10 RULES OF ATTRACTION: The Secret Self-Help Guide on How to Flirt, Tease, and Totally Win Over Mr. Virgin

“I swear your closet looks like a Pinterest board had a mental breakdown,” Lana says from my doorway, holding a cereal bar she’s never going to eat. “It’s called order,” I say, brushing a lint-free blazer sleeve. “You should try it.” “You’re color-coding your socks now?” I sigh. “Color communicates nonverbally. Blue today says ‘approachable but still better than you.’” She snorts. “You’re impossible.” I don’t respond. Instead, I lean into the mirror and trace the edge of my eyeliner with surgical precision. One flick wrong and the whole day collapses. “I’ll wait in the car,” Lana mutters. “Give me four minutes,” I say. I choose Smile #2: warm but untouchable. The reliable one. As the front door shuts behind her, I glance at the planner again. Lincoln High. Day 381. Game still mine. I press a sticker next to the sentence. Gold foil. Heart-shaped. “Perfect.” “Blair, SAT meeting’s at four. Don’t be late,” her mother calls, heels clicking past without slowing down. “I won’t.” No pause. No eye contact. The hallway air still carries her perfume—floral, expensive, forgettable. Blair adjusts the strap of her bag. “You’re not going to eat?” “I have coffee.” “Of course you do.” Her mother flips through her tablet mid-stride, already half out the door. “You know Columbia won’t wait for you,” she says, smile tight. “Neither will I,” Blair says, lips stretched too smoothly. Door clicks. Silence. In the empty kitchen, the untouched toast grows cold. She checks her reflection in the fridge’s glossy surface. Perfect smile. Perfect daughter. Perfect ghost. She picks up her keys. Her fingers hesitate. Then she flicks the porch light off. One less thing glowing. Outside, the day is gold. Inside, her planner sits open, untouched. The sticker still sparkles. Alone. “Damn, Blair. You walk like you own the air.” “Funny, I thought I owned the ground,” I say, smoothing my blazer as I pass. Locker doors clatter. Sneakers squeak. Every turn of my heel draws eyes. As expected. “CEO Barbie strikes again,” Lana sing-songs, catching up beside me. “You say that like it’s a read.” “Baby, it’s a whole thesis.” I flash a smile—Smile #2, approachable but unbothered. Boys straighten their backs. Girls adjust their skirts. Someone whispers, “She looks expensive.” Another: “She always does.” “Any casualties this week?” Lana asks. “Three texts, one love letter, zero survivors.” “You’re terrifying.” “I’m efficient.” We pass the trophy case. I check my reflection. Just enough glow. “You ever get tired of winning?” Lana grins. “Only when the prize is boring.” She laughs, but I don’t. Because boredom is safer than disappointment. And being wanted is easier than being known. But I don’t say that. “Posture,” I whisper, straightening my spine as the locker creaks open. “You’re not made of glass,” Lana mutters behind me. “No, I’m made of angles,” I reply, uncapping my gloss. I check the mirror. Chin down. Eyes up. Smile soft. “Are you seriously reciting your checklist again?” “Tone modulation. Friendly, but unreachable.” Lana leans beside me, watching. “You ever not perform?” “I perform so I don’t have to explain.” She opens her mouth, closes it. “Eye contact,” I add, staring at my reflection. “Four seconds is power. Five is threat.” “Blair…” I dab gloss at the corner of my lip. “Smudged armor is still armor.” Her silence is louder than the hallway noise. I tilt my head. The smile falters. Not ruined. Just... tired. “Fix your hair,” Lana says softly. I tuck a strand behind my ear. “Fixed.” We shut the locker. But I still feel the mirror watching me walk away. “Why do you look like an Ivy League Pinterest board threw up on you?” I glance down at my blazer. “Because it did.” Lana slides into the bench across from me, iced coffee sloshing. “God, you exhaust me.” “You highlight your planner like it owes you tuition,” she says. “Harvard loves color-coding.” “You know what Harvard also loves? People with a pulse.” I raise a brow. “Are you calling me emotionally dead?” She grins. “Just… emotionally locked in an Excel sheet.” She taps her straw against the lid. “I think Marcus is cute.” I pause. “As in… Marcus, Marcus?” “I mean, he’s a disaster—but like, a tall one.” “That’s your type. Tall chaos.” She laughs—loud and careless. I watch the crinkle at the edge of her eyes. She doesn’t guard anything. Not her words. Not her heart. “Lana,” I say, too softly. “Hmm?” “Never mind.” She keeps laughing. I keep watching. “Blair Camden,” Jayden says, stepping into my path like I haven’t already planned three ways to walk around him. “You say my name like it’s a pickup line.” “Maybe it is.” “Maybe it’s expired,” I say sweetly. “C’mon,” he chuckles. “You’re always so… perfect.” I tilt my head. “Don’t confuse consistency with perfection.” “You should smile more.” “I smile exactly as much as I mean it.” He scratches the back of his neck. “We should hang out sometime.” I flip my hair, just enough to let it catch the light. “We are hanging out. Right now. Aren’t you having fun?” “I mean—yeah, but—” “Good.” I wink. “Let’s not ruin it.” As I walk away, the echo of his confused silence trails behind me. I pull out my phone. Note: Jayden M. Predictable. See Rule #3. Another name. Another formula. Another win that didn’t feel like one. “I know what you’re thinking,” I mutter, opening the leather cover. The pages flutter like they’re judging me. “Too dramatic, too rehearsed, too… Blair.” I click my pen twice. “Let’s try honesty. The curated kind,” I add quickly. I scribble fast. Rule #1: Attraction is theater. Control is the spotlight. Never