Page 72 of Wrong For Me

He gives me a ghost of a smile, something bitter in his expression. “That’s me. A real nice guy.”

Before I can decipher if he’s joking or not, he turns and strides to the door, leaving me alone in the room we’re supposed to share, completely confused as to what in the hell just happened.

* * *

The pre-keynote mixeris basically my worst nightmare. An entire hotel ballroom filled with strangers, all of them happily mingling. At least they alllookhappy. Certainly, none of them look the way that I feel—anxious and unsettled and just a little bit nauseous.

You’re in big crowds all the time,I remind myself. My parents’ career requires it. The family regularly hosts parties for the label, as well as charity fundraisers, both of which require all us kids to make an appearance, shaking hands with all the important people trying to get close to our dads. I grew up on a tour bus, for God’s sake, traveling from venue to venue, each filled with masses of screaming fans.

Of course, I’ve always had my family with me for those occasions. And even then, more often than not, I still get that old surge of anxiety when I’m required to meet people or make small talk. But it’s a lot easier to be the polite, quiet one when I’m standing behind the always vivacious Everly or Alex, not to mention all the loud and hyper little kids.

The proximity of Leo doesn’t help with my nerves tonight. For the first time in weeks, we’re in the same space and I don’t feel his eyes on me. As far as I can tell, he’s not even aware of my presence. I, however, can’t seem to forget about him for even a second.

He looks different in this setting. He’s dressed up a bit from what he usually wears on campus, trading in his dark jeans and button-down shirt for a pair of pressed khakis and a sweater. But it’s not his clothing that feels foreign—it’s the way he talks to people.

I’ve seen a few different sides of Leo Malone in the weeks since we met—the flirting, smirking bartender at the festival last summer; the angry, brooding TA who sat glaring at me in our advisor’s office the first day of school; the smoldering, intense man who took me to his bed the night we met. But this Leo is unfamiliar. He’s charming and jovial, shaking hands with conference attendees, commanding the attention of every group he approaches. He’s making jokes, for fuck’s sake.

Watching him makes me feel even more out of place and awkward as I do my best to mingle. The group I’ve found my way into are having a mind-numbingly boring conversation about the recent popularity of forensic psychology papers being published in the APA Journal. Seriously, they should record this conversation and sell the audio as a cure for insomnia. It’s all I can do to keep from nodding off on my feet. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Leo tells a joke that has everyone within a ten-foot radius laughing uproariously.

It’s obvious my departmental nemesis is really good at this whole networking thing, and the longer I watch him, the more hopeless I feel. What would that be like? To have the confidence to interact so easily with strangers. To be able to turn on the charm and make people respect and admire you with only a few words.

I should just go back to the room until the keynote starts. Leo certainly won’t be up there, so at least I’ll have some peace. I can call Will or one of the girls and maybe not feel so damn lonely for a few minutes.

I’m just about to make my excuses and escape, when one of the men in our group leans closer and murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear him, “You look like you’re having about as much fun as I am.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

I have to tilt my head a little to see his face. The guy is very tall, taller than my Uncle Reed. When I do, I note that he’s smiling at me in a shy sort of way, his warm brown eyes kind. He seems quite a bit younger than most of the people surrounding us. Maybe not as young as me, but definitely not ancient.

“I don’t mind parties,” I tell him. “It’s the room full of strangers that get to me.”

He chuckles and holds out a hand. “Kevin Fillmore.”

His long fingers envelope my much smaller hand when I take his to shake. “Rose Ransome.”

He doesn’t even blink at my last name, and I feel a pang of relief. The guy is handsome, with a strong jawline and those pretty eyes, but everything about him screams intellectual. Definitely doesn’t seem like the type to know much about the band.

“Nice to meet you, Rose.” He looks at the near-empty glass I’ve been nursing like a lifeline to keep my hands occupied. “You look like you can use a refill.” He nods over to the bar. “Shall I fetch you something?”

He’s sweet. Sweet and polite and easy enough to talk to. I have no desire to let him walk over to the bar and leave me here to continue fighting unconsciousness. “I’ll head over with you,” I tell him, and he gives me another of those shy smiles before nodding to the others and nudging me away from the group.

“Thank God,” he mutters when we’re clear of them. “I was ready to inflict a minor flesh wound on myself to get away from Giles and his constant prattle about fruit fly research.”

I bark out a laugh, surprised. “Yet you were going to leave me with them while you escaped to go to the bar?”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling with amusement. “In situations like this, it’s every man for himself.”

“I guess I can’t blame you. That was seriously painful.”

He grins down at me as we join the line. “So, are you here with a practice?”

“Um, no. I’m a doctoral student, actually.”

“Oh, wonderful. Studying psychology, I take it?”

“I am. I go to school in LA.”

He shakes his head. “Afraid I don’t know too many colleagues on the west coast. I envy your weather, though. I did my graduate years at Northwestern and stayed on to teach. The winters are brutal.”

So he’s a professor. I wonder if he’s one of those freaky child prodigy people who graduated with a master’s as a teenager—he certainly doesn’t look anywhere near as old as most of my professors.

I’m pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to talk to him. He peppers me with questions about my courses and tells me some funny stories about teaching. I startle a little when the bartender asks for my drink order—I didn’t even realize we’d gotten to the front of the line.

I’m again surprised when Kevin insists on paying for my glass of wine. “The least I can do for the woman who saved me from an evening of small-talk and drudgery.”

That makes me blush, something Kevin definitely notices. His smile grows more confident as he leads me towards an empty high-top table in the corner and he subtly moves his chair a little closer to me when we sit.

Is he hitting on me? It’s hard to tell. He’s certainly not being inappropriate in any way. He asks me questions about my preferred area of study and what my plans are for the future. He actually seems to be listening to me when I speak and his eyes haven’t drifted lower than my collarbone once. All in all, it’s pretty easy to feel relaxed with him, and by the time people start to filter to the ballroom for the keynote, my night has definitely improved. Talking to him sure beats the insomnia brigade, and when he asks if I’d like to sit together for the speech, I agree automatically.

It’s not until I look up and see Leo’s eyes on me from across the room that my good mood falters. Now that he’s focused on me, his expression couldn’t be more different from when I snuck peaks at him networking earlier. All traces of friendly smiles and charm have disappeared, leaving him looking every bit as grouchy as I’ve gotten used to. In fact, he looks downright pissed, and the heat of his gaze follows me as I make my way to the ballroom.

There’s the Leo I know,I think, stifling a sigh. So much for the conference helping us to be friends.