Page 4 of In the Net (Sin Bin Stories #5)

HARPER

I ’m in the zone working on this essay.

Call me a dork, but I love writing essays. And the potential payoff for this one isn’t just a good grade.

I’m writing this essay for a competition the English department is holding, and the award is a trip to Paris to present it at an international literary conference.

For as long as I can remember, if I could choose to go anywhere in the world, it would be Paris.

The culture, the history, the fact that every street is teeming with a literary legacy …

thinking about it only fuels my fingers to dance faster around my keyboard, every sentence I’m hammering out feeling perfect.

Free flight, free hotel room, and a whole week to experience the cultural capital of Europe.

And being able to actually present a paper at a major conference as an undergrad, when what I want to do with my life is get a PhD and work in academia? It’s an incredible opportunity.

After filling out a full two pages in my Word document, I run out of steam.

Reading back my output, I nod in satisfaction.

It’s still two weeks before the essays are due, so I have plenty of time.

I only want to put down words that I’m totally confident in.

This essay is too important for good enough .

I have a little while before I have to head out for my first afternoon class of the day. It’s the last thing I actually want to do, but I decide to fill the time by checking in on my … ugh, dating apps.

Opening an app, my eyes zero in on the text of the most recent message I’ve received.

Your hot , it reads.

Alright, you know what? I’m not doing this right now. I exit the app and toss my phone onto my bed next to my desk.

Tilting my head back, I sigh into the air.

I’m not even interested in finding a relationship right now. If I happen to meet the right person and we click organically, great, but I’m just not in the mood to go out and actively look for it.

Right now, I’m happy in my routine. I’m enjoying my classes, working on the competition essay is giving me something to focus my energy on, and the prospect of winning the trip to Paris is giving me something to hope for and look forward to.

I like my living arrangement with my new best friend, Scarlett, and two other girls, Maddie and Jasmine, with whom I’m quickly becoming friends.

Why am I pushing myself to look for something I don’t even really want right now?

Just to avoid showing up to my cousin Sofia’s wedding pitifully single compared to all the other girls my age in my extended family who fully buy into the idea that a woman is incomplete if she’s not romantically attached to a man—my own mother chief among those holding that mindset?

Then I remember the last wedding on my mother’s side of the family, ten months ago. Being by myself and having every aunt and female cousin snidely asking when I’m going to “finally find a nice guy.”

I remember the quip from my aunt Brenna about what exactly I’ve been doing in college for two and a half years if I haven’t been able to “lock down a man” in that time, and my mom’s laughter at the question.

Having a plus-one and not using it isn’t exactly fashionable , Mackenzie told me while primly sipping a champagne flute next to me at our table.

Frankly, I don’t care about being judged for the fact that I don’t live my life buying into the belief that “landing a husband” is the be-all and end-all for a woman.

Would I like to find a guy whose goals and values align with my own, fall in love, and live happily ever after? Sure.

But it’s not the ultimate ambition of my life.

Right now, I’m focused on my studies, getting my PhD, and launching my academic career.

Those are my dreams, and I’m not about to prioritize a relationship with a man over them, something that no one in my family can understand, or even wants to try to understand.

It’s not really the judgment that’s prompted me to brave the choppy waters of dating apps that are awash with fish pictures, shirtless mirror selfies, and grammatically faulty declarations of my hotness.

No, it’s all the not-so-subtle insinuations that the reason I’m perpetually single isn’t because I’m satisfied with the way my life is right now, but because I can’t “snag a man,” as so many of my family members artlessly put it.

Because I’m incapable.

Because I’m not up to the challenge.

Because I try, and fail.

I’ve always been able to withstand people’s judgment just fine.

But if there’s something I’ve never been able to withstand, it’s a challenge.

When someone tells me I can’t do something, that I’m incapable of it, I can’t just let it go. I need to prove them wrong.

It’s how I’ve always been. And after months of people implying that I can’t even find a date to my cousin’s wedding, I’m itching to do just that.

My eyes flit to my phone lying screen-up on the crumpled quilt atop my bed.

I’ll prove them wrong later. I did enough swiping and messaging last night to allow myself a break at least until this evening.

There’s plenty of time until the wedding, after all. Two months still. I’m totally capable of finding an acceptable date in that time.

Despite the fact that my search is off to a rocky start. And the fact that the first date I set up through the apps ended in me getting stood up.

Yeah …

Alright, I’ve given myself permission to take a break from the whole thing until this evening, so I summon the effort to push the entire topic out of my mind.

Luckily, I have an easy distraction. The latest book from TK Chilton, my favorite new author.

Two weeks ago, he shocked the literary world by releasing a short novel that he hadn’t even murmured a single word about before it hit bookstore shelves.

When people found out, there was such a mad rush to get a copy that all brick-and-mortar and online booksellers were backordered.

Even though I ordered my copy the moment I found out from a TikTok video on the day of the surprise release, my book only arrived by mail yesterday.

I push up from my chair only to immediately drop to a reclining position on my bed, resting against my mound of pillows. I grab the book from my bedside table and quickly lose myself in it.

Time slips away as I flip through the pages, hanging on every word of the book that just might be my new favorite of Chilton’s.

When a sliver of reality manages to slink into my brain, and it occurs to me to check the time, I realize I’m almost late for class.

Muttering a curse, I leap up from my bed, sling my bookbag over my shoulder, tuck my phone into my pocket, and rush out of my room, the book still in my hand and my place saved with my index finger.

Downstairs, I notice my roommate, Scarlett, in the living room on a video call with her boyfriend, Lane Larsen, who’s in preseason training with his professional hockey team up in Montreal.

Even though I’m in a hurry, I can’t resist taking a second to say, “I’m heading to class, so now that you guys have the house to yourselves, you don’t have to worry about being quiet during phone sex.”

