Page 7 of Safe Place

I exhale through my nose. I liked fooling around with her because it was easy. No pressure. No expectations. But lately, her messages are getting clingier. More invested. I lock my phone without replying. I’ll call her later. Maybe. We really need to have the talk I’ve been putting off.

I pull up my calendar. Somehow there’s a whole new pile of events that weren’t there this morning—each one more irritating than the last. Networking golf with board members, the annual Evergreen Gala, department check-ins, shadowing client meetings like some corporate heir apprentice. It’s like he’s setting up the first act of my takeover already. I rake a hand through my hair, leaning back against the seat. Fuck.

A soft knock breaks my spiral. I glance over—and there she is. Sophie stands outside the passenger window, flushed from the heat, but she’s sporting a big smile. For a second, I don’t move. So far today, I’ve seen her tired, guarded, practically unreadable. But this is new. And the fact that she’s looking at me with that smile? Yeah, it hits me. I feel like I did something meaningful for once.

I gesture for her to hop in. She opens the door, still smiling. “What are you still doing here?”

I dodge the question and smirk. “Look who’s all giddy. I’m guessing the interview went well?”

She slips into the seat. “Uh, yes and no. I got the job, but the coordinator said most students prefer juniors or seniors as tutors, so I might not get picked as much.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I can tell it stings a little.

“I’m in the system now, though,” she adds. “So I’ll get a notification if anyone requests me.”

“What subject?”

“Writing and reading comprehension. Mostly essay stuff.”

“Can anyone request a tutor?” I ask.

She laughs softly. “Kind of. But they check your transcript first. You have to be struggling academically.”

I nod, leaning back. Right. I’ve been sitting at a 4.0 grade point average, so I guess helping her that way is off the table.

I drop Sophie off in front of an old apartment building. She doesn't live near campus or the cafe. This part of town is completely unfamiliar to me. It has to be at least a forty minute walk to her shift. I find myself wondering how often she makes that trip.

She thanks me again, clutching her bag with both hands. Then she’s gone—walking off in that oversized sweatshirt under the evening sun.

And finally, I head home.

The drive back is quiet, but my head’s anything but. What the hell even happened today? I was supposed to go over that expansion proposal for my dad. Maybe hit the golf course with the guys. I had one class this morning. That was it.

Instead, I ended up driving around a girl I barely know, waiting outside her interview like some kind of chauffeur. For someone I just met. Someone who’s technically still a stranger.

My elevator hums as it takes me up to the penthouse at The Haven. I lean against the mirrored wall, tug a hand through my hair, and glance at the time—six thirty eight. I blink. How the hell is it already that late?

The doors slide open, and I step into the apartment.

The smell of pizza hits me as soon as I walk in. I just now realize—I haven’t eaten all day. Probably neither has Sophie, unless she managed breakfast before class, which I doubt. Shit. Should I have offered to grab her something after the interview?

Before I can spiral, the sound from the television blasts from the living room.

Grant’s sprawled on the couch, controller in one hand, a half-eaten slice in the other, completely in his element.

At the kitchen island is Wyatt—our third. Tall, composed, and already halfway through what looks like an LSAT study book. He’s the kind of guy who makes elite look effortless. Dual major in criminal justice and philosophy. Smart as hell, in that unnervingly sharp, always-ten-steps-ahead way. His dad’s a former U.S. District Judge who was recently elevated to the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court, and you can tell—legacy is in his blood. Still, for all the pressure that comes with that name, Wyatt Wynn always makes time for the boys.

I gave them both a key card to the penthouse, which means they show up whenever they feel like it. I probably should have thought that through. But when my whole life runs on a schedule, having people around who couldn't care less about one is something I appreciate.

“Took you long enough,” Grant says without looking up. “We thought you got abducted.”

“Or decided to ghost us mid-day,” Wyatt adds, flipping a page.

“Lost track of time.” Not a complete lie.

“Bullshit,” Grant mutters. “You don’t lose track of time. You run on a schedule tighter than my ass, which we all know is very tight.”

I ignore him and grab a water bottle from the fridge.

“Hey,” I say, glancing at Wyatt, “Do you know a Sophie Lennox? She’s a sophomore, but I think she’s on the law school track.”