“Au contraire, I thought it was hilarious.” Jules finished the rest of her scone. “You should’ve seen Alex’s face. He was pissed.”
“How is that hilarious?” Stella snapped a photo of her latte art before joining the conversation.
She was a big fashion and lifestyle blogger with over 400,000 Instagram followers, and we were used to her capturing everything for the ‘Gram. Ironically, for someone with such a big social presence, she was the shyest in the group, but she said the “anonymity” of the Internet made it easier to be herself online.
“Did you hear me? He was pissed.” Jules placed extra emphasis on the last word like it was supposed to mean something.
Bridget, Stella, and I stared at her blankly.
She sighed, obviously exasperated by our lack of comprehension. “When was the last time any of us saw Alex Volkov pissed? Or happy? Or sad? The man doesn’t show emotion. It’s like God gave him extra helpings of gorgeousness and zero doses of human feeling.”
“I think he’s a psychopath,” Stella said. She blushed. “No normal person is that controlled all the time.”
I was still upset with Alex, but a strange part of me felt compelled to defend him. “You’ve only met him a few times. He’s not so bad when he’s not…”
“Being bad?” Bridget finished.
“All I’m saying is, he’s Josh’s best friend, and I trust my brother’s judgment.”
Jules snorted. “This the same brother who wore that hideous rat costume to last year’s Halloween party?”
I wrinkled my nose while Bridget and Stella burst into laughter. “I said judgment, not taste.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Stella tilted her head until her glossy dark curls cascaded over her shoulder. We always joked that she was the United Nations of humans because of her multicultural background—German and Japanese on her mother’s side; Black and Puerto Rican on her father’s side. The result was five foot eleven inches of leggy limbs, deep olive skin, and catlike green eyes. Supermodel material, if she had any interest in being a supermodel, which she didn’t. “It was just an observation, but you’re right. I don’t know him well enough to judge. Statement retracted.”
“I’m not upset. I’m…” I faltered. What the hell was I doing? Alex didn’t need me defending him. It wasn’t like he was here, listening to us. Even if he were, he wouldn’t care.
If there was one person in the world who didn’t give a shit what others thought of him, it was Alex Volkov.
“Guys, you’re missing the point.” Jules waved a hand in the air. “The point is, Alex did show emotion. Over Ava. We could have fun with this.”
Oh, no. Jules’s idea of “fun” usually involved a heap of trouble and a potential dose of embarrassment on my part.
“What kind of fun?” Bridget looked intrigued.
“Bridge!” I kicked her under the table. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Sorry.” The blonde made a face. “But all I have going on lately are…” She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. They weren’t, except for her bodyguard Booth, who sat at the table behind us and pretended to read the paper while actually keeping a sharp eye on the surroundings. “Diplomatic events and ceremonial duties. It’s terribly boring. Meanwhile, my grandfather’s sick, my brother’s acting weird, and I need something to take my mind off it all.”
Her grandfather and brother, AKA King Edvard and Crown Prince Nikolai of Eldorra. I had to remind myself they were human beings like everyone else, but even after years of friendship with Bridget, I wasn’t used to her speaking so casually about her family. Like they weren’t literal royalty.
“I have a theory.” Jules leaned forward, and the rest of us, even me, leaned in, eager to hear what she had to say. Call it morbid curiosity, because I was sure I wouldn’t like what was about to come out of her mouth.
I was right.
“Ava somehow gets under Alex’s skin,” Jules said. “We should see how far it goes. How much can she make him feel?”
I rolled my eyes. “All those long hours you put in at your internship must’ve scrambled your brain, because you’re not making any sense.”
She ignored me. “I call it…” Dramatic pause. “Operation Emotion.” She looked up and drew an arc with her hand like the words would magically appear in the air.
“Creative,” Stella teased.
“Hear me out. We all think Alex is a robot, right? Well, what if she …” Jules pointed at me. “…can prove he isn’t? Don’t tell me you guys don’t want to see him act like an actual human being for once.”
“No.” I tossed my empty coffee cup into the nearest trash can and almost beaned a passing student in a Thayer sweatshirt. I winced and mouthed “sorry” before returning to the ridiculous proposition at hand. “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” my so-called best friend sang.
“What would be the point?” I threw my hands in the air. “How would it even work?”
“Simple.” Jules pulled a pen and notepad out of her bag and started scribbling. “We come up with a list of emotions, and you try to make him feel each one. It’ll be a test of sorts. Like giving him an annual physical to make sure he’s functioning properly.”
“Sometimes,” Bridget said. “The way your mind works scares me.”
“No,” I repeated. “Not happening.”
“It does seem kind of…mean.” Stella tapped her gold-polished nails on the table. “What emotions did you have in mind?”
“Stel!”
“What?” She cast a guilty look in my direction. “I’m curious.”
“Off the top of my head? We’ve already seen him angry, so happiness, sadness, fear, disgust…” A wicked smile slashed across Jules’s face. “Jealousy.”
I snorted. “Please. He’d never be jealous of me.”
He was a multimillionaire executive with a genius-level IQ; I was a college student who worked two jobs and ate cereal for dinner.
No contest.
“Not jealous of you. Jealous over you.”
Bridget perked up. “You think he likes Ava?”
“No.” I was tired of saying that word. “He’s my brother’s best friend, and I’m not his type. He told me so.”
“Psshh.” Jules waved away my protest like she would a mosquito. “Men don’t know what they want. Besides, don’t you want to get back at him for what he did to Owen?”
“I don’t,” I said firmly. “And I’m not going along with this crazy idea.”
Forty-five minutes later, we decided Phase One of Operation Emotion would commence in three days.
I hated myself for caving.
Somehow, Jules always convinced me to do things against my better instincts, like that time we drove four hours to Brooklyn to watch some band perform because she thought the lead singer was hot, and we ended up stranded in the middle of the highway when our rental car broke down. Or that time she convinced me to write a love poem to the cute guy in my English lit class, only for his girlfriend—who I hadn’t known existed—to find it and hunt me down in my dorm.