Chapter Eighteen
1888 Words
Riley’s POV
Sometimes I wonder if my mind plays tricks on me, because Noah definitely looked disappointed that I left. But that wasn’t even my biggest issue right now. Cold genius said there was an emergency and I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it was.
He sounded urgent and serious. Then again, when was Cole Donovan ever not serious? He wore that poker face like he’d been born with it.
By the time I reached the front of the library, I realized I had absolutely no idea where we were supposed to meet. Great. I had been in such a hurry to escape Noah and his friend that I didn’t even think to ask for details. The moment Cole ended the call, he sent a text.
Where are you?
I told him I was at the library, so why didn’t he specify where to meet? And why did he always speak like every extra word physically pained him? I was just pulling out my phone to call him when a car honked loudly in front of me. I looked up immediately.
A sleek black Audi RS7 rolled to a stop right in front of the library steps, the glossy surface reflecting the afternoon sun. The windows were tinted dark enough to look almost intimidating, and somehow the car fit Cole perfectly. Expensive. The kind of thing that turned heads without trying to.
Cole sat behind the wheel, one hand resting lazily against it while the other tapped impatiently beside him. An involuntary smile crept onto my lips before I could stop it.
“Look who it is,” I said playfully as I approached the car.
“Get in and we’ll talk,” he grumbled.
I rolled my eyes before slipping into the passenger seat. The door shut with a soft click, immediately surrounding me with cool air carrying a faint musky scent mixed with coffee and something woodsy. The seats were smooth black leather, ridiculously comfortable, and the dashboard glowed with soft blue lighting that made the entire car feel sleek and futuristic.
Everything about it screamed Cole Donovan.
“What sort of emergency gets Cole Donovan personally picking me up from the library?” I asked lightly, trying to ease the awkward silence already filling the car.
“My mom kind,” he answered flatly.
“Uhhh?”
He kept his attention on the road, jaw slightly tense. Seriously?
“And you’re just going to leave it there?” I asked, turning toward him. “Care to explain where exactly you’re taking me first?”
“Home.”
I blinked.
“Uh… what exactly do you mean by home? Because if you’re planning to kidnap me, I’d like to officially object.”
“You wish,” he scoffed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
My pulse stumbled for half a second. The rest of the drive fell quiet again.
Outside the windows, campus buildings slowly disappeared behind us while the city stretched ahead in flashes of busy roads, cafés, pedestrians, and towering apartment complexes. Cole drove with complete focus, one hand on the wheel while low instrumental music hummed softly through the speakers.
Almost fifteen minutes later, I discovered that by “home,” Cole literally meant his house. Well, apartment.
“Why are we here?” I asked, stopping near the entrance.
Cole looked at me like he’d rather be doing absolutely anything else right now than explaining himself.
“Would you walk in yourself,” he asked calmly, “or would you rather I pull you inside myself?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Is that your attempt at a joke?”
“I don’t tell jokes.”
He said it so seriously that I almost laughed. Then he started walking toward me. I immediately raised both hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay. I’m going.”
The apartment wasn’t extravagant in the dramatic way. It was modern and comfortable, spacious enough for two people who clearly valued their personal space, but still warm enough to feel lived in.
And the moment I stepped inside, I could immediately tell two very different personalities existed there. The first thing I noticed was structure. Everything had a place.
The bookshelves were arranged neatly, the gaming setup organized with almost surgical precision, and even the dining table looked intentionally kept. Nothing felt excessive, but everything looked maintained. Like someone in the apartment genuinely functioned better when things stayed in order.
My guess is, Cole.
But the place didn’t feel cold either. There were quieter touches scattered around the apartment that softened the sharpness of it all. A football sat tucked beside the couch instead of stored away properly. A dark varsity jacket hung over one of the dining chairs. There were framed pictures on one side of the shelf, most of them of Tyler with friends, and what looked like family trips.
Even the couch itself gave them away.
One side had neatly arranged cushions while the other looked more naturally used, like someone actually lounged there often while watching movies or gaming for hours.
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee, fresh laundry, and something warm cooking earlier in the day. It felt balanced in a strange way, like the space itself had adjusted to accommodate two completely opposite people.
Then my eyes landed on the fridge. Several sticky notes were lined neatly across the surface. One read:
“Game night Friday. Don’t disappear into your cave.”
— Tyler
Another beneath it replied:
“Don’t invite twenty people this time.”
— Cole
A small smile pulled at my lips before I could stop it. My eyes wandered around curiously. Cole noticed immediately.
