Page 11 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER TEN

Rumor has it, she's caught between a rock and a hard place.

Ainsley

Neither worked. So now, I’m sprinting across the quad with half a bagel shoved in my mouth, my backpack slipping down one shoulder, and the distinct feeling that the universe is punishing me for my hypocrisy.

Dr. Paulson locks the door at exactly 10:05 a.m., and it’s currently 10:03. I have exactly two minutes to cross an expanse of grass that would make Olympic sprinters weep.

“You’ve got this, Ainsley!” I yell at myself, startling a nearby freshman who drops his coffee. Sorry, freshman. We’ve all been casualties in the war against tardiness.

I make it to the Harkins Building with thirty seconds to spare, vault up the stairs, taking them three at a time (thank you, long legs that have been my nemesis in all other aspects of life), and skid to a halt outside Room 302 just as Dr. Paulson is reaching for the door.

“Made it!” I gasp, shoving the last of my bagel into my mouth and trying not to look like I’m about to collapse from cardiac arrest. My hair is a wild tangle around my face, my cheeks are flushed, and I’m pretty sure I have cream cheese on my chin, but I’m here, dammit.

Dr. Paulson, a tiny woman with steel-gray hair and the energy of someone half her age, looks at me over her glasses. “Cutting it rather close, Ms. James.”

“Traffic was terrible,” I say with my most winning smile. “You know how those sea lion crossing zones can get.”

She doesn’t laugh, she never does, but I catch the slight twitch of her lips before she turns away. “Take your seat. We’re discussing ethical considerations in marine mammal research today.”

My favorite topic! I slip into the lecture hall and find my usual spot near the front, next to Eliza, my lab partner, who has the patience of a saint and the organizational skills of a military general. She slides her spare notebook toward me without comment.

“Forgot yours again?” she whispers.

“I was in a rush,” I whisper back. “Maverick was being...” I pause, searching for the right word.

“Maverick-y?” she supplies, and I nod gratefully.

“Exactly. Extra Maverick-y. All brooding intensity and mysterious spreadsheets. I swear, he’s like Batman, if Batman had an MBA instead of cool gadgets.”

Eliza smothers a laugh as Dr. Paulson begins her lecture, and I try to focus on the ethical implications of tagging migratory species rather than the lingering concern about Maverick’s obsession with Carter Mills.

It’s been three days since our pickleball confrontation, and while he agreed to tackle the Carter problem “together,” his definition of “together” seems to involve a lot of late-night research sessions that specifically exclude me.

I’m deep in thought about both sea lion welfare and boyfriend stubbornness when something hits the back of my head. I turn to find a perfectly folded paper airplane resting on the floor beside my chair. What is this, fifth grade?

I unfold it discreetly, expecting some juvenile note from one of the frat boys who take this class for an “easy science credit” (joke’s on them, Dr. Paulson is ruthless ). Instead, I find a typed message that makes my blood run cold.

Meet me outside after class. We need to talk. -CM

Carter Mills. The khaki-wearing menace himself.

I crumple the note in my fist and scan the lecture hall, looking for the culprit who delivered it.

Near the door, I catch a glimpse of a perfectly pressed polo shirt disappearing into the hallway.

He must have paid some freshman to deliver his little message and then waited to see if I noticed.

The audacity of this guy is truly breathtaking. Who interrupts a lecture on the ethical treatment of marine mammals to deliver creepy stalker notes? It’s like he’s actively trying to violate every principle of decent human behavior.

The rest of class passes in a blur. I take notes mechanically, but my mind is racing.

What does he want now? More threats? More creepy propositions?

I consider texting Maverick but immediately dismiss the idea.

His heart monitor would explode if he knew Carter was sending me notes like we’re in some demented rom-com.

No, I need to handle this myself. Set firm boundaries. Maybe throw in some creative threats involving marine wildlife. Greg could totally be trained to balance a ball on Carter’s unconscious body, right?

When Dr. Paulson finally dismisses us, I take my time packing up, hoping Carter will get bored and leave.

No such luck. He’s waiting outside the door when I emerge, leaning against the wall with practiced nonchalance, like a stock photo come to life titled “Privileged College Student Contemplating His Inheritance.” He shouldn’t even be in this building.

