Page 5 of The Romance Rivalry

Two enemies-to-lovers

I ’ve changed my top three times. I think the jeans are the right choice. But do I go with a fitted wrap top or an off-the-shoulder

sweater for my first day of classes? I never really cared how I dressed when I was in high school. But presenting myself as

someone to be taken seriously, someone worthy to be the love interest, and someone destined to be successful in publishing

all puts a lot of pressure on me.

I decide on a simple white button-down with cap sleeves and a black leather jacket. I have this look saved twice on my “Collegiate

But Cool” and my “Simple Yet Sexy” Pinterest boards.

“Wow, you look great,” Jeannette says to me as she steps into our room in a robe with a towel wrapped around her head. I want to respond “so do you,” because she actually does look great, even in a robe. But I don’t want her to think I’m just saying it as an automatic response. So I just stand there like an idiot.

My classes start at eight on Mondays and hers not until ten. I’m going to miss having her as my confidante today, but maybe

it’s a good thing. I need to do this socializing thing on my own sometimes, too.

“Thanks. I have Intro to Lit today and I want to make a good impression.”

She nods supportively.

“Wanna meet for lunch at eleven o’clock at the cafeteria?” she asks.

“Sounds good,” I say. It’s a small gesture, but warmth spreads through my chest. I appreciate Jeannette including me in her

invitation. Jeannette exudes main character energy. But since my plan is for me to step into that role, I’m claiming her as

the quirky best friend who drops words of wisdom whenever the MC needs to get back on track. “Okay, I’m off. Good luck with

classes and see you at eleven,” I say as I head out toward the English building across campus.

When I step into the lecture room, it surprises me how much smaller it is than I expected. Small should be comforting. But instead, it feels like a stage, where the spotlight can so easily shine on any one of us. There can’t be more than fifty people in this class. It’s an intro course, so we must all be first-years here, all in the same awkward position of being new. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping. Kindred spirits in our discomfort.

The seats have already started to fill up and I find a spot toward the middle, a couple chairs in from the aisle.

I don’t mean to be annoying, I swear. But a part of me wonders if there’s anyone in this class who follows me, who might recognize

me. It happened more than a few times back in LA: at the grocery store, at The Ripped Bodice bookstore (obviously), even at

one of Eugene’s golf tournaments. A mother of one of his fellow junior golfers excitedly wanted to talk about her favorite

Black Dagger Brotherhood heroes. Leather-clad vampires is a topic I am always down to discuss, unless I’m surrounded by preteen

golfers and their mostly non-romance-reader parents.

Anyways, I do a subtle scan of the room and don’t see anyone staring back at me. But my eye catches, once again, on the same

broad shoulders and long neck I noticed the other day at orientation. He’s sitting in the front row, and at this point, I’m

sure I know him from somewhere. He feels familiar.

I catch a glimpse of his profile. Today he’s got on black-rimmed glasses, and I’m immediately on high alert. Glasses on a man are my weakness (along with gray sweatpants and a well-worn long-sleeved Henley shirt... the uniform of all my favorite romance heroes). I need to just get a good look at his face. I make a note to pack my bags slowly when class is done in hopes of seeing him walking out.

“Welcome, everyone, to Introduction to Literature. I’m your professor, Dr. Alan Kingston, and since most of you are here in

this class at Brighton as part of the Contemporary Literature program, I will instead be focusing on the classics.”

An audible groan comes from all over the room. The professor smiles as if he’s going to love torturing all of us with the

curriculum.

I try to take notes as he goes over the syllabus of the course for the semester. He talks about things that are completely

new to me. He mentions books and tomes that everyone else seems to recognize, but I’m clueless. I give up following along

two-thirds of the way through. I can already tell I’m in over my head with this class and it’s only an intro.

But I’m among my people here, book people, and as long as that’s the case, I’m sure I’ll be okay. What could be so hard? The

professor lectures, we read, we write a few things. Easy.

Except, I’m not a great writer. And though I am a most excellent reader, it’s really only if I’m interested in the book. But

I’m here in college to expand my horizons, to stretch my wings, to push myself past my comfort zone.

