Page 48 of Her Name in Red
“Seems to me it's pretty damn simple.” His breath tickles my ear as he leans closer. “We want each other.”
I feel a light touch against my hair, so subtle I almost think I imagined it. His fingers brush a strand behind my ear, the contact brief but deliberate.
“Don't,” I warn, but it comes out weaker than I intended.
“Your hair smells good,” he murmurs, as if I hadn't spoken. “Like rain.”
“It's called shampoo. Look it up.”
He laughs quietly, and I hate that I like the sound. Hate that I want to hear it again.
“It's distracting,” he continues, completely unfazed by my sarcasm. “You're distracting. Haven't heard a damn word Westfield has said.”
“That makes two of us.”
I force myself to stare at the slide up front, but the words blur together. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, like every nerve ending is on high alert just because he's sitting next to me. I'm suddenly aware of every inch of my body—the rise and fall of my chest, the press of my thighs against the chair, the way my toes curl in my boots.
Riggs shifts beside me, and then his arm is sliding behind my chair. Not touching me, just...there. Hovering. Like he's daring me to acknowledge it, to tell him to move it or to lean back into it.
I fidget with my pen for the next twenty minutes, hyper-aware of Riggs next to me, of the heat of his body just inches away. When Jenkins finally dismisses class with a reminder about our essays due next week, I practically leap from my seat, shoving my notebook into my bag with enough force to tear the spiral binding.
“Whoa there,” Riggs says, gathering his own stuff at a deliberately unhurried pace. “What's the rush?”
“Some of us have actual lives outside of harassing people.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, already stepping into the aisle.
“Harassment?” He raises an eyebrow, following close behind as I push past a cluster of students discussing Faulkner like it's the most fascinating thing they've ever heard. “Is that what we're calling it now?”
The lecture hall empties slowly, students clogging the doorway like a cholesterol-filled artery. I drum my fingers against my thigh, impatient.
“You know,” Riggs says, his voice right in my ear, “most people wouldn’t be running away from spending time with me.”
“Leave me alone,” I snap, not looking at him.
He laughs, the sound low and rich. “You don't mean that.”
“And you know that…how exactly?” I finally glance at him immediately regretting it. His eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“Because,” he says, “your pupils dilate when you look at me. Your breathing changes. Your cheeks flush.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Your body's an open book, Maren, even when your mouth is telling lies.”
The crowd finally thins enough for me to slip through the door. I push past a group who look like they've just rolled out of bed, Riggs right on my heels.
“Don't you have a class to get to?” I ask as we enter the main hallway of the humanities building. The smell of coffee from thenearby student lounge mixes with the musty scent of old books and desperation.
“Nope. Free until three.” He matches my pace with irritating ease, his long legs giving him an unfair advantage. “You?”
“None of your business.”
“So that's a no as per usual, then.”
“Look,” I say, stopping abruptly and turning to face him. “Whatever happened the other night was a one time thing.”
The words hang between us as we push through the double doors leading outside. Students mill around the quad, some sprawled on the grass soaking up what might be the last warmish day of fall, others power-walking to their next class with caffeine-fueled determination.
Glancing around, I see someone who definitely doesn’t belong. Detective fucking Harlow and he’s standing talking to some random student.
Riggs nearly collides with me from behind, his chest bumping against my shoulder blades. “What the?—”
“Shut up,” I hiss, grabbing his wrist and yanking him sideways behind a concrete pillar.
