Page 9 of Saint
“Since when? We always study together on Saturdays.” She sits up, the mattress springs creaking beneath her sudden movement. Her dark eyebrows draw together, and that familiar vertical line appears between them—the same one that shows up during finals week. “Fine, I’ll sit at a different table if you’re having some weird concentration issue.”
"No!” The word bursts from my lips like a cork from champagne. My hands flutter nervously to my hair, smoothing down strands that don’t need smoothing. “I mean, it’s not a good idea today.”
Zoe crosses her arms, her expression hardening into the one that got her elected president of our debate team freshman year—chin tilted down, eyes narrowed to laser-focused points, lips pressed into a thin, uncompromising line. “Okay, spill it. What’s going on? Why don’t you want me there?”
I bite my lip, deliberating until I taste the waxy remnants of my cherry lip balm. Zoe has been my roommate for almost two years, my confidante through every college crisis from failed algebra exams to midnight panic attacks. But this feels different. Bigger. Like a fault line opening beneath the careful foundation of my life.
“I’m meeting someone,” I finally admit, swirling my brush through the peachy-pink blush and watching the soft powder dust rise in the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.
“Someone...?” Zoe prompts, her voice dropping an octave as she leans forward, the mattress dipping beneath her weight.
“A man.” I feel a blush rising that has nothing to do with makeup. “An older man.”
Her eyes widen. “How much older?”
"Thirty-eight,” I mumble, focusing intently on applying lip gloss.
“Thirty-eight?!” Zoe practically shrieks. "That’s twice your age!"
“It’s not twice,” I correct her. “Is it?” Displaying my lack of mathematical skills.
“Who is this guy? How did you meet him? Is he a professor? Because that’s totally against?—”
“He’s a friend of my father’s,” I interrupt, watching Zoe’s eyes widen until I can see the flecks of gold in her brown irises. “Well, business associate might be more accurate. I met him at Dad’s dinner last night.”
Zoe’s glossy pink mouth falls open, her lip gloss catching the light from my bedside lamp. “You’re meeting one of the Governor’s associates—one of those suit-wearing sharks with perfect teeth and seven-figure bank accounts—for a coffee date? Does your dad know?”
I laugh, the sound skittering out like marbles on hardwood, higher and more nervous than I intend. “God, no. And it’s not really a date.” My fingers twist a strand of hair so tightly it almost hurts. “I just... might have flirted with him at the dinner. I told him I study at Mystic Mocha sometimes, and mentioned I’d be there today at two."
“So you’re hoping he shows up,” Zoe says slowly, “and what? You study algebra together?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, avoiding Zoe’s piercing gaze in the gilded vanity mirror. "He’s gorgeous, Zo. Like, illegally gorgeous. Those obsidian eyes under perfectly arched brows, that razor-sharp jawline that could cut glass.” I shiver, goosebumps prickling along my bare arms as I recall how those blue eyes had traveled from my glossed lips to the hollow of my throat, then lower, lingering on the modest swell of cleavageabove my black dress. “When he looked at me, it was like being touched without a single finger on my skin. I’ve never felt anything like it."
“Lily..." Zoe’s voice drops an octave, that familiar crease appearing between her brows.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, swiveling on the cushioned vanity stool to face her directly, my knees brushing against the soft fabric of my duvet. “But I’m not a child. I’m tired of being Governor Moore’s perfect daughter, the virgin princess everyone treats like she’s made of Venetian glass.” I lift my chin, feeling a flush of defiance warm my cheeks. “Maybe it’s time I shattered that illusion.”
"Your V-card?” Zoe looks horrified. “You want to lose your virginity to some random old guy who works with your dad?"
“He’s not random, and he doesn’t work with my father,” I protest. “His name is Luca Ravello. He runs that huge foundation that built the new children’s hospital wing. And he’s not old, he’s... experienced.” I can feel my cheeks heating up. “The way his fingers brushed against mine under the table... Zoe, I swear my entire body was on fire.”
Zoe springs to her feet, her worn NYU sweatshirt bunching at her elbows as she throws her hands up. The afternoon sunlight streaming through my dorm window catches the alarm in her wide eyes. “Lily, you don’t know anything about this man. What if he’s dangerous?”
I roll my eyes until I can almost see the inside of my skull, twisting the cap back onto my mascara with a sharp click. "He’s a philanthropist who went to Harvard and donates millions to children’s hospitals. His photo was literally on the cover of New York Magazine last month. What’s dangerous about that?"
“Men like that—powerful, older men with perfect suits and practiced smiles—they prey on young girls like you.” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper as if someonemight overhear us. "You’re literally walking into a textbook predatory situation straight out of my Psych 301 case studies!"
“We’re talking about Mystic Mocha at two in the afternoon, not some back-alley rendezvous,” I say, glancing at my phone. 1:40 glares back at me. “I need to leave now if I want a decent table.”
Zoe blocks the doorway, arms crossed. “Here’s the deal: either I sit at a nearby table—completely out of your way—or I’m going to follow you there and make a scene.” Her shoulders drop slightly. “I just don’t want you getting hurt, Lil.”
I exhale slowly, recognizing the immovable force before me. “Whatever. Tag along if you must. But keep your distance, no spying, and if things heat up between us, you disappear. Understood?”
“I’ll give you space,” she agrees reluctantly. “But I’m keeping my pepper spray handy.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking into Mystic Mocha, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans enveloping us. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. I scan the café, trying to look casual, but there’s no sign of Luca yet.
“I’m going to grab that corner table,” I tell Zoe, nodding toward a cozy spot partially hidden by a bookshelf.