“Now, I’d like you all to pair up—find a person you’ve never met and introduce yourselves. Go up to someone new and tell them

the first line of your story. Then, when you’ve grabbed their attention, continue on with the general stuff—name, where you’re from, and the key: why you want to study literature. What is it about words on a page that excites you? Okay, get to it.”

Great. My comfort zone is blown all the way to the moon.

Once again, I scan the classroom looking for someone, anyone, really, to pair up with. I watch as people turn in their seats,

smile at others, nod an invitation; some people actually get up and walk to other parts of the room to find a partner. But

no one even looks my way. It’s like I’m not even here.

The sinking feeling, all too familiar, that I sometimes get when my parents are too busy taking care of my siblings’ lives

to even ask about mine, or when my high school friends have plans for the weekend that don’t include me, makes its way down

to the pit of my stomach. No one wants me as a partner.

Nobody picks me.

I drop my eyes, unable to look up anymore. It’s too humiliating to keep searching the room for signs of interest. I should

just grab my bag and make a quick exit from class. I reach down...

... just as someone plops into the seat next to me.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“No,” I say, quickly dropping my bag back down by my feet. “I was just gonna grab my, um, hairbrush out of my backpack.” My hairbrush? That’s the best I could come up with? Who brushes their hair in the middle of class? Ew. No wonder no one chose me. This guy probably wants to escape without making eye contact.

I feel my cheeks turning a most certainly vivid shade of pink. I want to slap my forehead. Don’t ruin this, Irene.

Instead, I will myself to keep butt in chair and turn to inspect my new seat neighbor.

My eyes widen and I let out an audible gasp.

Black-rimmed glasses. And equally dark eyes taking in the whole of me. Is this what authors mean when they say someone’s eyes

are dancing? Because as he inspects me, I can almost hear the background music—the vibe of BTS’s “Pied Piper”—and he’s amused.

I swallow.

He nods a few times, the right side of his mouth lifting slightly as if he’s come up with some answer to a question I had

no idea was asked.

He leans back and relaxes into the chair, despite the fact that his long, denim-clad legs can’t possibly have enough room

in this narrow row of seats. His elbows on the armrests, he clasps his hands on his stomach, not a care in the world, turns

his head, meets my eyes, and says slowly...

“Exactly as I expected.”

I knew it! I knew he was someone familiar. But he’s figured it out before I have. I tilt my head right and then left, looking at him from every angle. I most certainly know his face. But from where? I narrow my eyes and take a closer look, examining each feature.

As he watches me trying to figure out the puzzle, a slow smile spreads across his face. And when it reaches its full width,

two dimples appear on his cheeks, one punctuating each corner of his mouth.

Darkness descends. A sudden dread lodges in my throat, threatening to cut off my airway. I hold up both hands, making a square

with my pointer fingers and thumbs. I look at his face through this frame as if seeing him... on a screen.

No.

It can’t be.

Cocky smile, mischievous eyes, deep dimples, arrogant... aura.

“You...” I whisper, unbelieving.

“Once upon a time, two popular romance reviewers end up at the same school, in the same class, no less, and fall in...”

“It can’t be,” I say, still unable to process this all. “You are not here.” I want to stick my fingers in my ears, squeeze

my eyes shut, and start this day over. “And ‘Once upon a time’? Really? Original.” I roll my eyes. I may be going through

the crisis of seeing my online archnemesis sitting right next to me in the flesh, but the book reviewer in me can’t forgive

a half-assed attempt at an opening line.

“Got your attention,” he says. He looks so smug, so self-satisfied. “Anyways, as I’m sure you guessed, I’m Aiden Jeon, eighteen, from San Francisco. And I’ve been dying to meet you.”

His name feels like a slap back to reality, the ghostly sting of it burning on my cheek.

“What are you doing here?” I shriek. It’s like seeing a monster. In a hot-guy costume. And why is he so much bigger in person?

“I go to school here. I’m sure we’ve discussed this online before,” he says.

“We don’t talk online. Except for when you’re disagreeing with my reviews and bringing your abusive followers along with you

to troll me in the comments.”

He pulls back as if I’m the one who’s slapped him. At least he’s a good actor. I almost believe that he feels bad about it.

