I don’t experience the slightest twinge of attraction in response to the pretty smile she flashes me following the flattery. Instead, I hear You get sick of people telling you what an amazing football player you are? I’m shocked.

My memory captures her saucy voice perfectly.

I down the glass of bourbon in one gulp, barely feeling the burn of the expensive liquor as it traverses down my esophagus.

“Thanks,” I tell the blonde, then brush past her without another word.

Cooley catches my eye as I walk toward the exit. He abandons the three women he’s chatting up to come over to me. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah, I’m not feeling too great,” I reply. It’s true, at least.

“Sure you don’t want a ‘nurse’ for the night?” Cooley suggests, nodding to the eager groups of women eyeing us.

“I’m not in the mood tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I clap him on the shoulder, and head for the back exit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

VIVIENNE

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve re-read the same sentence. The persistent clicking makes it impossible for me to focus. I set the heavy textbook down on the steel patio table and reach for the sweating glass of iced coffee sitting in front of me.

Charles looks up from his own work and gives me a sweet smile. The tempo of the clicking quickens as the cameras pointed at us rush to capture the moment. It will undoubtedly be splashed across every paper in Marcedenia by the morning.

The Royal Press Office will be thrilled. The more articles featuring Charles and me, the fewer mentioning the fact I snubbed Marcedenia’s most elite academic institution to pretend I was an American for four months.

I give Charles a quick smile in return, and he goes back to typing the assignment he’s working on, allowing me a chance to study him from behind the shield of my sunglasses.

His short blond hair is neatly combed, and his handsome, angular face is clean shaven. He flips a page in the book he’s looking through, and the lean muscles in his exposed forearm shift below the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down shirt, emphasizing the definition from his time spent playing for Edgewood’s polo and crew teams.

I drop my gaze back down to my textbook, wishing I had insisted we work in the library instead. While I’ve readjusted to the relentless scrutiny in public, the attention feels particularly oppressive when I’m with Charles. I don’t let myself linger on why.

A half hour later, I down the final remnants of my watered-down coffee.

“I’m ready to go,” I tell Charles. “I can’t focus out here.” I gesture around the stone patio we’re sitting on that’s bathed in warm sunlight, pretending it’s the pleasant weather distracting me, rather than the horde of cameras.

Charles nods in understanding and begins packing up his work. I slide my textbook into my leather bag and stand, prompting the four agents seated at the table next to us to rise as well. Two more hover along the periphery of the patio.