Page 60 of Tell Me You Like It

“Oh, yeah. That would be great. Thank you.”

He’s the first person to actually offer me any help,and honestly, I’m floored. Even Bree's parents seem completely unbothered by her sudden disappearance. Granted, it’s only been a few days, but damn, I feel like I’m on an island of panic all by myself.

“Yeah, no problem. Have you…heard anything about where she was last seen or anything?” he asks cautiously, obviously not wanting to probe too much and risk upsetting me.

“She was at the beach with some guy.” I lift my hands helplessly. “But no one saw his face or anything. Everyone there was too drunk to recall much of anything.”

He winces. “Damn. That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “But what’sreallyfucked up is that no one seems to care. Even her parents think she probably just ran off somewhere with that guy.”

“Has she ever done anything like that before?” he asks.

“Kinda,” I answer. “She’s an independent spirit, so I guess it’s not completely out of the question. Something was bothering her the morning I last saw her. She never ended up telling me what it was, though.”

Nathan nods. “Well, I’ll check with my dad and let you know.” He glances down at the flyers in my hand. “Are you putting those up?”

His question reminds me that I have the flyers in my hand. “Oh. Yeah. I just picked them up from the printer.” I hand him a few. “Feel free to distribute them. Maybe put one up at the hospital?”

He takes them. “Sure, no problem. And, hey, I’m sure she’s fine. She wouldn’t be the first freshman to run off and join the circus.”

We both laugh at his little joke and then say our awkward goodbyes. I breathe a sigh of relief once I’m alone again. Not that Nathan isn’t nice—of all the guys in theBurning Crown circle, he’s by far the most friendly. It’s just that once I start thinking about Bree, it’s hard to stop.

A couple of hours later, I’m in the library, deep into my Introduction to Anthropology textbook, reading the same sentence over, and over,and over, when someone removes my backpack from the seat next to me and plops down into the hard plastic chair.

My heart jumps into my throat, because I know, instantly who it is. So much for hiding. And this—just showing up wherever I happen to be—is activating my fight or flight response. My heart is already pounding, the blood rushing from my head. I feel faint, and I desperately want to get up and run out of here.

Instead, I swallow, and I close my eyes briefly, repeating my therapist's words in my head.

You are fine. Sit with the discomfort.

You are fine. Sit with the discomfort.

You are fine. Sit with the discomfort.

Once my heart rate has gotten out of the 150’s, I open my eyes, and see Roman Rush leaning on the desk, hand in his head, staring at me. He may have spoken, but I have my headphones in, playingveryloud classical music, which drowns everything else out.

I take one earbud out and narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a library,” he answers. “Is it too hard to believe that I might be studying?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “One-thousand-percent.”

He shrugs and leans back in his chair. He doesn’t even have a backpack or books to back up his ridiculous claim. If he’s going to lie, it’d be smart toat leastmake it believable.

With clipped movements, I start packing my stuffup. I can justfeelmy therapist’s disapproval, though. He’s not even here, and still, I know what he’d want me to do. He’d want me to stay, and confront my uncomfortable feelings. But the fact that Romanobviouslyfollowed me here is pushing me way past uncomfortable, and into panic territory.

I pick my backpack up off the floor where Roman just dumped it, and start shoving my books inside, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“Whoa, Lux.” When he reaches out to grab my arm, I flinch on instinct, and he lets go. He looks confused by my reaction to him, his dark brows arched. “What’s going on?”

I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “How did you find me here?”

He’s silent for a second. “We need to talk about what happened between us last night,” he says, blatantly ignoring my question.

I zip my backpack up and grab my phone off the desk. “No, actually,” I say, standing. “We don’t.”

We’re not lowering our tones at all, and I expect someone will call us out on it any second. Or actually, maybe not. Roman is here, and I notice people are looking at us from the corners of their eyes—watching without wanting to be obvious about it. No one is going to confront Roman. He could climb up on the table and do a strip tease, and no one would say a damn thing about it.

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