“Tyler isn’t home.”
I nodded slowly, though a knot still formed in my stomach anyway. Was that supposed to make me feel better?
“Don’t start thinking weird things,” he muttered, tossing his keys onto the counter. “I just don’t need anyone listening in, and this was the best option.”
“Comforting.”
“Also,” he added, glancing at me briefly, “my mom would find it suspicious if my girlfriend had never been here before.”
Right, girlfriend.
“Your mom?” I repeated.
He nodded before walking toward the dining area where several neatly stacked sheets of paper sat arranged at one end of the table. Of course there were papers involved. This was Cole Donovan.
He pulled out a chair beside him for me before taking his own seat.
I sat cautiously.
“Okay,” I started slowly. “You said this emergency had something to do with your mom. What exactly is going on?”
For the first time since picking me up, he actually looked slightly stressed. Subtle. But there. He rubbed lightly at his temple before answering.
“Technically, it’s not just my mom.”
I waited.
“My parents are coming to campus.”
I blinked. “…Okay?”
“And they want to meet you.”
Silence, then sudden déjà vu crashed into me. To think this entire fake dating disaster started because my mother wanted to meet him. I stared at him for a second before laughing lightly.
“This,” I pointed at him, “is what has your knickers in a knot?”
His frown deepened instantly. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Oh please,” I scoffed. “We literally survived lunch with my mother. Your parents can’t be that bad.”
“They’re observant.”
“So is my mom.”
“My mother notices behavioral inconsistencies.”
I stared blankly.
“That sounds terrifying.” I teased.
“It is.”
I tried not to laugh.
“You don’t understand.”
“Well clearly, because you dragged me out of the library like someone died.”
His jaw ticked faintly before he leaned back in his chair. “My mother notices everything. Small reactions, inconsistencies, behavioral shifts. And my parents know me well enough to tell when something is off.”
I frowned slightly at that.
“They’re going to study me?” I asked.
“No,” he answered quietly, his eyes briefly meeting mine. “They’re going to study us.”
Something about the way he said it made the teasing response die in my throat.
“My mother especially…” he continued, rubbing lightly at his temple, “She pays particular attention to these things after the last time.”
What happened the last time? I wanted to ask but I was so sure I wouldn’t get an answer, so I didn’t press it. He sighed quietly before pulling the stack of papers toward himself and handing part of it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked suspiciously.
“You’re going to need to know me better if this is going to work,” he said matter-of-factly. “And so will I.”
I looked down at the papers, then back at him, then back at the papers again.
“You cannot be serious.”
His expression didn’t change. Right, he didn’t do jokes. I looked through the pages slowly, disbelief growing with every line.
‘Full Name.’
‘Age.’ ‘Favorite Color.’ ‘Favorite Food.’ ‘Preferred Sleeping Temperature.’ ‘Most Productive Hour Of The Day.’ ‘Average Required Sleep Duration.’ ‘Conflict Response Pattern.’ ‘Likelihood Of Crying During Films.’ ‘Favorite Social Interaction Duration.’ ‘Preferred Coffee Order.’
I stared at the papers in horror.
“This feels less like getting to know each other and more like I’m applying for citizenship somewhere.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s psychotic.” I deadpan pushing the stack of paper away from me. He gave me a cold look and I shrugged. “If we’re doing this,” I said firmly, “we’re doing it like normal human beings.”
“And how exactly do normal human beings do this?”
“We ask each other questions naturally. We spend time together intentionally. We learn things because we want to, not because we’re filling out a survey designed by a serial killer.”
One corner of his lips twitched upward slightly. Barely there, but I caught it. He leaned back slightly in his chair, studying me for a moment before finally dropping his pen onto the table.
“Fine.”
Victory.
“Let’s start here then,” he said calmly.
“Start where?”
“Red.”
I frowned.
“Red? What’s that supposed to mean? Your favorite color?”
His grey eyes stayed on mine quietly.
“Your name.”
“My name is Riley.” He kept staring. Then realization hit me. “Oh my gosh. Are you doing this because I made you answer Mason in front of my mom?”
A quiet chuckle left him unexpectedly. The sound was low and smooth, a strange warmth settled low in my chest.
“No,” he said softly. “That’s different.”
“Then what is it?”
He rested one arm lazily against the chair, looking strangely relaxed for once.
“Cole Donovan doesn’t do actual names,” he said calmly. “Not with people he cares about.”
Something shifted uncomfortably inside me. Because for someone who claimed everything between us was fake… He was starting to sound terrifyingly real.
- Writer
