Chapter 98 Chapter 97
Harper POV
I’m halfway across the quad when my phone rings.
I almost ignore it.
Almost.
But the caller ID flashes the name I already don’t want to see, and against my better judgment, I answer.
“Harper Lane,” Daniel Meyers says brightly, like we’re old friends. “Just wanted to tell you—great photos. Really great.”
I slow my steps.
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
“This,” he continues, clearly pleased with himself, “this looks like someone people want to date.”
The words hit me sideways.
I stop walking.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
He laughs lightly. “You know. Approachable. Warm. Softened the edges a bit. It works.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“I didn’t realize I had edges that needed softening,” I say.
“Oh—no, no,” he says quickly, missing the point entirely. “Not like that. Just… optics. You know how it is.”
I do.
Unfortunately.
“Anyway,” he says, already moving on, “we’ll probably run a couple of these. Maybe do a follow-up appearance if the buzz stays positive. I’ll loop Logan in.”
“Right,” I say flatly.
“Have a good class,” he adds, and then the call ends.
Just like that.
I stand there for a second, phone still pressed to my ear, the quad bustling around me like nothing just shifted.
Someone people want to date.
The phrase lodges itself in my brain and refuses to leave.
I start walking again, slower now.
Do I usually look… undateable?
The thought comes uninvited, sharp and uncomfortable.
I’ve never thought of myself that way. I’m confident. I know who I am. I don’t shrink myself for rooms or people. I don’t pretend to be less competent or less intimidating to make anyone else comfortable.
But suddenly, I’m replaying everything.
My posture.
My expressions.
The way I speak in meetings.
The way I don’t flirt unless I mean it.
Is that… off-putting?
Is that why Logan pulls away?
The thought slides in quietly, like it belongs there.
After we’ve been together. After things get real. After the heat.
Is that when he starts seeing me as something harder? Something heavier? Something that doesn’t fit neatly into the version of his life that’s already mapped out?
I shake my head as I reach the building.
Stop.
This is ridiculous.
I push open the door and take a seat near the middle of the lecture hall, setting my bag down and pulling out my notebook. The room hums with pre-class chatter, the familiar sound of chairs scraping and pages flipping.
I try to focus.
I really do.
The professor starts talking, and I write down the title of the lecture, underlining it twice like that will anchor me.
It doesn’t.
Someone people want to date.
The phrase keeps looping.
I picture Logan’s face sometimes—open, soft, unguarded—and then the way it changes. The way something shutters behind his eyes, the way he pulls back like he’s stepped too close to a fire.
Is it because I don’t feel… easy?
Because I don’t fit into the kind of life that’s clean and uncomplicated and doesn’t ask too many questions?
I write a sentence in my notes and immediately cross it out.
I don’t remember what the professor just said.
My pen keeps moving anyway, copying words without meaning, my mind too busy spiraling.
I’ve never needed to be chosen before.
I’ve always assumed that if someone wanted me, they’d want all of me—or not at all.
But what if that assumption is naïve?
What if there are versions of me that are easier to date?
Versions that don’t carry leadership like armor. Versions that don’t expect honesty. Versions that don’t see things so clearly.
Is that the version the PR guy meant?
I feel a flash of anger.
Not at Logan.
At myself.
For letting one stupid comment rattle me this much.
For letting someone whose entire job is to package people into something palatable get inside my head.
I straighten my spine in my seat.
You don’t get to tell me what’s desirable.
But the doubt is already there, thin and persistent.
The lecture drifts on.
At some point, the room grows louder.
I look up, startled, as chairs scrape back and people start standing.
For a second, I’m disoriented.
Then it hits me.
Class is over.
My stomach drops.
I look down at my notebook.
Pages filled.
Almost none of it retained.
I close it with a soft snap and sit there for a moment longer than necessary, irritation burning hot and sharp.
I’m mad at myself.
Mad that one careless line from a PR guy made me miss an entire lecture.
Mad that I let it tap into something already tender.
Mad that a small, quiet part of me wonders if Logan sees me the same way—like something impressive, but not necessarily… dateable.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and stand, letting the crowd carry me toward the exit.
I don’t look for Logan.
I don’t want to.
Right now, I don’t trust my face not to give something away.
As I step out into the hallway, the noise washing over me, I take a slow breath.
I remind myself who I am.
I remind myself that I don’t exist to be easy to want.
And still—
The thought lingers, stubborn and unwelcome.
What if I’m never the obvious choice?
The question follows me down the hall, quiet but insistent, and I hate how much it sounds like the thing I’ve been afraid to say out loud all along.