I nod. Honestly, it’s not the worst idea.

“Why did you move to Scotland for college, anyway?” he asks, studying the Texas Longhorns postcard on my wall. He seems more interested in looking at the room decor than at me.

“Same reason you moved to the US, probably.”

“You were a rower and got recruited by an Ivy?”

I laugh. I didn’t know that about him, but…I can see it. I totally can. Wide back. Defined arms. Strong legs. “No. To escape my annoying family.”

“Ah.” He nods, then stares at my bed for a suspicious length of time. So long, I tense. Maybe I shouldn’t have shown a virtual stranger my sex toys.

“Fair warning,” I say coldly, “I never put out the first time someone flies in from another country to save me from my terrible life choices.”

He blinks, confused.

“The way you were ogling my bed, I figured that maybe you were…wondering.”

He scoffs. “I was wondering. But only whether the second part of your bed pulls out.”

“The what?”

“You really sleep there? Every night?”

“Yeah.” I frown. “Why are you looking at it like that?”

“Just admiring its unique…narrowness.” He glances up. “One would figure that not having a headboard would buy you some room, and yet.”

“Now listen, Mr. Billionaire.”

“Not a billionaire. Not even on the best trading day. Not even close.”

“Aww. I like that.”

“That I have less money than you think?”

“No, that you took the word billionaire as the insult it was meant to be.”

He sighs, failing to conceal a smile. Points at a section on the wall that’s free of furniture, a couple of feet from my bed. “Okay if I take that spot?”

“For what?”

“To spend the night.” He must interpret my befuddlement as a yes, because he drops to the floor and sits against the wall. His long, muscular legs stretch in front of him, crossed at the ankle. “I’ll stay a couple of hours. Then noisily sneak out. You have a Ring camera, right?”

“Yeah?”

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, as if preparing to sleep. It’s hard to look away from him. There is something about the prominence and position of his cheekbones, the sculpted line of his neck, the way it curves into broad shoulders, that makes me want to measure. Analyze. Understand. “I’ll make sure to look disheveled, then.”

An incredulous sound bubbles out of me. I take a seat on the edge of my mattress, burying my fingers in the coverlets. “You couldn’t be bothered to come to my high school graduation, and now you’re here.”

He opens one eye. “You didn’t need me at your graduation.”

“That’s not what I meant, I…Why did you come, Conor?”

The second eye opens, too. After a too-long pause, he says, “Because I’ve been there.”

I frown. “Where?”

“Staying friends with an ex. Watching them move on too quickly. My ex was classy about it, the transition was smooth, but it still sucked. Yours isn’t bothering with any of that, so I figured you might want external support.”