“Too handsome,” I say.
A strange look flits across his face, something like disappointment. He averts his gaze. “Well. That has nothing to do with me.”
“I know that,” I say. “That’s the thing. Abnormally good-looking people aren’t supposed to also be so . . .”
“So . . . ?” He arches a brow.
I wave my arms in a circle.
He cracks a smile. “Spherical?”
I latch on to the closest word I can find. “Vast.”
“Vast,” he repeats.
“Funny,” I say. “Interesting. It’s like, pick a lane, buddy.”
He laughs, tosses a pillow across the room at me. “I never would have pegged you for a snob, Harriet.”
“Huge snob. Huge.” I toss the pillow back with another circular wave of my arms. It lands about three feet shy of his bed.
“What was that?”
“The pillow you threw at me,” I say, “perhaps you remember it.”
“I know it’s a pillow,” he says. “I’m talking about the throw.”
“Now who’s a snob?” I say. “Just because I’m not an athlete—”
“It’s a pillow, Harriet,” he says, “not an Olympic throwing hammer, and we’re four feet apart.”
“We’re like ten feet apart,” I counter.
“Absolutely not.” He stands and starts across the room, counting each step. I catch myself cataloging his arms and stomach, the juts of his hip bones above his gym shorts.
“Three . . . four . . . five . . .”
“You are taking massive strides right now.” I jump up to measure the distance myself. Our elbows graze as we pass, and every fine hair down my arm rises.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.”
When I turn, he’s standing right behind me. The dark quivers between us. My nipples pinch, and I’m terrified he’ll notice, and desperate for him to notice, to feel his eyes all over me.
He clears his throat. “Tomorrow.”
My voice comes out thin. “Tomorrow what?”
“We’ll measure the distance,” he says. “Whoever’s guess is closest wins.”
“Wins what?” I ask.
His lips twitch. One of his perfectly curved shoulders lifts. “I don’t know, Harriet. What do you want?”
“You say my name a lot,” I say.
“You hardly ever say mine,” he replies. “That’s why I had to get you to say Wins what.”
I smile at the floor, which underscores how close we’re standing. “Wins what, Wyn?”
When I look up, his lips are pressed tight, his dimples out full force. “I honestly forget what we were talking about.”
Another head rush. A belly flutter. Warning bells clanging through my nervous system.
“We were talking about how badly we both need to go to sleep,” I say. He pretends to believe me. We climb back into our respective beds.
We talk through the next night too. I tell him I’m still not used to all the casual physical affection between our friends. How Cleo snuggles into my side like a cat nestling into towels fresh from the dryer, and Sabrina hugs me hello and goodbye, and Parth tousles my hair as he’s passing through a room.
“Would you rather I didn’t touch you?” Wyn asks quietly.
As quietly, I say, “You don’t ever touch me.”
“Because I haven’t known,” he says, “if you want me to.”
Everything in me twists and tightens.
He tucks a pillow under his ear and shifts onto his side, his bare chest and long, lean torso tinged with the first bit of morning, the freckles on his sculpted shoulders visible in the streaks of light.
My train of thought is disappearing around a corner, leaving me alone with a half-naked Wyn Connor, when he says, “Just to be clear, you’re always welcome to touch me.”
I become acutely aware of every place the cool silk sheets skim my legs. I shake the blankets out. “What an extremely generous offer.”
“Not generous at all,” he says. “I’m voracious for physical touch. Can’t get enough.”
“So I’ve gathered,” I say. “If I ever meet someone in need of casual physical touch, I’ll give them your business card.”
The corner of his mouth tugs downward. “Remember what you told me about Sabrina?”
“No, what?”
“That she exaggerates,” he says. “So does Parth.”
I pitch myself higher on my elbow. “So which were the exaggerations, Wyn? The hot TA who left her phone number on your last essay of the term? The flight attendant who bought all your drinks? The identical triplet Russian acrobats?”
“The triplets,” he says, “were literally just some girls I met in a bar and talked to for thirty minutes. And for the record, they were gymnasts, not acrobats, and they were very nice.”
“One can’t help but notice you didn’t protest about the TA and the flight attendant.”
He sits up against the wall. The man cannot stay in one position for longer than forty or so seconds. “How about we discuss your romantic history?”
“What about it?” I say.
“Sabrina said you were dating another American while you were in London.”
“Hudson,” I supply.
“You never bring him up,” Wyn says.
I don’t bring him up because he and I agreed our relationship was temporary, right from the start. We knew when we went home, we’d be too busy, too focused, for each other. Focus was the second biggest thing Hudson and I had in common. The first was a love of the same chip shop in London. Not the stuff of romantic legend, but it worked out okay, and no one got hurt.
“I’m an open book,” I say. “What do you want to know?”
Wyn’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip. “Is he a genius like you?”
“I’m not a genius,” I say.
“Fine,” Wyn says, “is he brilliant like you? Is he going to be a surgeon?”
Brilliant. The word fizzes through me.
“He wants to be a thoracic surgeon,” I say. “He goes to Harvard.”
Wyn scoffs.
“Tickle in your throat?” I say.
“What’s he look like?” Wyn asks. As I consider, his grin twitches. “Can’t remember?”
“Dark hair, blue eyes,” I say.
“Like you,” he says.
“Identical.” I sit up too. “Side by side, you couldn’t tell us apart.”
Wyn’s eyes slink down me, then climb back to my face. “You’re a very lucky woman.”
“The luckiest,” I say. “Once, when I was sick, he went to class as me.”
“Can I see a picture?” Wyn asks.
“Seriously?”
“I’m curious,” he says.
I lean over the bed and feel around for my phone on the ground, then carry it over to him, swiping through my camera roll.
I choose a picture of Hudson that shows off his high cheekbones, his pointed chin, his glossy dark hair. When I hold it out, Wyn grabs my wrist to steady it and squints at the screen. Then he slides my phone from my hand and brings it closer to his eyes. “Why isn’t he smiling?”