“Alright!” I hear Lane exclaim as I rush out the front door with a grin on my face.

Even as I’m crossing the street on my way to class, I can’t resist opening my book and lowering my eyes to it. I was right in the middle of a sentence when I realized I was running late, and it’s not like I can just not finish it.

And, hey, once I finish the sentence, I might as well finish the whole paragraph while I’m walking.

The paragraph ends almost at the bottom of the page. I mean, I might as well read the next paragraph, too, just to be able to turn the page. Who can stop reading right when they’re about to turn the page, after all?

By the time I’ve read through the next page, I don’t bother making excuses for myself anymore. I’m just walking to class with my nose stuffed in my book.

It’s fine, though. I’ve got a great sense of direction and situational awareness. Always have. It’s not like I’m going to?—

Breath whooshes out of my chest when I walk straight into what must be a wall or a column or the trunk of a particularly large tree. Whatever it is, it’s wide and hard and so sturdy it doesn’t budge when I smack into it.

Stumbling backward, I trip over my own two feet. My balance gives out before I’m even able to react enough to lift my eyes up from my book. I’m about to tumble flat on my butt, but then the weirdest thing happens.

The wall or column or tree trunk that I just walked into … reaches out and steadies me?

A strong grip curls firmly onto both my arms, keeping me from falling.

“Shit, Harper, where’d you come from?”

My stomach twists, realization hitting me. It wasn’t a wall, a column, or a tree that I just walked straight into. It was Sebastian.

He pulls his hands away from me, making a show of wiping his palms on the sides of his jeans like he just touched something dirty.

He huffs a grumbly sigh. “You made me drop my book,” he says, scooping down to pick it up at his feet. He scowls as he draws himself back up to his full height. “And you bent the cover.”

My brow pinches. “I didn’t bend anything. You dropped it when you barreled into me because you weren’t paying attention to where you were walking.”

I glance at what he’s now holding in his hand. It’s the same book I have in mine. And we both just crashed into each other because we were walking across campus with our eyes pointed at the pages instead of paying attention to what was in front of us.

Sebastian’s eyes flick to my book. His eyebrow lifts. “You’re reading the new Chilton, too?”

“Yeah,” I nod, wondering why exactly that coincidence has my chest feeling a little funny. Guess I can put it down to how I’m still scrambled from walking straight into Sebastian’s obnoxiously broad and firm torso.

“What page are you on?” he asks.

“One-twenty-seven,” I answer.

He grins, his blue eyes glimmering behind his glasses. “ I’m on page one-thirty-four.” There’s a triumphant ring in his declaration.

I look at him with a flat expression. “Wow. Good for you.”

His lips split into a big, toothy, teasing grin. “Wait until you find out how the chapter you’re on ends on page one-thirty. I couldn’t believe it when?—”

I cut him off with a pointed glare. “Sebastian, I swear, if you spoil something in this book for me, I’m going to put your balls in my shoes and walk around on them all day.”

He grimaces, his hips twisting. “Ouch. Why does something so implausible actually hurt to think about?”

“Don’t test me,” I warn.

“I was just kidding, anyway. I’d never spoil a book for someone, even you.”

“I guess it’s good to know that you have some decency.”

He holds up his hand with just a sliver of distance between his thumb and index finger. “Some.”

“Well, try to keep your eyes in front of you for the rest of the day. Wouldn’t want to walk into a wall and break your glasses, four-eyes.”

Sebastian’s brow lowers. His glasses suit him, even I have to admit it, and I’ve overheard way more than one conversation of girls talking about how hot he looks in them. But I remember back when he started wearing glasses in fifth grade, and how self-conscious he was about them at first.

“Same to you,” he replies. “If you run into someone whose reflexes aren’t as quick as mine, you might actually fall and hurt your dainty self.”

I huff an ironic laugh at the word dainty . “Uh-huh. Catch you later, Sebastian.”

“Unfortunately,” I hear him say as I brush past him.

My first afternoon class passes quickly. Instead of scrolling on my phone or chatting with students sitting near me, I spend the time before the professor begins her lecture devouring my book.

My second afternoon class, my last one for today, is in Peek’s Hall.

It’s the tallest building in all of Cedar Shade.

That’s not exactly saying much for this cozy Vermont college town, but still, its seven stories can make for a formidable walk if you’re taking the stairs, especially since my class is on the top floor.

Today, though, I’m sticking with the elevator. It’s notoriously slow, which is exactly what I want right now, because I’m just going to stand in the corner and use the transit time to keep reading my book.

My eyes are riveted to the pages as I wait for the elevator doors to open on the ground floor. A major plot point is coming to a head, and I’m hanging on every word.

I can sense someone waiting next to me, but it’s only when the doors slide open and we both step into the cabin at the same time, our hands holding something in front of us and our necks tucked down in identical poses, that I realize who it is.

When the elevator dings and the doors slide closed, I find myself alone with Sebastian.

“Could you stop stalking me for one day?” he asks, his eyes still on the open book in his hands.

“In your dreams,” I parry.

“More like my nightmares.”

“I think you’ve unintentionally revealed a stalking fetish. I’d hate to see the contents of your Kindle.”

“Sigmund Freud all of a sudden,” he grumbles.

I stumble as the elevator cabin suddenly comes to an abrupt and jerky stop, way sooner than it should have. We’ve only just passed the fourth floor, not even arriving at the fifth.

Sebastian and I both look up from our books, expectant expressions on our faces as our eyes dart around the stalled cabin.

We wait … and wait …

The elevator still hasn’t moved.

Sebastian and I turn to each other, looks of realization crossing over our faces.

Now, I’m not just sharing an elevator with Sebastian. I’m stuck in one with him.