Page 111 of Coveted

The chair across from me scrapes softly against the floor and Lucan sits down without an invitation. Raising my head, my eyes meet his striking gaze.

The effect he has on me is stronger than ever. My mouth dries and my blood warms.

What’s he doing here? What does he want?

He reaches over and removes the pen from my hand.

“You’re done for the day,” he says like we’ve already discussed it, except we haven’t.

“Says who?” I ask.

Lucan throws down the pen. “I’m taking you on a date.”

Intense whispering takes place to my right. I glance over at the table of seniors staring at us and holding a discussion. Snatches of their conversation reach my ears.

“Did he just ask⁠—?”

“Is she that girl who⁠—”

“No way…”

One snaps photos of us on her phone.

“Oh really?” Leaning back, I fold my arms. I refuse to behave like his timid fangirl just because other students are. “When did you ask me for a date? I think I’d remember that.”

A guy to our left pretends to read a book, but his eyes are perfectly still as he eavesdrops.

Lucan doesn’t seem to notice anyone else. He’s completely at ease being scrutinized in public, and acts as though our spectators don’t exist. Except I know he’s not acting, because he’s genuinely that confident.

Arrogant, I would’ve said just weeks ago. Days ago. Maybe I even want to say it now, given his cool smirk in place of an actual answer to my question.

It seems he’s not done with me though. He wants to see me again. My racing pulse tells me I’m glad on some level. Probably a very foolish level.

“I can’t go on a date,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.

“I have to study. Scholarship student, remember? If I fail a class, I don’t have parents who’ll buy me a building.”

“You have me to buy you a building,” he says with a straight face, as if he means it. “Next excuse?”

I touch my knitted sweater. “I’m not dressed for a date.”

“You’re perfect how you are.”

Heat travels up my neck to my cheeks. I cringe knowing everyone can see his effect on me, including him.

“That’s sweet,” I say, trying to play off my discomfort.

Lucan leans forward. “There’s nothing sweet about what I feel for you.”

I believe him. There was nothing sweet about what we did at his penthouse either.

He observes my empty mug. “You’ve had three coffees and no food.”

I don’t even bother asking how he knows, because there are black domed cameras on the café’s ceiling.

I point at the plate of pastry crumbs. “I’ve had⁠—”