“Now, now, let’s not get aggressive,” he says, which only fuels my rage. My nostrils flare and my eyes feel like they’re going

to pop out of their sockets. But Aiden? He gently pushes his glasses up his nose as a smile slowly blooms across his face,

unleashing those damn dimples again. “This is exactly how I imagined you’d look when you get angry about a book. Not the perma-smile

you have on-screen, but this...” He juts his chin out at me.

I don’t appreciate whatever it is he’s trying to say. I do not have a perma-smile on-screen! I open my mouth to defend myself.

To argue with him. To demand he leave this school immediately.

“Look, we have all year to talk about our online history with each other. But for now, we have an assignment. So tell me, Irene, what’s the opening line to your story?”

I stare at him, unbelieving that he can just act like we’re two people who can get along. Like he isn’t my biggest rival.

Like we aren’t basically enemies.

But he stares back, unfazed by my wrath. His eyebrows are lifted, waiting for my answer.

“It’s a glorious day for a murder,” I respond without thinking. This is absolutely not how I want to present the story of

my life. I’m a pacifist. But it’s the only first line I can think of with Aiden sitting next to me egging me on.

He throws his head back and laughs and I try not to notice the vein that runs down his long neck as he does so. Why does a

mere human have so many veins, and why am I staring? I blame years of reading Twilight fic.

“Nice. You’ve got me hooked already. I’m excited to read more,” he says. I hate the way he says it, all cocky-like, as if

I need his approval. I hate even more that his positive reaction makes me feel like I’ve won some kind of prize or something.

He’s so rarely impressed by anything I say or do. “And the intro?” He waves his hand at me, inviting me to continue. Like

I need his permission.

“Oh, fine,” I grumble. “Irene Park from LA. And, well, I want to study literature to be an editor, okay?”

“Really? I don’t know why I just assumed you wanted to be a writer. That’s why I’m in the program. Writer,” he says, pointing to himself.

I drop my scowl and let out a groan, rolling my head back on my shoulders. Why does he have to be a writer? I love writers.

But I don’t love him.

“How do you feel about what the professor said about studying the classics? I wonder if we’ll cover any Austen books,” he

asks.

I don’t want to make small talk with him. I don’t want to get to know him. I know all I need or want to know about him already.

I most definitely do not want to read Austen.

And I really don’t want to be so aware of how his broad shoulders take up so much space and how soft and clear his skin looks.

He’s probably obsessed with skincare and has a crush on my model sister.

He also smells good, darn him. Like a woodsy citrus scent. I can’t help myself. I lean in a little bit to get another whiff,

pinning him to his chair like a rabid dog. He draws back, looking down his nose at me, and I turn my eyes up to look at him

from under my lashes.

“Sorry,” I whisper, reaching for an invisible strand of hair on his shoulder. “You’ve got a hair here.” I pat him twice and

start to pull back.

“Thanks,” he says. He reaches his hand out before I’ve completely pulled away, and with the gentlest touch, he combs his fingers through my hair.

My breath catches. I swallow but let out a cough, almost choking on my own spit.

He draws his hand back. “I was just trying to tame this little frizzy part here in your hair. Luckily, you’ve got that hairbrush

in your bag.”

That know-it-all smirk again. It’s going to be the death of me.

I glare at him as I pat down my hair with both hands. Frizzy. As if.

“I like the new look,” he says.

“I didn’t ask your opinion,” I say. That flutter in my chest has nothing to do with the fact that he noticed at all. “Just

tell me, you go here for real? This isn’t some cruel prank?”

“Yes, I go here for real. Why would I prank you? That’s way too much effort.”

My posture collapses and I let out a sigh that sounds like a whine. I have plans to reinvent myself here in college. The last

thing I need is Aiden Jeon breathing down my neck distracting me. I just have to stay away from him, avoid him. This is a

small school, but it should be big enough to not have to run into him ever again. So we might be in the same classes—I can

sit on the opposite side of the room, take a different exit, easy enough.

I may not be worth his effort to prank. But he’s worth my effort to avoid.

“So now that you’ve introduced yourself to someone new and gotten to know why they’re here, look at your new classmate once more...” Dr. Kingston says to the room.

I don’t turn my head, but I do sneak a peek at Aiden in my peripheral vision. I most definitely can avoid him now that I know

what to look for.

“This is going to be your project partner for the rest of the semester.”

Aiden Jeon lets out a little chuckle just as a miserable, agonized scream releases inside me.