Chapter 3

My brain screeched to a halt. "She's... in class?"

"Yeah," Liam said, looking at me like I'd grown a second head. "It's Tuesday at three. She never misses it."

This information did not compute. "But... the proposal?"

A flicker of something-amusement? exasperation?-crossed his face. "It wasn't a proposal."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "It wasn't?"

"No. It was for my communications class. Professor Davies assigned a project on public persuasion. I was supposed to deliver a speech convincing people to donate to the campus food bank. The 'romantic' part was a theme to draw a crowd." He gestured to the scattered students who were now starting to disperse, their source of entertainment having run its course. "And it worked. Until you showed up."

Oh. Oh. The relief that washed over me was so immense it made me dizzy. He wasn't proposing. There was no wedding. There was no Chloe. There was just a class project. A class project I had single-handedly, spectacularly, and very publicly destroyed. The relief was immediately replaced by a fresh, potent wave of horror.

"I have to go get my equipment," I stammered, needing an escape. "Campus security probably has it."

I turned to leave, but Liam was in my way. "I've got it," he said.

He held up a black duffel bag. Our station's duffel bag. He had packed up the microphone and speaker while I was busy making a fool of myself.

"Oh. Thanks." My voice was barely a whisper.

"It's the least I could do," he said, his tone dry. "Since I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail my project now."

Guilt, sharp and acidic, flooded my system. "I'm so sorry," I said again, feeling pathetic. "I'll talk to Professor Davies. I'll explain everything. I'll take the blame."

"It's fine," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Let's just get this back to the station." He started walking, and I, not knowing what else to do, fell into step beside him.

We walked in an awkward silence that felt louder than my accidental broadcast. I kept my eyes fixed on the pavement, replaying the last ten minutes in my head on a loop of pure cringe. We reached the parking lot behind the arts building, and he stopped next to a slightly beat-up looking Vespa.

"Here," he said, handing me a helmet.

I blinked at it. "What?"

"I'll give you a ride," he said, swinging his leg over the scooter. "The radio station is on the other side of campus. It'll be faster."

My mind short-circuited. Ride on the back of Liam Hayes's Vespa? It was the kind of thing I'd write in a secret journal if I was the kind of person who kept one. It was terrifying and wonderful all at once.

"You don't have to," I said weakly.

"The bag is heavy," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And you look like you're about to pass out. Just get on."

Numbly, I put on the helmet. The strap was loose. My fingers fumbled with the clasp, shaking too much to connect it. A warm hand covered mine.

"Here, let me," Liam said.

He leaned in close. His fingers brushed against my chin as he expertly clicked the strap into place. His face was inches from mine. I could see the tiny scar above his right eyebrow. I held my breath, my heart doing a frantic, chaotic dance in my chest. The clean laundry scent was mixed with something else, something uniquely him. It was intoxicating.

He pulled back, his expression neutral, and patted the seat behind him. "Hold on tight."

I got on, my hands hovering uncertainly in the air for a moment before I hesitantly placed them on his shoulders.

"Not there," he said over his shoulder. "You'll make us crash. Put them around my waist."

Oh, god. This was not happening. This was a fever dream. I slowly, carefully, wrapped my arms around his torso. His back was firm and warm through his hoodie. I could feel the muscles shift as he started the engine. The Vespa sputtered to life, and we lurched forward. I instinctively tightened my grip, pressing myself against him.

The ride across campus was a blur. The wind whipped past my face, and the rumble of the engine vibrated through me. All I could focus on was the feeling of being pressed against Liam's back, my hands linked around his waist. It was the most contact I'd ever had with another human being that wasn't an accidental bump in a crowded hallway. And it was with him.

We arrived at the radio station far too quickly. He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. I scrambled off the Vespa, my legs feeling like jelly. I took off the helmet and handed it to him, my hand shaking.

"Thanks for the ride," I mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

"No problem," he said. He handed me the duffel bag. Our fingers brushed. A jolt, small but definite, shot up my arm.

"Well," I said, clutching the bag to my chest like a shield. "I should... go." I desperately wanted to get back to the safety of my soundproof room and never come out again.

"Yeah," he said.

I turned and practically fled up the steps to the station. I didn't look back.

Once inside, I leaned against the closed door, my heart pounding. What just happened? He wasn't proposing. He gave me a ride. He touched my chin.

I slid down the door and sat on the floor, completely bewildered. Liam Hayes wasn't the guy I thought he was. He wasn't just a popular jock. He was... nice. And considerate. And he smelled really, really good.

A new thought crept into my mind, unbidden and terrifying.

What was he going to do now? And more importantly, what was I going to do about him?