CHAPTER EIGHT: Anonymous Angel
Emily Hart hated mysteries.
Which was deeply unfortunate, because apparently, she was currently living inside one.
The morning after her surreal dinner with Ryan Blackwood, she woke up completely convinced she had imagined the entire sequence of events. The lavish penthouse suite. The rich pasta. The sudden fire alarm. The fact that an untouchable executive like Ryan Blackwood somehow preferred talking to a clumsy literature student over whatever billionaires normally did with their days.
Maybe buying small countries. She wasn't entirely sure.
Emily rolled over on her narrow dorm mattress, trying to block out the morning light, but the plastic frames of her glasses immediately stabbed her hard in the cheek.
"Ow," she muttered, rubbing her face.
Right.
