Page 11 of Unbound
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you do." His voice was casual, conversational, like we were old friends catching up. "You rattled off standard conservative doctrine without engaging with the actual constitutional question. It's like you were afraid to think for yourself."
My hands tightened on my messenger bag. "I wasn't—I answered the professor's question correctly."
"You answered it safely." His dark eyes held mine, and I couldn't look away. "There's a difference between correct and safe, Jesse. You were playing it safe and we both know it.”
The sound of my name in his mouth sent something hot and terrifying through my stomach. I'd never given him permission to use it, but he said it like he owned it.
"I don't play things safe," I managed, though my voice betrayed me with a slight tremor.
Adrian laughed—not mocking, but genuinely amused. "Really? When was the last time you took a position that wasn't handed to you by your church?"
"My faith isn't—that's not—" I stuttered, heat spreading down my neck. "You don't understand."
"Then why don’t you explain it to me." He shifted his weight, somehow managing to look both relaxed and predatory. "Walk with me. Let me buy you a coffee, and you can tell me why originalism trumps evolving constitutional interpretation."
"I can't." The words came out too quickly, too sharp. Several students glanced our way, and panic fluttered in my chest. "I have somewhere to be."
"No, you don't." His certainty was infuriating. "Your next class isn't until three, and it's barely noon. I checked your schedule."
My mouth fell open. "You—what?"
"Student directory. Pre-law program isn't that big." He shrugged like stalking my academic calendar was perfectly normal. "Come on, Jesse. What's the worst that could happen? Someone might see you having an intellectual conversation?"
The way he said it—like he could see right through my panic to the fear beneath—made my face burn hotter. Becausethat was exactly what I was afraid of. Someone from church seeing me with him. Word getting back to my father. Questions I couldn't answer.
"I really can't—"
But Adrian was already walking, somehow managing to make it look like we'd decided this together. My feet moved before my brain could stop them, my body betraying me the way it had the night before. I found myself falling into step beside him, telling myself I was only walking in the same direction.
"See? That wasn't so hard." His voice held that same amused tone, like I was a puzzle he was enjoying solving. "There's a good coffee place just off campus. Better than the radioactive swill they serve in the student union."
"I don't drink coffee," I said weakly.
"Don't be silly, everyone drinks coffee. You just haven't found the right one for you yet."
We walked in silence for several minutes, my entire body vibrating with tension. Students passed us going the other direction, and I found myself scanning each face, searching for anyone who might recognize me. Anyone who might report back that Jesse Miller was seen walking with the boy from the bar. The boy who'd challenged everything I'd said in class. The boy who made my pulse race in ways that were absolutely, categorically wrong.
"You're wound tighter than a clock spring," Adrian observed. "When's the last time you let your guard down and relaxed?"
"I am relaxed," I lied.
"Right. And I'm the Pope." He glanced sideways at me, and I caught him taking in my rigid posture, my white-knuckled grip on my bag. "Let me guess—you have a schedule. Wake up at the same time every day, same breakfast, same route toclass. You probably iron your underwear too. Tighty whities, no doubt."
The accuracy of his assessment made me stumble slightly—not just because he was right about the schedule, but because the mental image of Adrian thinking about my underwear sent heat flooding through places it absolutely shouldn't. I did iron my underwear. I ironed everything. And they were, mortifyingly, exactly what he'd guessed.
"I don't—that's not—how is that even relevant?" My voice pitched higher than normal, and his grin widened like he could read every flustered thought racing through my head.
"Hit a nerve, did I?" His tone was pure mischief now, and I realized with growing horror that he was enjoying this. Enjoying making me squirm. "I'll take that as a yes on the ironing. What about the style? Am I warm?"
"We are not discussing my undergarments," I managed, my face burning so hot I probably looked like a tomato.
"Fair enough. Though the fact that you call them 'undergarments' tells me everything I need to know."
There was something about the way he said it—not mocking, exactly, but fond somehow, like my mortification was endearing rather than pathetic—that made my chest do something complicated.
"There's nothing wrong with being organized," I said weakly, trying to regain some dignity.
