Lucius stares at me with an expression that’s hard to puzzle out.
Is he regretting the nice gesture already? Or his earlier compliments? Or is that his constipated face?
“I need to check some work emails,” he says, his tone gruff.
“Sure.” Have I done something to offend him, or is he simply being his regular asshole self?
He pulls out his phone, so I take out my CD player and start my audiobook. At some point, I catch him looking at my device with derision.
Ah, that’s right. Slightly dated technology annoys him.
I should’ve brought a steam engine.
“This is wonderful,” I say as we enter the lush Butterfly Rainforest exhibit.
The brochure promised a thousand butterflies and moths of over fifty species, and the flying insects do not disappoint.
I’ve even forgotten that I’m slightly mad at Lucius for his abrupt one-eighty in the car.
“Yeah.” He examines our colorful, serene surroundings. “This alone makes the trip to Gainesville worth it.”
I reach out to touch his shoulder, then realize we’re not in the kind of relationship that would make such a familiar gesture appropriate. “I’m sorry they don’t have any stuff related to ancient Rome.”
“I knew they wouldn’t.” He turns to me, eyes glinting devilishly. “No place is perfect.”
His gaze captures me. I swallow thickly and take a step back before I do something crazy, like throw my lips at his. Even so, my voice is a bit husky as I say, “If I get accepted, I think I’ll come here all the time.”
“When,” he says, turning to check out a particularly spectacular orchid. “Not if.”
There are more butterflies in my belly than in this garden. He’s doing that one-eighty again, only in the opposite direction—and I can’t help lapping it up. First, he called me “determined and clever,” and now he’s certain I’ll be accepted. Does he mean it? Then again, would he say it if he didn’t? He’s certainly not the type to lie in order to seem nice.
He glances at me in that moment, and our eyes catch again. My pulse picks up, the rhythm suddenly unsteady. I can see subtle flecks of blue in his steel-gray eyes, and my breath shallows out as unsettling warmth spreads through my body. I swallow hard as my gaze drops to his lips, the stern curve of which seems softer now that they’re slightly parted.
Is he going to kiss me again? Am I going to let him?
I swallow again and sway toward him—only to jump as loud voices suddenly burst into my hearing range. Startled, I turn and see that a rambunctious group of young males has entered the exhibit.
Ugh. Not only have they interrupted what may have been another kiss, but they smell like a brewery and are wearing T-shirts with what seem to be the Greek letters Alpha, Pi, and Epsilon—next to a picture of an ape.
Speaking of apes, that’s what they sound like—specifically, chimpanzees about to throw feces.
“Pledges,” Lucius says, making it sound like a dirty word.
As if to confirm, one of them yells, “This is the Caterpillar Pledge!”
Yep. They’re all holding handfuls of bugs, enough to make two more exhibits worth of moths and butterflies.
I stare in horror as the newcomers stuff their mouths with said caterpillars, like starved cuckoos. “Are they—”
I don’t bother asking the rest of my question because as one, the dudes begin masticating.
Lucius grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here before the puking begins.” He drags me behind him, pushing the caterpillar-munching idiots out of our way.
As we exit, suspicious gagging sounds begin—proving that Lucius was right.
“Still want to attend this fine educational establishment?” Lucius asks as we leave the museum premises.
I look around at the palm trees and the impeccably maintained green spaces. “Yep. I’ll just skip the Greek life.”
“That goes without saying,” he says. “But fine. If you still want to attend, let’s start the tour.”
We do and it’s nice—and not just because the UF campus is a dream. To my surprise, Lucius’s company is what really cinches it for me, probably because he manages the miracle of saying nothing asshole-y throughout, just asks what classes I’ll be taking once I get accepted (not sure), and if I plan to live on campus or not (even less sure).
When I tell him I’m getting tired of the tour, he mysteriously claims there’s one more thing I just have to see and leads me somewhere.
Before I can get too curious, we turn a corner, and I spot a blanket spread out on a patch of grass, with a large basket sitting on it.
A picnic?
“I had Elijah arrange this small surprise,” Lucius says. “The food is courtesy of Gator Dining services—in case you’re curious about what you’ll be eating once you’re accepted.”
Wow. If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect him of trying to get into my pants.
