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CHAPTER EIGHT

AMELIA

“ C hampagne?”

I turn from where I’m studying, what is probably the ugliest piece of abstract art I’ve ever laid eyes on, to see James Miller, the MassTech Dean of the College of Computing, otherwise known as the person in charge of my program in the computer science department.

Also known as the person who has been trying to corner me since I walked into this house—his house—an hour ago.

He’s holding two flutes of the bubbling wine and has an eager look on his face that I recognize immediately.

The one that says I’m about to get sucked into a conversation I’d definitely rather not have.

I was going to skip this reception for computer science grad students.

My big plans after spending a day immersed in research were to put on my coziest pajamas, order more Chinese takeout than one person could reasonably eat, and read an entire book.

But then the reminder email for the reception dropped into my inbox with the highlighted words attendance strongly encouraged and my conscience got the better of me.

So even though I hate socializing with strangers with the fire of a thousand suns and hate dressing up even more, here I am at the dean’s house, wearing tights that dig into my stomach and heeled boots that are making my toes cry.

To add insult to injury, I lost track of time today and forgot to do laundry, so I’m wearing underwear that’s a size too small and have spent the last forty-five minutes dreaming about ripping them off and burning them in one of the fire pits currently roaring outside.

I paste a smile on my face and glance up at the dean. “Thank you very much; I’d love some.”

I would not, in fact, love some. I hate champagne.

He hands me the flute with a calculating smile. “I’ve been waiting to introduce myself to you. Amelia Sullivan, right?”

I glance at all the students milling around the first floor of the house to see if anyone else is in earshot, my stomach clenching at the way he says my last name.

His tone is the anticipatory one everyone has right before they’re about to mention Gabe to me.

The tone that has kept me from making any real friends, never knowing whether people are trying to meet me for me, or if they’re looking for an intro to my famous, billionaire brother.

I know I can’t keep my connection to Gabe a secret forever, and it’s not like I can change my last name. But I was hoping maybe it would take everyone some time to figure out that I’m Gabe’s sister.

I give a short nod, taking a sip of the champagne I don’t want, for lack of anything else to do.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sullivan.

We are just thrilled to have you in the program this year.

I could hardly believe it when I saw that Gabriel Sullivan’s sister submitted an application.

Does your brother get up here to visit you often?

We would be honored to host him at the school and show him all the great work we’re doing in our research labs. ”

I just barely resist the urge to roll my eyes at this egregious display of sycophantic behavior at the same time as dread wraps its piercing talons around my spine and all my insecurities come roaring back.

You’re only here because of your last name.

We only want you to get to him.

Not smart enough.

Not good enough.

Don’t belong.

My brain is spinning out, and I’m either about to cry or tear into Dean Miller for being such a smarmy, obsequious asshole when the energy in the room suddenly shifts. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and it’s like I know before I know.

He’s here.

I assumed Elliot would be here, but I didn’t realize I would know he was here before I even laid eyes on him.

I see Elliot out of the corner of my eye, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to turn my head and stare because fuck me.

Tall and lean, the black pants and gray sweater he’s wearing fit like they’re custom made just for him.

His sleeves are pushed up over the forearms I see in my dreams, and his light brown hair is windblown, his cheeks carrying that same flush they did the morning we had breakfast. The flush that brightens his blue eyes.

The eyes currently roving the room looking for something.

Or someone.

Me. I’m someone. He’s looking for me. I’m not looking right at him, but I can tell the second he spots me.

The way his posture straightens, the smile that spreads over his face.

I can feel his gaze on me like a caress, and the idea that I could have this kind of reaction to another human being is wild to me.

I’ve never felt anything like this before.

My brain both welcomes it and rejects it as impossible in the same beat.

I’ve seen Elliot a handful of times in the two weeks since that first morning.

In class, of course, and in glimpses of him around campus, and the one time I ran into him in the coffee shop just off campus, and the time I stopped by during his office hours to get him to sign the paperwork to be my advisor officially.

So, more than a handful, really. And every time, he was professional with just a hint of more .

Standing just a little closer than is strictly necessary. His hand grazing mine when he took the paperwork from me. Glances held for an extra beat. The cinnamon roll I found on my desk before one class. A can of Diet Pepsi and an empty mug before another.

Little things that make my pulse go haywire, have butterflies swarming in my stomach. That make me want things I have no business wanting.

“So does that work for you?”

I snap back to reality at Dean Miller’s question, suddenly realizing he’s probably been talking this whole time, probably assuming I was paying attention. My traitorous gaze wanders around the room briefly, but Elliot is nowhere to be found.

I shouldn’t be wondering where he went. Wishing he was still where I could see him. But I do anyway.

I set my nearly full glass of champagne on a passing waiter’s tray because honestly, so gross, and clear my throat. “Sorry, could you say that again?”

A flash of irritation crosses his face at the clear sign that I was not, in fact, paying him any mind, but he recovers quickly.

“I was saying that we could reserve a speaking slot for your brother at the spring computer science symposium. I’m sure he would love to come, what with you being a student here and all. Would you ask him?”

I give the dean the most genuine smile I can muster, which I’m sure looks more like a grimace because honestly, fuck this guy.

What I want to say is no fucking way. What I actually say is, “I’ll be sure to do that,” because the last thing I want is the school getting in touch with Gabe’s people with this speaking opportunity and letting it slip that I’m here.

That thing about my life being a very, very fragile house of cards? Yeah. I need to get out of this conversation immediately.

Dean Miller smiles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a business card. “Here is all my information, including my personal cell phone. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me if you need anything at all and let me know what your brother says.”

“I sure will,” I say through gritted teeth. “Will you excuse me, please?”

Without waiting for a response, I walk through the living room and straight out the French doors leading to the back patio.