Page 39 of Problematic Summer Romance

Avery is standing on the first step of the stone porch, wearing a pretty blue sundress that makes her look like a water nymph. The goddess of the sky.

“Are you going to Taormina?”

Beside me, Conor tenses. He says nothing for a silence that stretches too long, and I’m the one who nods.

In response, her grin is dazzling. “May I join you?”

Chapter 13

Three years, two months, two weeks, and six days earlier

Edinburgh, Scotland

“So maybe…maybe we sorted this out? And we can carry on as before?” Rose’s expression is so wide-eyed and hopeful, I have to make the executive decision not to laugh in her face.

I woke up this morning to a Conor-less room, a phone number scribbled on a notepad on my desk, and a full house. Rose and her new girlfriend, Surika, sit at the kitchen table with Georgia and Alfie, eating eggs and sausage. They’ve all been debriefed on my wild night of passion (I can only hope that’s how they referred to it). Clearly, they plan to use it as proof that Georgia and Alfie did nothing wrong, ever.

“The people in this room are my best friends,” Rose says, one hand dramatically poised on her chest. “It’s very important that you guys all get on with each other.”

“I’m totally okay with everyone,” Georgia says, and I have tobite my tongue before asking,What couldyoupossibly have to object to?“Maya, I just want you to know that Idon’tmind living with you,” she adds. Her eyes are the exact same shade of green as Rose’s. I might have to burn every item of clothing I own in that color. “It would be so shitty of me to ask you to move out. It never even occurred to me.”

I’ve been trying not to abuse my therapyspeak, but I’m starting to feel a little gaslighted. “It had never occurred to me, either,” I mumble. Two months. Two months of school left. Then I’ll be free to move my single, friendless self elsewhere. “I’m so sorry.” I stand from the stool where I was sat more or less against my will. “I have to go, or I’ll be late for breakfast with Conor.”

“About Conor…” Rose starts.

“Be serious, Maya,” Alfie interrupts. “You can’t trust him. You just met this bloke on vacation last year, and now you’re…”

Banging him against your doorlingers around the table, deliciously unsaid.

Surika, the only person in this room who’s not currently in my littleMake Sufferbook, snorts between bites. “I think we can safely assume that the Harkness scion is not some kind of catfishy murderboi.”

Alfie scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I highly doubt that Finneas Harkness’s eldest son is walking about kidnapping American-born students. He probably just wants to get laid. No offense.”

“None taken,” I say.

But the atmosphere is still full of skepticism, and Surika sets down her fork. “Do you guys seriously not know who Finneas Harkness is?” She rolls her eyes. Mutters something about financial illiteracy. “Tell them, Maya.”

I clear my throat. “Actually…”

“Oh, my—okay. Whatever. His father is CEO of the largest hospitality company in the UK. He owns dozens of luxury resorts. The lining of his cells is made of gold. His son’s in finance, though he does biotech. Has his own firm. He also shits cash.” She browses her phone, hands it to Alfie. From across the table, I spot the Forbes logo, and a picture of Conor with Minami, Eli, and Sul. They’re all smiling.

I hold my breath. Thankfully, no one in the room recognized my brother.

“Is that supposed to make us worry less?” Alfie is unimpressed. “Has anyone watchedAmerican Psycho?”

A surprisingly good point. “You can keep an eye on me. I’m still sharing my location with Rose,” I say before waving goodbye and hurrying down the stairs. In a weird way, their worry warms my heart. It tells me that they still care about me, and…No. I need to snap out of it.

Yes, they are my friends and I love them.

Yes, they are incredibly toxic company for me right now.

Yes, I’d rather spend the morning with my brother’s colleague whom I’ve known for over a decade and yet I’ve thought about fewer times than I’ve seenPride & Prejudice2005.

Not something I ever believed I’d say, but here I am. Watching Conor Harkness leaf through a financial newspaper like he’s living in a 1950s time capsule. Plopping down in the seat in front of him, because he snagged a window table at the Fountainbridge Loudons on a Saturday morning.

“Hey,” I say when he looks up. A sudden, jittery rush pinkens my cheeks, the morning air fresh against my skin.

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