal college girlfriend. That means showing up where he is, even if it's not your scene."

She was right, damn her. If Declan and I were really dating, I'd make at least some effort to participate in his social life. So here I am, wearing borrowed clothes—dark jeans that hug my curves more tightly than I'm comfortable with and a green sweater Mia insisted "brings out your eyes"—watching my fake boyfriend hold court across the room.

Declan is in his element here, surrounded by teammates and admirers, his easy laugh carrying above the music. He hasn't seen me yet. I'd arrived just ten minutes ago, slipping in with Mia and immediately seeking the safety of a wall to lean against.

Now, I watch as he finishes whatever drinking game he's engaged in, raising his arms in victory as the circle around him erupts in cheers. A blonde—the same one from the coffee shop, Chloe—presses against his side, saying something in his ear that makes him laugh.

Something hot and unpleasant curls in my stomach at the sight. Jealousy, I realize with a start. Which is ridiculous. This relationship isn't real. Declan isn't really my boyfriend. I have no claim on him, no right to care who he talks to or who touches him.

And yet.

"You know, glaring at him from across the room isn't exactly selling the devoted girlfriend image," Mia comments, appearing at my side with a fresh drink.

"I'm not glaring," I lie, accepting the cup but not drinking from it. "I'm observing."

"Uh-huh." She follows my gaze to where Amber is now running a hand down Declan's arm. "Though in this case, I'd say a little glaring is justified. That girl has been trying to get into Declan's pants since freshman year."

"Has she succeeded?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Mia's eyebrows shoot up. "Thought you didn't care about his romantic history."

"I don't," I say too quickly. "Just curious about what kind of reputation I'm associating myself with."

"Right." She doesn't bother hiding her skepticism. "Well, if campus gossip is to be believed, Declan's been through a decent chunk of the female student body. But he's always upfront about keeping things casual, and he's never cheated. So there's that."

Across the room, Declan looks up, scanning the crowd. His eyes find mine with unerring accuracy, as if he could sense my presence. Something shifts in his expression—surprise, followed by genuine pleasure that transforms his features.

He says something to his teammates, then makes his way through the crowd toward me, his focus unwavering despite the hands that reach out to touch him, the voices calling his name. It's like watching water part around a stone, the way people move for him, aware of his presence even with their backs turned.

"You came," he says when he reaches me, his voice carrying a note of wonder. Before I can respond, he slides an arm around my waist and pulls me into a hug that feels far more genuine than our performance in the quad.

"Mia convinced me," I say when he releases me, trying to ignore the warmth his touch leaves behind. "Said I needed to act like a real girlfriend if we want people to believe it."

"Smart friend you've got," he says, nodding to Mia with a smile that makes her blush slightly. "Nice to meet you.” He turns back to me. “I’m glad you're here."

"Could have fooled me," I say, the words slipping out with more edge than intended. "You seemed pretty comfortable with your fan club."

His eyebrows rise at the hint of jealousy in my tone. "Teammates," he corrects.

“Right.”

"Hey," he says softly, stepping closer so we're nearly touching. "I meant what I said at lunch. This only works if we make it convincing." His fingers trace lightly along my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "People need to believe I'm genuinely into you. That I don't see anyone else when you're in the room."

His eyes, impossibly blue even in the dim party lighting, hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Is this still part of the act? Or something more? I can't tell anymore, and that's the most dangerous part of this entire charade.

"Declan!" A voice breaks through our moment. Brady approaches, carrying two fresh cups. "Been looking for you, man. Beer pong tournament's starting, and we're defending champions."

"Rain check," Declan says, not looking away from me. "I just found my girlfriend, and I owe her some attention."

The casual way he claims me, the warmth in his voice when he says "girlfriend"—it's all so convincing that for a second, I almost believe it myself.

Brady looks between us, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Say no more. But you owe me, Wolfe. Mason's coordination is shit after three beers."

As he walks away, Declan's hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers with casual intimacy. "Dance with me?"

"I don't dance," I protest automatically.

"Everyone dances," he counters, already leading me toward the cleared space in the living room where bodies move together in various states of rhythm and inebriation. "Even serious literature majors."

Before I can formulate a properly scathing response, we're in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, and Declan's hands settle on my hips, guiding me to sway with the music. The bass throbs around us, the press of bodies creating a strange intimacy despite the crowd.

"Relax," he murmurs, leaning close so I can hear him over the music. "You look like you're being tortured."

"This isn't exactly my scene," I admit, tentatively placing my hands on his shoulders. The solid warmth of him under my palms is distracting.

"No? What is your scene, Gardner? Libraries at midnight? Coffee shops at dawn? Secret poetry readings in underground bunkers?"

There's no malice in his teasing, just a genuine curiosity that softens my reflexive defensiveness. "Something like that," I concede. "Though I draw the line at underground bunkers. The ventilation is terrible."

