Chapter 3
Stella:
I kept my eyes locked on my laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard like I was in the middle of something critically important. Which I absolutely was not. I was staring at a blank email draft, the cursor blinking mockingly at me.
"I was wondering if I could get your contact information." His voice carried that same easy confidence from earlier, like he hadn't just publicly dissected our hotel encounter in front of forty witnesses. "For office hours. Academic questions."
My hands stilled. Academic questions. Right.
I glanced up briefly. He stood a few feet away, one hand shoved in his hoodie pocket, the other gripping his backpack strap. Casual. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world.
"The university website has my email address," I said, my voice crisp and professional. "You can find my office hours posted there as well. They're Tuesdays and Thursdays, two to four PM. You're welcome to stop by anytime during those hours."
He shifted his weight. "What about your cell? In case I have questions outside office hours?"
The audacity.
"The university directory provides all the contact information students need, Mr. Carter." I turned back to my laptop, making it clear the conversation was over. "If you have urgent academic questions, email is perfectly sufficient."
"Got it." A pause. "See you in class, Professor."
His footsteps echoed across the empty lecture hall, and I didn't let myself watch him leave. I waited until I heard the door click shut before I let out the breath I'd been holding.
---
My phone buzzed against the desk twenty minutes later.
Zoe: SOS. Need you at the venue ASAP. Florist is threatening to walk and I'm about to commit murder.
I typed back quickly: On my way. Give me twenty minutes.
I shoved my laptop into my bag and was halfway to the door when my work email pinged. I almost ignored it, but something made me glance at the preview.
From: [email protected]
Subject: PSY 101 - Office Hours Question
My finger hovered over the notification. I shouldn't open it. I should delete it and pretend I never saw it.
I opened it.
Professor Morrison,
I'm a freshman in your 8 AM PSY 101 section. I had some questions about the attachment theory material we covered today, particularly the discussion about avoidant patterns and defense mechanisms. Would it be possible to meet during your office hours this week to discuss?
Thank you,
Noah Carter
I stared at the name. Carter.
Carter.
My brain stuttered to a halt.
Zoe's last name was Carter. But that was—no. That was ridiculous. There were probably hundreds of Carters in California. It was a common name. Just a coincidence.
Except.
Except Zoe had mentioned her brother was starting college this semester. And she'd been weirdly cagey about which school, brushing it off whenever I asked with some comment about "he's figuring it out" or "we'll see where he ends up."
My hands started to shake.
No. No, no, no.
It couldn't be. The universe wasn't that cruel.
I pulled up my phone and started typing a message to Zoe.
Hey, random question—what school did your brother end up choosing?
I deleted it immediately. Too obvious. Too suspicious.
My email pinged again. Another message from [email protected].
Subject: P.S.
Just wanted to clarify—when you mentioned social exchange theory in class today, you said people try to convert emotional interactions into "quantifiable transactions." Does that mean you think putting a price on human connection actually works? Or were you suggesting it's just a failed defense mechanism?
Asking for a friend.
My vision tunneled.
The hotel. The money.
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
But Carter was a common name. This was just paranoia. Stress. First week back jitters making me see connections that weren't there.
I grabbed my bag and practically ran out of the office.
---
The Rosewood Hotel's event space was pure chaos when I arrived. White tablecloths draped over dozens of round tables, half-assembled floral centerpieces scattered across surfaces, and Zoe standing in the middle of it all like a general commanding troops.
"Stella, thank God." She rushed over, her phone pressed to her ear. "The florist is insisting peonies are out of season and wants to substitute with—hold on." She turned back to her phone. "No, I don't care if they're 'practically identical,' roses are not peonies. Find me peonies or find me a new florist."
She hung up and pressed her palms against her temples. "I'm going to have a breakdown. A full, public, viral breakdown."
"Deep breath," I said, squeezing her shoulder. "We'll figure it out. What do you need me to do?"
"Can you check on the—"
"Zoe!"
A male voice called from across the room, and I turned automatically toward the sound.
My heart stopped.
Noah Carter walked through the doorway, carrying two large boxes stacked in his arms. He wore the same hoodie from class, his hair slightly mussed like he'd been running his hands through it, and when he spotted his sister, his face broke into an easy grin.
"Where do you want these?"
The boxes. The smile. The way Zoe's entire expression softened when she saw him.
"Noah! You're early. Just set them by the—" She paused, following my frozen stare. "Oh! Stella, you haven't officially met my baby brother yet, have you?"
Noah's eyes found mine across the room.
The grin didn't falter. If anything, it widened.
"Actually," he said, setting the boxes down and walking toward us with that same infuriating confidence, "Professor Morrison and I have already met."
The floor tilted beneath my feet.
"You have?" Zoe looked between us, delighted. "That's perfect! Noah's taking psychology this semester. I told him he should stop by your office hours if he needs help."
"We're in the same class," Noah said, stopping a few feet away. Close enough that I could smell that clean soap scent. Close enough to see the challenge in his eyes. "Eight AM section. She's a great lecturer."
My throat had gone completely dry.
"Small world," I managed.
"Isn't it?" His smile was all teeth.
Zoe clapped her hands together. "This is amazing! Stella, you can keep an eye on him for me. Make sure he's actually going to class and doing his work." She turned to Noah. "And you—be nice to her. Stella's doing me a huge favor by helping with all this wedding chaos."
"I'm always nice," Noah said, his eyes never leaving mine.
Liar, I thought.
"Well, good." Zoe's phone rang again and she groaned. "I have to take this. Stella, can you show Noah where to set up the chairs? They're in the storage room down the hall. Noah, do whatever she says. I mean it."
She disappeared toward the lobby, already arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line.
Leaving me alone with Noah Carter.