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“Good,” she said, voice a slice of sharp crystal before she strode away, jotting down something as she went.
The hush slowly dissipated as the seminar wound down. Discussions drew to a close, and murmurs flared as people hammered down the details, and one person took the minutes. I volunteered in our ill-assorted team, grateful I didn’t have to speak.
Pen scratched paper a little too hard still as I wrote down the last lines. My pulse wouldn’t stop hammering in my ears, and the white-hot ball of rage still swirled in my chest by the time I nudged the page towards them for approval, averting my gaze.
A click of her tongue announced an issue with my note-taking, then another, before she made a show of not understanding my handwriting.
Josh’s teeth ground together—or maybe they were my own. My fingers gnawed into my thighs as I fought for composure.
“I’ll take this,” Josh said, his patronising tone kindling to my rage. His lip curled for good measure and my blood did the familiar, heavy lurch that preceded the urge to chuck something at his head. “Saves us from revisions later,” he drawled, as if expecting to find many, many mistakes.
He glanced at her as the rest hung in the air, unspoken: “You can take it up with me.”
Is he doing it to poke for weak spots? Or—
She gave him a beaming, overly-sweet smile that said she wouldn’t dream of it.
The bell dismissed me, but the uncomfortable swirl in my gut lingered way past dinner.
I blamed it on the salmon.
1. Stands for “Advance Reader Copy”—a copy of a book given before publication, in exchange for an honest review.
Chapter seven
Mia
Burnt-orange patches stood out against green, the scent of freshly trimmed grass sharp in my nose as I nervously flattened my white skirt and clutched the racket a little too tight.
Glimmers of bright afternoon light flashed off sunglasses and expensive watches as the rhythmic, dull thwack of rackets hitting tennis balls greeted me, mingling with the hollow echo when a ball hit the net.
Distant laughter reached me—students lounging on benches in between matches—and my ears prickled with familiar awareness.
The wind whispered over my bare legs, making me feel almost naked. A bead of cool sweat slid down my spine as I forced my feet forward, trying to ignore the looks clinging to me and snagging on the way the tennis outfit clung to my curves.
A gut-lurching sensation kicked up bile in my throat.
I pushed it down with everything I had and shoved myself onwards, grateful for the cap both keeping the sun out of my face and hiding my eyes.
Ponytail swishing, I headed to a court as far away from everyone as physically possible, and stretched a little before I took to practicing my swings.
Manicured bushes hedged the playing area and a discreet cooler hung to the side, filled with bottled water and ice towels—a far cry from the highly fought-over court I used to frequent and the damp smell of locker rooms that were always too loud.
I snorted and rolled my eyes at it.
So unnecessary.
My thoughts whirled to a stop as a pleasant voice rang out from behind me.
“Hey. Wanna play?”
I peered over my shoulder, taking in a vaguely familiar face I couldn’t place right away: blond hair, blue eyes, a boy-next-door sort of look, smile dimpled on one side.
Relief flooded me as I nodded, my own lips tugging into a small, tentative curve.
“I’m Liam, by the way.” He strode across from me as I took my position.
“Mia. Nice to meet you,” I called out, and meant it.
