Page 10 of The Trade

She shifts in her seat, clearly off-put by my sudden forward approach. She’s not a shy person by any means, but I doubt sweet Shannon is used to blatant propositions like this one.

“Okay, if that’s your final answer.”

“That’s my answer for the foreseeable future.”

I lift one shoulder. “Still friends, then?”

“Of course.” A snort of disbelief escapes her, letting me know that I haven’t overstepped my boundaries yet. Hell, maybe she’d actually be interested if it weren’t for the whole Cass thing. Or maybe she’d be interested if I just gave it a little more time.

“Fair enough,” I say, glancing at the clock behind her head. “I need to head to a meeting with my tutor, but can you tell your new roommate sorry for me?”

“You can just tell her yourself next time you see her.”

“Yeah, alright, then.”

“Later, West.” She gives me a shy smile, tugs her lower lip between her teeth, and a soft heat rises from the base of her neck all the way to the apples of her cheeks.

Well, there you have it. She may be saying she’s not interested, but her body language—not to mention that sweet, simmering blush—just taught me two crucial things. First, the door isn’t fully closed on a night with O’Connor. And second, if I want a real shot, I better find a way to make things right with her squeaky little mouse of a roommate.

4

JADE

It turnsout rooming with someone isn’t exactly the nightmare I imagined it to be.

On the contrary, these past few weeks of cohabitating with Shannon have morphed into something unexpectedly great. We spend our evenings cooking meals, our heads buried in books during study sessions, and our weekend nights filled with gossiping about her teammates.

She has this uncanny knack for sensing when I need solitude, and she’s also obsessively neat. Truthfully, it’s like living through some unscripted reality TV show—entertaining, unexpected, and oddly comforting.

Unfortunately, it also means that Mica was right all along, as per usual.

“Jade!” Shannon’s chipper voice echoes from the living room. “Pizza before the library?”

The two of us recently stumbled upon this hidden spot on campus called the Vault. It’s an underground pizza place filled with late-night activities—improv shows, poetry slams, and open mics. The food never disappoints, even when the entertainment isn’t quite up to par.

Ever since the first day we stumbled inside, the place has etched a permanent spot in our Thursday afternoon routine—a few slices followed by a diligent study session at the North Campus Library.

Except for today, Shannon’s bowing out on the latter. Apparently, she needs to attend a team meeting for something called “Spring Spirit Night,” which leaves me to face the library solo.

I don’t mind the lack of company, though. All the more if it means steering clear of Shannon’s less-than-savory friends.

Honestly, the whole thing makes zero sense to me. How does someone like Shannon O’Connor, a girl who’s all sunshine and butterflies, end up associating with a guy like Theodore Westman-Cooke?

Shannon continues to defend him, claims he’s “not usually like that.” But he acted like I was invisible that day in the library. No, it was worse than that—he outright labeled me a jersey chaser. As if I’d ever spare a second glance for someone so self-absorbed.

Dismissing the thought, I make a mental checklist of what I’ll need for today’s session, cram a few books into my bag, and head to the living room. The moment I step inside, Shannon’s amused gaze flits across my outfit.

Lips twitching with repressed laughter, she asks, “Lucky sweatshirt again?”

“Of course.”

It may be silly, but I love this old, ratty scrap of fabric as if it were my own child. Mica gifted it to me the summer before my first semester of college. He wore it to his last round of finals, earning himself a perfect 4.0 GPA. And now, I’m fortunate enough to have that same luck rub off on me.

I wear it nearly every time I study and never forget to put it on for my exams. It seems inconsequential, really, but it’s like my brain can’t seem to absorb information without it. There’s something about the familiar weight of the worn fabric on my shoulders, the way the material has softened with time, that feels like an old friend cheering me on.

“You do realize it’s over seventy degrees outside?”

“Sure do,” I chirp, slinging my backpack over one shoulder.

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