Page 34 of Knot Your Romeo

The drive to Silvercrest College takes less than twenty minutes, but it feels like hours. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to turn around, to leave this alone, to let sleeping dogs lie. But the memory of Emmie’s face on Friday night—the recognition, the fear, the hurt—makes rational thought impossible. She looked at me like I’d betrayed her, like the money I’d left was an insult rather than an attempt to help. But what else was I supposed to do? Disappear without a trace and leave her with nothing?

After I park outside the administration building, I stride into the office and use my position on the board of trustees to gain access to student schedules.

“Are you sure Emmie Masters isn’t on the role?” I recheck. “Maybe Emmaline. Emily…”

“Sorry. There are three Masters on the roll. Jolie, Elena, and Harry.”

I walk out of the office and to my car, and make a call. This time, it takes the promise of a significant donation to get her class timetable, along with her current academic standing. But nobody can find her.

“Okay. Send me Jolie’s details.” The two sisters must have different surnames, but I’m sure they’ll meet up for lunch. And I’d like to know who has gotten Romeo so twisted.

“It’ll be a few minutes. Come to my office and I’ll print everything for you.”

After I receive the document I wanted, I take a seat in the staff room and read the details of my son’s scent match.

Jolie Masters.Excellent grades, perfect attendance until this week, enrolled in advanced sciences with a focus on biology and she also studies art. A student who flies under the radar not because she lacks ability, but because she’s trying to avoid attention.

Smart girl. Too bad she caught Romeo’s attention.

Jolie’s next class is art in the main campus building. Hoping to spot her with her sister, I position myself near the entrance, ignoring the curious looks from students who recognize me from various campus events.

Being on the board has its privileges, but it also makes anonymity impossible.

Luckily, Emmie arrives first at the building. She’s walking with her head down, books clutched against her chest like armor. She’s wearing jeans that hide her gorgeous curves, an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame. She is nothing like the confident girl in a black dress. Everything about her screams ‘invisible,’ but to me she might as well be lit up in neon.

“Emmie.”

She freezes at the sound of my voice, her entire body going rigid with tension. When she turns to face me, her amber eyes are blazing with an anger that takes me by surprise.

“It’s Jolie,” she says quietly, but there’s steel underneath the soft tone. “Jolie Masters.”

My heart stops beating when I realize there’s no sister. It’s Emmie who my son believes is his scent match.

My stomach drops to the floor.

“Right. Of course.” The words come out like I forgot. “Did you give me a false name?” I study her face, taking in the subtle changes since that night in Boston. She’s sadder, more guarded, but still heartbreakingly beautiful. “Did you know who I was?”

“No,” she gasps. “This isn’t about you.”

I believe her. No idea why. But I do. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?” She glances around the busy courtyard, clearly conscious of the students streaming past us. “I think we said everything that needed to be said in Boston.”

“Did we? Because I seem to remember our conversation being cut rather short.”

Her cheeks flush with color, but her expression remains defiant. “Your choice, as I recall. You were the one who disappeared.”

“I had a flight to catch—“

“At four in the morning?” The words come out sharper than she probably intended, drawing attention from nearby students. She lowers her voice, but the hurt underneath is unmistakable. “Right. Of course. Very important business, I’m sure.”

I realize we’re drawing stares, that this conversation is exactly the kind of public scene that could destroy my reputation. “Not here. Get in the car.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please,” I add, softening my tone. “Just let me explain. You deserve that much.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse. Her amber eyes study my face with the kind of intensity that suggests she’s cataloging every micro-expression.

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