Page 73 of Wrong For Me

Leo

After the keynote speech, I accept an invitation to grab a drink with a few of the people I met earlier in the evening. One of them is leading a research team on memory loss—that just so happens to have an available paid internship this summer—and another recently published a popular self-help book for people dealing with social anxiety. They’re both a fairly big deal in our field, so I should be over the moon that I impressed them enough to snag this invite.

Instead, I can’t stop thinking about Rose. Who in the hell was that guy she was talking to earlier?

It had been almost painful to watch her at that damn reception. People’s faces lit up when she joined their group, and who could blame them? She was by far the most beautiful person in the room. The most friendly, most engaging. Unlike most of the people at that gathering, she really seemed to listen to whoever was talking to her. And from the way they all responded when she spoke, I was sure she was drawing them in her attentiveness the way she does with everyone.

There’s also the fact that she came to the mixer in another fucking sundress. Those things have been driving me crazy at school, the way the thin fabric highlights every curve, the skirt swishing around her legs when she walks. Rose in a sundress reminds me of sunshine and warmth and summer days. At school, she always wears a cardigan on top, and now that she’s abandoned them, I can see why. Her bare, golden shoulders with those skinny little straps aren’t exactly professional. More like distracting as hell.

Like every other guy at this damn conference, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

But staring at Rose Ransome from across the room isn’t why I’m here. I’m here to make contacts in the field I’ve busted my ass to succeed in and hopefully make a good enough impression on Dr. Williamson to give me an advantage in the fellowship decision.

But for the entire hour of the mixer, it felt like I was going through the motions. I didn’t want to talk to these stuffy, boring people. I wanted to go talk to the stunning blonde across the room. To push everyone else out of the way and somehow get her to bestow that breathtaking smile of hers on me—only me.

To finish what we started back in the room.

I rub a hand over my face and once again try to redirect my attention back to the self-help author, who’s prattling on about his next project. It’s no use—this girl is in my head, again, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.

It’s ridiculous. My entire life I’ve prided myself on my self-discipline. It’s how I managed to escape the poverty and instability of my childhood, to get good enough grades to do something with my life. There’s always been so much stacked against me and it was only through a sheer force of will that I was able to move beyond all the bullshit of my past.

So where in the hell is that strong will when it comes to Rose? It’s like she saps every ounce of self-discipline I’ve ever possessed. That’s the only explanation I can think of for the way I acted in our room earlier.

Jesus. It’s like the second I stepped into her orbit, all reason and control left my body. My head was screaming at me that I was standing too close, but I couldn’t seem to do anything about it. I loved the way I could make out the fine sprinkling of freckles over her nose, the way her sweet lavender scent infiltrated my senses. Loved that she was clearly affected by my presence as well. I could see it in the way her breathing quickened, the slight flush gathering on her delicate collarbones.

I almost kissed her. My body begged me to do it. I can remember so perfectly, even all these months later, the way her lips tasted. Know the exact breathy noise she would make if I pulled her into my arms. And I wanted it, damn it. Wanted it more than I could ever remember wanting anything.

But Rose, clearly, had not. She couldn’t have been more eager to get away from me. And her comment about how we should just go our separate ways at the conference hurt way more than I want to acknowledge.

Go our separate ways so she can flirt with some way-too-old-for-her asshole in a fucking sweater vest, apparently.

I linger in the bar as long as I can, hoping she’ll be asleep by the time I get to the room. The idea that she might be at one of the other resort bars with the sweater vest douche makes me feel ragey.

What I’m not expecting when I get to our door is the sound of loud, overlapping voices inside. What the hell? Did she invite a bunch of people upstairs? She’d seemed awfully reserved at the reception for someone planning to host a rager in a few hours.

But when I put my key card in and push the door open, I see only Rose. She’s sitting cross legged on her bed in a baby blue tank top and a tiny pair of cotton shorts—shorts that show off so much leg it’s a good ten or fifteen seconds before I manage to drag my eyes away and realize where the voices are coming from.

“It’s so pretty, Pres!” Rose is squealing into her computer screen.

“Don’t tell her that!” a male voice chides from the speakers. “Our little tomboy will change her mind if she thinks it’s girly.”

“Can’t really change her mind now,” a husky female voice responds. “Seeing as how she has a hole in her freaking nose.”

I let the door shut behind me and Rose jumps a little, clearly startled to see me standing there.

“What?” one of the voices from the computer asks. “What are you looking at?”

“Uh, nothing,” Rose says, expression absolutely terrified as she returns her attention to the screen. “Thought I heard something.”

“Rosie, are you lying to us?” another male voice questions. How many people is she talking to right now?

“I’m not lying,” she squeaks, but her cheeks are pink.

“You are!” one of the girls shouts. “Is there someone there with you?”

“Do you have a gentleman caller in your hotel room?” another squeals.

It’s everything I can do to keep from laughing at the mix of horror and annoyance on her face. “Why do you all have to be so nosy all the time?” she asks, scowling. “We were talking about Presley’s nose ring. What do your parents think?”