His laugh is warm, rich, nothing like the calculated charm I've seen him deploy on others. "There she is. I was wondering if you had a sense of humor hidden under all that academic intensity."

"I'm hilarious," I deadpan. "It's just that most of my jokes require a working knowledge of nineteenth-century literature."

"Try me," he challenges, his hands shifting slightly on my hips, drawing me closer as the song changes to something slower, more intimate.

The question catches me off guard. Most people don't actually want to hear my esoteric literary references. But the genuine interest in Declan's eyes makes me brave.

"Why did Charles Dickens keep a pet raven?" I ask.

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because he wanted to write with a dark quill."

It's a terrible joke, the kind that makes most people groan or stare at me blankly. But Declan's face splits into a genuine grin, followed by a laugh that seems to start somewhere deep in his chest.

"That's awful," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Truly, spectacularly bad."

"I know," I admit, unexpectedly pleased by his reaction. "I have dozens more."

"Save them," he says, still smiling. "Parcel them out slowly. I'm not sure my literary heart can take too many at once."

Something shifts between us then—a moment of connection that feels too real for the performance we're supposedly engaged in. His eyes drop briefly to my lips, a question forming in them that sends heat spiraling through my body.

Then someone bumps into us hard, breaking the moment. A drunk fraternity brother, red-faced and swaying, mutters an apology before staggering away.

"Want to get some air?" Declan asks, his voice slightly rough.

I nod, suddenly desperate for space to breathe, to think. He keeps hold of my hand as he leads me through the crowded house, nodding to people who call his name but not stopping. We emerge onto a back porch, the February night air sharp and clarifying after the stuffy heat of the party.

Only a few people are braving the cold—a couple locked in an embrace against the railing, a small group huddled around a patio heater. Declan guides me to a relatively private corner, his body angled to block the worst of the wind.

"Better?" he asks.

I nod, taking a deep breath of cold air. "Thanks."

He studies me, something contemplative in his expression. "Can I ask you something, Gardner?"

"You just did."

He rolls his eyes at my pedantry but presses on. "Why did you agree to this? The fake relationship. You could have just said no, told me to figure out my own problems."

The question catches me off guard with its directness. "The Whitmore Prize," I answer automatically. "You said you could help with that."

"But you don't need my help," he points out. "Your work stands on its own. And you clearly hate this—the parties, the social aspects, being the center of attention."

He's not wrong. Every moment in the spotlight makes me want to retreat further into my academic shell, the safe, predictable world of books and research. So why did I say yes?

"Maybe I wanted to see how the other half lives," I say lightly, deflecting. "Experience what it's like to be part of the popular crowd for once."

"Bullshit," he says, but there's no heat in it. "Try again."

I look away, studying the bare branches of a nearby tree, anything to avoid the intensity of his gaze. "Maybe I'm tired of being invisible," I admit softly. "Of being the transfer student no one notices except to borrow notes from."

It's a truth I hadn't fully acknowledged even to myself. The loneliness of my first months at Westford, the way I've used academic focus as a shield against forming connections that might lead to more hurt. Except with Mia, who made it her mission to befriend me during my second week on campus, when she spotted me sitting by myself in our humanities class. Mia can’t take anyone sitting alone, and she makes friends everywhere she goes. The exact opposite of me.

Declan's hand touches my chin gently, turning my face back to his. "You're not invisible, Ellie," he says, my first name soft on his lips. "Not to me. Not since the first day you walked into Harmon's class and proceeded to demolish his take on Hemingway with such precision that I actually felt bad for the guy."

The sincerity in his voice steals my breath. This isn't the smooth-talking hockey star or the strategic partner in our arrangement. This is something else—something genuine breaking through the performance.

"That was a good day," I manage, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere between us. "Harmon's face when I cited his own contradictory paper from 2005..."

"Priceless," Declan agrees, his thumb brushing lightly across my cheek in a gesture that feels too intimate for our fake relationship. "You're fucking brilliant, Gardner. And anyone who doesn't see that isn't worth your time."

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond to this unexpected praise. Before I can formulate a response, the back door slams open, and Brady stumbles out, clearly on a mission.

"There you are!" he exclaims, spotting us. "Wolfe, you gotta come back in. Mason challenged the lacrosse team to a keg stand competition, and it's getting ugly."

Declan sighs, his hand dropping from my face. "Duty calls," he says to me, an apology in his eyes. "Team captain responsibilities."

"Go," I say, forcing a smile. "Save the honor of hockey players everywhere."

He hesitates. "You'll be okay?"

"I'm a big girl, Wolfe. I can handle a party." I glance at my watch. "But I'll probably head out soon. Early study group tomorrow."

"Of course you have a study group," he says, but there's fondness rather than mockery in his tone. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, his lips lingering just a heartbeat too long. "Text me when you get home?"

"Sure," I agree.

He smiles once more, then follows Brady inside, leaving me alone with my confusing thoughts and the persistent warmth on my cheek where his lips touched my skin.