get caught backstage. Then I pause. “Unless someone wants to see behind the curtain,” I whisper. No. Too soft. I draw a heart. s***h it. “Get a grip.” I cross out the whole line and write again, tighter, colder. If you lose your audience, you lose the power. Tick. Tick. The library clock taps like it’s waiting for me to flinch. I don’t. I close the journal gently. Not with reverence. With precision. “Rule #1,” I say again, softer this time. “Don’t bleed on the stage.” The ink smudges slightly under my palm. Maybe the page isn’t dry yet. “Title?” Ms. Whitmore asks, holding my paper like it’s a sheet of glass. “The Performance of Perfection,” I say, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. She raises a single brow. “Catchy,” she says. “Dramatic.” I smile. Practiced. She scans the first paragraph. “Syntax is clean. Imagery’s sharp. Your usual tricks.” “Tricks?” I echo. She looks up slowly. “You ever write something that bleeds a little?” I laugh. Too fast. “That sounds messy.” “Good writing usually is.” I grip the edge of my desk. “Blair,” she says quietly, “when are you going to stop hiding behind clever?” My throat tightens. “Who says I’m hiding?” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You just did.” The bell rings. Chairs scrape. She hands back the paper, but holds on just a second too long. “You’re more than your metaphors.” I don’t answer. I can’t. But under the desk, my knuckles don’t let go. I stop outside the study. The door’s still closed. “Mom said she’d donate the books,” I whisper. The knob hasn’t moved in months. I stare at it. “Tomorrow, maybe.” I keep walking. But I don’t walk fast. Rain taps the window like it’s trying to get in. I pull the blanket tighter. “Okay,” I mutter, cracking open the journal. “Let’s see who I’m supposed to be tonight.” The page stares back: Rule #1: Control the Game Before It Controls You I mouth the words. They don’t land. “Still true,” I say. The pen hovers. “No edits. Just proof.” I scribble in the corner. Day 381: Game still mine. The ink bleeds slightly. I close the journal. The lamp casts a soft glow across the page—like it’s trying to be kind. Outside, the rain doesn’t stop. I press the book to my chest. And finally… I blink too long. “Locker’s still perfect,” Lana says, sipping her iced mocha. “I’m still perfect,” I reply, lips glossed, steps even. Hallway. Eyes. Check. Smile #2. Check. Power restored. Then— “Please welcome our new transfer student… Eli Ross.” I keep walking. I don’t flinch. “That a new name for your list?” Lana nudges. “I don’t collect charity cases,” I say, but it comes out too fast. Library. My sanctuary. Except—he’s there. My seat. Back corner. East-facing light. His bag’s already unzipped. He’s reading. “You’re staring,” Lana whispers. “He’s in my seat.” “And?” “And I always sit there.” I take a step forward. Then stop. He looks up. One glance. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just… stillness. He doesn’t look away. I do. My fingers tighten around my book’s spine. “Come on,” Lana says softly. “I’ll sit somewhere else,” I whisper. She turns. I stay. Because for the first time—someone didn’t move. I step closer. He turns a page. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look up. Then— “You always stare at people like that?” His voice is calm. Low. I blink. “No,” I say. “Just the ones stealing my seat.” He finally looks at me. Gray eyes. No smirk. Just… seeing. “There wasn’t a name on it.” “There was a presence.” “Yours?” “Obviously.” He leans back, tilts his head slightly. “You talk like you’re famous.” I smile. “I’m local legend.” He shrugs. “I don’t read tabloids.” I cross my arms. “Most people just move.” He closes his book. “I’m not most people.” His gaze doesn’t budge. Neither does he. And for a beat—neither do I. I sit two tables over. Too far to reclaim. Too close to ignore. He doesn’t glance again. But my fingers won’t stop fidgeting with my pen. Because for the first time, I wasn’t the one who won. “You ever feel like you lost control without anyone noticing?” The question slips into the quiet. No one’s here to answer. I open the journal. Rule #1: Control the Game Before It Controls You. Still there. Still mine. Maybe. I tap the pen once. Twice. “No edits,” I whisper. “But maybe… a footnote.” I draw a question mark beside the rule. Tiny. Off to the side. Not enough to challenge it. Just enough to feel it. “You didn’t move, Eli Ross,” I murmur. “You… stayed.” The page feels too loud. I add one more line under the date: Day 382: Someone moved the spotlight. Then pause. Just long enough to feel the shift. My hand hovers. The pen doesn’t drop. Not yet. The lamp flickers softly. Outside, wind whistles against the windowpane. I don’t cry. I don’t smile. But my breath hitches. And the page… doesn’t close right away. “Heads up—mood incoming,” Lana murmurs, nudging my side. I follow her glance. Eli. Walking alone. Books tucked, sleeves rolled. Eyes down. No smile. No anything. Good. “Keep walking,” I whisper, mostly to myself. He does. Almost. He passes. Doesn’t look. I almost exhale. Then— He turns. Just once. Just enough. One look. Measured. Still. Like he’s reading me. Like he’s already finished the last page. I meet his eyes. For a second too long. Then I look away. I never look away first. “Was that… weirdly intense?” Lana asks. “No,” I say. “Just… predictable.” But my hand is already gripping the strap of my bag tighter than it should. He’s gone. But the air shifts. My chest rises—once, sharply. Silence folds around the hallway noise. The armor holds. But barely. “Control the game before it controls you…” Pause. “…unless someone rewrites the rules.”