Don’t Be in Love

6

Don’t Trust His Friends — Adelaide

The first two tutoring sessions were … fine. He didn’t laugh in my face when I showed him my vibrant graphics that broke down a social media marketing plan—paid vs organic media, campaigns, social media SEO, branding—so I guess that was something.

All that mattered was that it wasn’t going to interfere with my shifts at the bookstore. The job that Mia and I had Sabrina to thank for since she was close with the two women—Iris and Dotty—who owned the place. We’d only been working there for three weeks but I could live in the shelves if the offer was extended. My clothes would probably smell like dusty paper and the scented firewood plugin Iris insisted on keeping in at all times. But at least it meant more time with Iris and Dotty every day.

The older women lived together, trading jewelry and watching the same reality TV every night like exhausted college roommates . Iris’s husband passed away ten years ago, and her two daughters and three grandchildren lived outside London. She moved in with Dotty after that, who had lived alone her entire adult life, never marrying . Living the dream , Dotty had said.

For bosses, they were laid back. Or at least Iris was because she was the only one who signed off on Dorian staying while I worked. She was alarmingly excited. Apparently, she kept up with the tabloids.

It was concerning.

Nonetheless, Dorian promised he’d do the work I assigned him from the semester project while I continued my shift at the bookstore. Whether or not he planned to keep that promise when Monday rolled around, I didn’t know.

That was a tomorrow problem.

My main concern right now was trying to find where the Entertainment Media class was. I would’ve asked Mia to help me get there since we’re both in the class, but every time we had a moment to talk this week, I was so focused on updating her about Dorian.

She was both horrified, and envious . He’s in your class, recognized you immediately, tried asking you on a date, and then blackmailed you into tutoring him? Why haven’t I found any guys like that?

Today’s class together would be a nice distraction from the Dorian situation. If I could figure how to get there.

I should’ve taped the locations to the bottoms of my boots to make sure I wasn’t late for class. But Townsen was set up like a hedge maze made of stone. And I didn’t do closed spaces with zero direction.

All the buildings were connected through corridors and outdoor hallways that led to gardens and courtyards. Not a single building stood alone. It was confusing.

I pulled my phone from my bag to reread the class location. And … I was going in the completely wrong direction. Wonderful. I took an abrupt right into the next corridor and shit .

The fall backwards was long with my heeled loafers. Landing on my tailbone, my bag and books hit the marble floor. Ouch .

“I am so sorry, that was completely my fault—” I stopped short, taking in the familiar person sitting across from me on the floor. He had a head of hair that was as white as snow.

In a soft British accent, he replied without looking up. “No, no, it’s alright—” Lifting his head up, realization spread across his face. “I know you, don’t I?” He pushed himself up from the ground.

“I, uh … ” Say something. Lie!

He began collecting my books. “Adelaide, right?” There went that. “We met at the pub Saturday—or at least you and Dorian did,” he laughed.

I stood, flattening out my sweater, and plucking the books out of his arms. “I think you have the wrong person—”

He clutched onto the book I was trying to take. “Hey, it’s alright, Dorian filled me in,” he explained, rather kindly too. As if it was our secret now. Phenomenal. Another problem.

“Did he now?” I asked flabbergasted. I made a deal with Dorian not to tell anyone about our night and here he was telling friends.

I rearranged the books in my arms and focused on getting out of here immediately. But as I scrambled for an excuse to go, my Entertainment Media textbook slipped out of my grasp. The smack against the floor was a good interruption for our conversation, but he bent down to pick it up.

“Two-thousand and one Beverly Spring collection.” He gestured to my shoes, standing back up and handing over the book.

“How—how do you know that?” I stammered.

“My mother works for Beverly.” He stated it as if it wasn’t single-handedly the coolest job ever.

Not at Beverly, but for Beverly.

He said it so nonchalantly that I considered for a moment whether we were talking about the same company.

The Beverly. The most iconic fashion house of all time. The one I dreamed about even when I wasn’t sleeping. The one I’ve spent the past eight years achieving a perfect GPA for in hopes of joining their marketing team.

“My name’s James, by the way,” he remembered, giving me his hand.

I shook it. “Adelaide … But you already know that.” He smiled shyly in response. It was so warm and kind. Something that could’ve melted ice. An odd contrast to the grimace his friend wore the two times I saw him this week.

“Don’t worry by the way, I would never say anything about you and Dorian.”

I wanted to throw my palm against my forehead. “Do you happen to know who else he told?”

His eyes widened. “There is no one else. He would never do that. We’re practically attached at the hip, so I usually know too much. Which can be unfortunate at times,” he pondered.

“Oh, alright,” I exhaled, while also trying to piece together which parts would be unfortunate. “I’m sorry again for running into you. I’m still trying to figure out what makes this brown hallway different from that brown hallway.” I blew a strand of hair out of my face.

“Which class are you trying to get to?” he asked.

“Entertainment Media in the Archer building.”

“With Professor Dover?”

“Yes, that one! Have you had her before?”

“I’m in that class too,” he said. “I guess you can just follow me this way then.”

Walking side and side, we headed in the completely opposite direction that I had been going. The light coming in through the skylight above us flickered over our shoes as we walked through the outdoor pathway to the other building. I took my strides wide to keep up with his footsteps.

I attempted to listen to the words coming out of James’s mouth about the history of the buildings, but I was more focused on memorizing this path and trying to figure out if he was trustworthy (all while ignoring how pretty his mouth happened to be).

Green flag #1: He seemed sweet.

Red flag #1: He was a friend of Dorian’s.

Green flag #2: He appeared to be the complete opposite of Dorian, despite the similar height and dark eyes.

Red flag #2: He chose to spend time with Dorian.

Green flag #3: He had a really pretty smile. Maybe that was a beige flag since it intervened with the No Dating rule.

“Are you a senior?” he asked.

“Yes,” I responded, trying not to let my thoughts paint themselves across my face. “I transferred here from Boston.”

“Me too—well, I’m in my final year too,” he rushed to clarify. “Not from Boston, clearly.” He blushed. I suppressed a laugh. I didn’t need to make his shade of crimson any worse.

He cleared his throat. “So why here?”

“Study abroad opportunity. I always wanted to live in London though.” The romanticization of movies set here may have contributed heavily. “Tea, scones, rolling countryside hills, a reason to carry an umbrella every day.” And there was nothing left for me back in Boston. “Townsen also has one of the best marketing programs in the world.”

“So you gave up burgers and American holidays for stale scones and rain?” He was baffled.

I shrugged. “I don’t care much for the holidays.”

“Nonsense,” he argued.

“Just days on a calendar,” I pointed out.

“So, you’re an American who hates holidays, likes the rain, is willing to travel for a scone, and … majors in marketing,” he hummed as we entered a building with a plaque labeled ARCHER above, walnut walls welcoming us.

“Public relations,” I clarified.

“Anywhere in London you’re hoping to intern?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I lied.

“I would ask more but we’re here,” he confessed, stopping in front of a large oak door. “Same hallway next Thursday?”

It wasn’t as if I could say no. “Next Thursday it is.”