The business school is clear across campus, which means he came here specifically to ambush me.

“Ainsley,” he greets me, straightening up. “Thanks for coming.”

“Did I have a choice?” I adjust my backpack strap, positioning it like a barrier between us. “You know, most people text these days. Paper airplanes are a bit dramatic, even for you.”

“I like to make an impression.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, I wasn’t sure you’d respond to a text.”

“Fair assumption.” I step to the side, trying to move past him. “Look, I’m late for my next class?—”

“No, you’re not.” He falls into step beside me. “You have a ninety-minute break on Thursdays. Usually, you spend it at the library or the East Quad oak tree. And your next class is Marine Vertebrate Physiology in Brenner Hall at 12:30.”

The casual way he recites my schedule sends an icy chill down my spine. “That’s not creepy at all,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm to mask my discomfort. “What’s next, telling me what I had for breakfast?”

“Bagel with cream cheese.” He gestures at my face. “You still have some on your chin.”

Mortified, I wipe at my chin. “Do you have an actual reason for this conversation, or did you just want to demonstrate your stalking proficiency?”

“I have a proposition for you.” He guides us toward a quieter hallway, away from the flow of students. I follow reluctantly, figuring a public hallway is still safer than whatever secluded spot he might suggest next.

“Let me guess,” I say, crossing my arms, “another dinner invitation? Another chance to betray Maverick? Or are you branching out into new territory, like asking me to join your evil villain support group?”

Carter chuckles, the sound completely devoid of humor. “Always so spirited. That’s what I admire about you, Ainsley. You don’t back down easily.”

“If by ‘spirited’ you mean ‘completely uninterested in your company,’ then yes, I’m extremely spirited.”

His expression hardens slightly. “I was hoping we could have a civilized conversation without the hostility.”

“Civilized?” I laugh incredulously. “You’ve been stalking me, threatening Maverick, and trying to blackmail your way into my life. I don’t think ‘civilized’ is on the table anymore.”

“Fair enough.” He gestures to a nearby bench. “Would you at least sit? This won’t take long.”

I remain standing. “I’m good, thanks. Some of us burn calories through anxiety rather than plotting world domination.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you use humor as a defense mechanism?” His tone is almost clinical, as if he’s analyzing me.

“Has anyone ever told you that you use creepy stalker behavior as a personality substitute?” I shoot back.

That actually seems to hit a nerve. His perfect composure cracks just slightly, a flash of something ugly crossing his face before the mask slips back into place.

“I’ll get to the point.” His voice is tighter than before. “I’d like you to accompany me to the Dean’s Gala this Saturday.”

I blink at him, genuinely caught off guard. The Dean’s Gala is a major university event, a formal fundraising dinner that costs approximately one kidney per ticket, attended by faculty, wealthy alumni, and students with important family connections. It’s definitely not a casual date suggestion.

“You’re joking,” I say finally.

“I’m perfectly serious.” His posture is rigid, confident. “The gala is an excellent networking opportunity. Many marine conservation organizations will be represented, including potential employers and grant providers.”

“Wow, you really did your homework,” I mutter. “But the answer is still no. Not interested. Not even if the entire population of sea lions personally requested it.”

“I thought you might say that.” He sighs, as if my refusal is merely an inconvenient delay rather than a firm rejection. “That’s why I’ve prepared a contingency plan.”

Of course, he has. Guys like Carter always have a backup plan, usually involving some form of coercion or manipulation.

“Let me save us both some time,” I say, holding up a hand. “Whatever threat you’re about to make, whatever leverage you think you have, it won’t work. I’m not going to the gala with you. I’m not betraying Maverick. I’m not becoming part of whatever weird power game you’re playing.”

“This isn’t a game, Ainsley.” His voice drops, becoming softer but somehow more menacing. “This is about your boyfriend’s academic future.”

My heart skips a beat, but I maintain my composure. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve compiled quite a file on Maverick’s.

.. business activities.” Carter pulls out his phone, swiping through what appears to be a collection of documents.

“Including evidence that he’s been cheating.

Did you know that he had people take tests for him last year?

Paid stand-ins taking exams while he was running his grandfather’s business? ”