Chapter 7

Zach’s POV

The memory of that near-miss clung to me like smoke, his body heat, the way I could feel his heavy breaths falling on me without pushing him away.

I spent the night staring at the ceiling, willing the image of the almost kiss to dissolve.

It didn’t.

But by morning, I’d buried it under layers of caffeine and denial.

We had a project to finish.

That was it. No more almost-moments. No more staring at his mouth.

But damn why did his lips have to look so sexy up close?

I showed up at Ryder’s at exactly 5:02 PM, laptop bag slung over my shoulder like a shield.

He opened the door in a faded Havisham Hockey hoodie and joggers, looking annoyingly relaxed.

No signs that he was still thinking of yesterday.

If he ever was.

But that’s good, cause neither was I.

“Figured you’d bail,” he said, stepping aside.

“And let you tank my GPA? Keep dreaming.” I brushed past him, the faint scent of his soap hitting me harder than it should.

The apartment smelled like fresh coffee and takeout.

His notes were already scattered across the coffee table, messy handwriting, half-finished charts.

Typical.

We settled in without fanfare.

I took the armchair; he claimed the couch. For the first hour, it was almost civil.

We divided the market analysis sections. I dove into competitor benchmarking with clean data pulls.

Ryder, surprisingly, had pulled real industry reports from somewhere, most definitely his dad’s connections, but his approach was all gut instinct and bold projections.

“That’s not how you model risk,” I said, pointing at his spreadsheet. “You’re inflating the upside by twenty percent. Methodology matters.”

Ryder leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough that our screens nearly touched.

“And you’re playing it so safe the whole thing’s boring. Investors don’t want spreadsheets that read like a eulogy, Jameson. They want vision.”

“Vision without data is just delusion.” I highlighted his cells in aggressive red. “It’s either we fix this or we’re wasting time.”

He smirked, but there was no real heat in it yet. “Always gotta be right, huh?”

The argument went on for another twenty minutes, not intense like last night, just sharp jabs, and no raised voices.

And somehow, progress trickled in.

Our combined slides started looking decent. His strategic flair filled gaps in my analysis; my precision sharpened his ideas.

I hated admitting it, even silently but he was good at this, better than the meathead jock I’d painted him as.

The doorbell rang. Ryder glanced at his phone. “Shit. Ignore it.”

Too late.

The door opened, and Brittany sauntered in like she owned the place. Designer bag swinging, perfume cloud trailing.

She zeroed in on Ryder immediately, draping herself over the back of the couch, arms looping around his shoulders.

“Baby, I brought those protein smoothies you like.” Her eyes slid to me, a saccharine smile sharpening on her lips. “Oh. The scholarship kid is here again. Cute that you think you belong in a space like this, Zachy. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re playing pretend in Ryder’s world.”

My jaw tightened. “We’re working. Which is why I’m going to choose to ignore you.”

She laughed, high and fake, pressing closer to Ryder. “Working? Well I’ll need to make sure if that.  After those pictures… lord knows what else you’re capable of. But no matter how hard you try to ruin my man’s reputation, I’ll always be here for him.”

Ryder shrugged her off, irritation flashing across his face. “Britt, not now. We’re busy.”

"Oh, come on. I’m just looking out for you.” She trailed a nail down his arm, shooting me another venomous look.

“Some people climb the ladder however they can. I can smell the desperation of this one. You know.”

The words landed like slaps. I slammed my laptop shut. “Fuck this. I’m not sitting here while your fan club runs her mouth.”

“Zach-” Ryder started, but I was already grabbing my bag.

“Finish your half if you want. Or don’t. I’ll do it myself before I let her poison my mind about this project.” I stormed out, the door slamming behind me harder than necessary. Brittany’s laughter followed me down the hall.

Back in my dorm, I paced angrily for twenty minutes before opening my laptop again.

The shared drive showed Ryder had updated a few sections, surprisingly solid adjustments to the risk model.

My phone buzzed.

Ryder: You done throwing tantrums? Need the Q3 comps.

Zach: You done letting your lapdog humiliate me in your apartment?

Ryder: She’s not my anything. Fix your formulas and send them over. Princess.

I growled at the screen but opened the file. We texted back and forth for the next two hours, sniping constantly, but still the work got done. I have to admit, it was infuriating how well we complemented each other when we weren’t in the same room.

Ryder: Not bad for a control freak.

Zach: Not bad for a trust fund Neanderthal. We still need to align on the executive summary tomorrow.

Ryder: Yeah. Try not to storm out next time.

I tossed my phone on the bed, chest tight.

The texts replayed in my head on loop. His dry humor.

The way he’d pushed Brittany off.

The reluctant rhythm we’d found in the work.

Heat stirred low in my gut, unwanted and confusing. It was just project talk. Just survival for me. Nothing more. I couldn’t want him. Not after everything.

I killed the lights and tried to sleep. But that stupid fake kiss photo haunted the dark behind my eyelids, his hands, my surrender. I punched the pillow.

Around midnight, I got up for water. The dorm hallway was quiet, but as I glanced out the window toward the quad, something caught my eye.

A figure standing under the lamppost across from my building.

Hood up, face in shadow. Not moving. Just… watching.

Jesus…

My skin prickled as I blinked, and when I looked again, the figure was gone. Probably some idiot. Or my imagination running wild after the day’s bullshit.

Still, I double-checked my door lock before crawling back into bed, heart beating a little too fast.

This project was going to kill me. One way or another.