Page 87 of Movers and Fakers

“I … don’t know.”

My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

He’s a junior in college, and the heir to a billionaire, so it seems out of the ordinary to not have a plan mapped out.

“My dad wants me to take over. He didn’t want me to go to college at all.” Hayes sets his sub down on the paper and grabs a water, taking a sip. Something about his demeanor reads as anxious to me, another shock considering he’s so rarely nervous.

“So why did you?”

If his major wasn’t computer science, I’d think he was trying to do something different from his dad, but I know his family owns a tech company.

“To put off the inevitable, I guess,” he says, staring down at the quilt.

“You went to college to keep from taking over the company?” I ask, not able to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

Most people would jump at the chance to avoid college. A fast track to wealth is a tempting path.

Hayes sighs and his shoulders slump.

“It’s stupid, but I just didn’t feel ready right out of high school for so much responsibility. There was this life full of mind games and contracts and decisions worth millions of dollars staring me in the face. I love Rosewood Tech, but I don’t know that I can run it anywhere but into the ground.”

“You’re smart, Hayes, and you’re great with people. Aside from some struggle with Digital Logic—which I doubt you’ll ever use as a CEO—you’ve sailed through classes. Why would you think that you can’t do this?”

He shakes his head.

“Could we not talk about this for now?” His eyes lift and I note the pain in them. “I just want to enjoy this time with you before we have to see my parents tonight.”

I nod, even as my stomach twists. The worry that his parents won’t like me has lingered in the back of my mind since he asked me to come, and now I’m anxious about there being something deeper I should be concerned with. Did Hayes come up with these feelings of inadequacy on his own, or were they handed down to him?

“Are you going to tell me about this surprise you’ve organized yet?” I ask him, some of my anxiety lifting when I see him smile.

“Not yet, but I’m taking you there after we eat, so you don’t have to wait much longer.”

We eat our meal, staying away from deeper topics. Hayes is good at making me forget my worries, so I find myself laughing throughout the picnic. After we finish and clean up, Hayes takes my hand in his, just as he’s done all morning. My stomach swoops, just as it’s done each time before.

I try to guess where he’s taking me as we weave through the city, but I have no idea where we are by the time he stops in front of a historic-looking brick building. It’s a beautiful piece of architecture, with huge windows reflecting light out onto the street below. Hayes leads me up the steps and inside.

As soon as we’re inside, I realize the building is a dance studio. There are portraits of dancers and teams adorning the walls, areas for stretching, and studios with tons of natural light streaming in.

“Why are we here?” I ask quietly, not wanting to disturb the dancers stretching on a mat nearby.

“Come on, we’re on the top floor,” he replies, and tugs me toward an elevator.

We ride it to the top, then step out into a massive studio with glossy wood floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a wall of mirrors on one side, but the rest overlooks the city below. No one else is up here but us, and I spot my dance bag in the corner, one that I didn’t bring with me.

“I had your friend Saylor set your bag outside of your apartment this morning before you got up,” Hayes explains. “That way you could have your clothes and shoes.”

I continue to look around the space, taking it all in. The urge to slip on my shoes and dance across the floor comes upon me strong and fast.

“I know you’ve been busy teaching and getting ready for your winter performance,” Hayes says after a moment. “So I thought there’s a chance you haven’t danced just for yourself in a while. No pressure or any eyes on you. I’m going to leave, so you don’t have to worry about me bothering you.”

My eyes sting at the thoughtful gesture.

“Hayes,” I whisper around the ball of emotion in my throat.

He smiles, and I wonder how someone so amazing and generous could think he’s lacking anything.

“Don’t even think it’s too much,” he warns in a playful tone. “I’ll be able to tell.”