Chapter 2

Harper POV

The night hums behind me as I walk down the path—bass thudding through the ground, laughter rippling across the lawn. The air smells like beer and barbecue smoke, the perfume of every Hartwell party.

I should feel accomplished. Another house visit checked off, another social box ticked before classes even start. But instead my pulse still hasn’t settled since I saw him.

Logan Shaw.

Four years of avoiding, and he’s somehow more magnetic than memory ever allowed. Taller maybe. Sharper around the edges. Still that same lazy grin that says rules don’t apply to him.

“Harper, you coming?” one of the girls calls.

“Yeah,” I answer, forcing a smile. “Right behind you.”

They chatter ahead, shoes clicking unevenly on the sidewalk, already gossiping about which hockey player had the best smile. I trail a few steps behind, grateful for the noise—it gives me cover while my thoughts keep circling the same place.

He remembered me. Of course he did. But he looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t have time to solve.

That’s fine. I’ve had years to learn that Logan Shaw doesn’t solve puzzles—he collects trophies.

⸻

Back at the Alpha Chi house, everything smells faintly of lemon cleaner and ambition. Our move-in banners still hang crooked from the staircase, and the living room is stacked with boxes labeled Philanthropy, Recruitment décor, Emergency glitter.

The other officers collapse onto the couch, shoes tossed aside, giggling over selfies from the Ice House party. I drop my bag by the door and take the armchair nearest the window, pretending to check emails.

“Harper, that hockey guy was totally into you,” Becca says. “The tall one. Dirty-blond hair, jawline for days.”

“Cole Matthews,” another corrects. “He’s the captain.”

Becca shakes her head. “No, not him—the other one. Shaw, right? Logan Shaw?”

My fingers still over my phone.

“He’s cute,” Becca continues. “A little cocky, but in a hot way.”

“He’s… fine,” I say, too quickly. “Anyway, we’re supposed to be focusing on recruitment week, not hockey players.”

They exchange looks—the kind that say our president is pretending again—but let it drop. I’m grateful. I already spend enough energy pretending around campus; I don’t need to do it here too.

⸻

Once everyone drifts off to their rooms, I stay downstairs. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint music still drifting from across the quad. I open my laptop to review schedules but the words blur. My brain keeps replaying the porch conversation like a highlight reel.

Still charming.

Still pretending you don’t like it.

He hasn’t changed—just refined the act. And I hate that some part of me still notices.

I remember freshman year, before the world decided who we were going to be. He’d been the new hockey prodigy, already gathering followers. I was the scholarship kid from Maryland, trying to blend in. We’d talked twice—once in the dining hall line, once at a study session. Both times, he’d been effortlessly kind and infuriatingly confident.

Then I’d watched him walk across campus with a different girl every week. Always the same type—bronzed skin, dark hair, soft accent.

Hispanic girls.

Everyone noticed. It became a running joke: Shaw’s Rule of Three—three goals a game, three girls on rotation, all with the same look. It wasn’t cruel, just… fact.

And I didn’t fit that pattern. Pale, freckled, Irish on every branch of the family tree. A reminder that whatever small spark I’d once imagined between us had been only mine.

Even now, years later, the memory still lands like a small bruise I pretend not to feel.

⸻

I close the laptop and wander into the kitchen. Someone left cupcakes from the welcome event on the counter, half-eaten and already going stale. I pick at one just to have something to do with my hands.

Outside, headlights sweep across the window—cars still pulling up to the Ice House. I can hear shouting, laughter, someone daring someone else to shotgun a beer. Typical.

I tell myself I’m over it. Over him.

But curiosity’s a quiet disease.

I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching the lights flicker across the lawn like ghosts of every bad decision I’ve never made.

That’s the difference between me and Logan. He leaps; I calculate. He breaks; I build. It’s why I’m President now. Why Alpha Chi runs smoother than any other house on Greek Row.

And why I’ll never be a story in Logan Shaw’s highlight reel.

⸻

The next morning the house wakes early—coffee brewing, hair dryers screaming, clipboards everywhere. Recruitment season is a machine, and I’m the engine.

Becca bursts into the kitchen, phone in hand. “Did you see? The hockey team’s opening party is officially the ‘Welcome Week Mixer.’ Admin even posted it on the events page. We’re technically collaborating.”

Of course we are. Cole Matthews and I coordinated it months ago—a charity tie-in, a little PR polish for both sides. I just didn’t expect him to still feel like a variable I can’t control.

I sip my coffee. “Good. The more visibility, the better for our fundraiser.”

Becca smirks. “Visibility, huh? That what we’re calling it now?”

I arch a brow. “That’s what the university calls it.”

She laughs and heads out.

I stare into the dark swirl of my coffee until it stops moving.

⸻

By afternoon, I’m sitting on the library steps waiting for a meeting, laptop balanced on my knees. Students rush past with maps and iced lattes. It’s hot for September, sunlight bouncing off the stone walls.

And then I hear his voice.

“Still running the world, I see.”

I look up. Logan stands at the bottom of the steps, sunglasses hooked in his shirt collar, hair damp like he’s just come from the rink. He smiles the way people do when they’re testing boundaries.

“Somebody has to,” I say.

He climbs two steps, stopping just close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap and sweat. “You always did like being in charge.”

“And you always did like pretending you didn’t care.”

His grin widens. “Maybe I still don’t.”

“Good,” I say, closing my laptop. “Then this conversation’s over.”

He laughs under his breath. “Still sharp.”

I slide the computer into my bag and stand. The sun hits me full in the face; I squint but don’t look away. “Whatever you’re looking for, Shaw, it’s not here.”

“Who says I’m looking?”

“You always are.”

For a moment neither of us moves. Then he tips an invisible hat and backs away, leaving the scent of ice and arrogance in his wake.

⸻

As I watch him go, a thought I don’t want surfaces—quiet, traitorous.

What if people can change?

I shake it off, tighten my grip on the bag strap, and head inside the library. I have a meeting to run, a chapter to manage, a life that doesn’t orbit around anyone. Least of all him.

But as the doors swing shut behind me, the echo of his laugh lingers longer than it should.