“There isn’t actual gator meat in there, right?” I ask as I sit on the blanket in lotus pose.
Lucius opens the basket and looks inside with a slight wrinkle of his nose. “Better not be.”
I pull out a black plastic container and examine it. “Looks like chicken and pasta.”
He opens his. “Smells edible.”
He doesn’t look too sure.
With an eyeroll, I dig in… and gag—in unison with Lucius.
“This chicken breast tastes like a shoe sole,” I say after I manage to swallow the contents of my mouth. “I’m guessing Elijah asked for ‘soul food’ in his British accent, and they misunderstood.”
Lucius spits his mouthful of pasta into the container. “Speaking of shoes, this pasta is chewier than laces. As flavorless too.”
Has someone been spoiled by his personal chef? I take a dainty bite of the pasta—and barely manage to swallow it. Either I’ve also been spoiled, or this pasta is to the rest of its kind as Hitler was to the rest of humanity.
“Maybe those dumdums ate the caterpillars because they were an improvement on the cafeteria food?” I speculate.
Lucius takes out his phone and writes a quick text. Then he says, “This is embarrassing. Why don’t I take you to our place? I just asked Elijah to make sure a decent meal is waiting for us there.” In a sterner tone, he adds, “It will be made by my chefs, and Elijah will taste it, personally.”
My eyebrow lifts of its own initiative. “Our place?”
He drops his plastic box into the basket. “I rented something here. Figured we wouldn’t want to rush back to LA.”
“As in… we’re staying overnight?” Can he see my cheeks blushing?
He sighs. “In different rooms, obviously.”
“Obviously.” The pang of disappointment I feel is on par with my experience of this chicken and pasta, combined.
“If you want, I can arrange for you to fly back,” Lucius says. “I just figured you’d want to see more of what Gainesville has to offer… Plus, we have a photoshoot tomorrow.”
“A photoshoot?”
He explains how he wants to thwart the paparazzi by “leaking” flattering, professionally taken photos of the two of us, looking as happy as someone who doesn’t eat UF cafeteria food.
“That sounds good,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
We head to the limo. I’m not sure why, but despite his assurances of us sleeping in different rooms, I still feel like a virginal Victorian lady anticipating a stroll with a rakish duke—without a chaperone.
“This is what you rented?” I say wonderingly as I stare at the sprawling mansion in front of us. The place looks too fancy, even for the luxury section of Airbnb.
Lucius merely shrugs. “This is the best I could do on short notice.”
So, if he’d had time, he would’ve rented something like a magical castle? Maybe had someone build him a mansion from scratch?
“Should we check it out?” he asks.
I nod, and we spend a few minutes examining the property—which is as spacious inside as it looked from the outside.
When I notice the bored expression on Lucius’s face, I can’t help but say, “Too small?”
“It was supposed to be Colonial style,” he says. “But it looks Mediterranean to me.”
Seriously, I want his problems, just for a day.
Before I can respond, Elijah materializes, ninja-butler style. “Dinner is served.”
The dinner is some delicious grain I don’t recognize with lobster that’s been garnished with caviar—because lobster without caviar is not ritzy enough.
It tastes so good I almost bite my tongue. “Seems like Elijah has overcompensated for the earlier blunder,” I say, lowering my voice. “What grain is this?”
“Teff,” Lucius says. “Shouldn’t you know that? It was one of the earliest plants to be cultivated.”
I resist the urge to hiss. “I don’t know everything about plants. Just lots of things.”
“It’s also the smallest grain,” he says professorially. “Originally grown in Ethiopia.”
Instead of being annoyed, I make a mental note to read into edible plants so I don’t look like a dummy ever again. Oh, and I’ll get Lucius a book on manners. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Anything else.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Tell me about your grandmother.” I eye another lobster piece hungrily. “After all, she is the catalyst for the fartlek.”
Lucius smiles, revealing the full glory of his dimple. “Gram has many stories.”
“Like what?”
“Well”—his smile widens—“she says she knew Andy Warhol.”
“The one who painted Campbell's Soup Cans?”
Lucius nods. “Allegedly, they ate some Campbell’s soup together.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And she loves music. Says she was caught up in Beatlemania, and before that, she was a huge Bob Dylan fan. Claims she even met him on The Tonight Show, Starring Johnny Carson in the summer of ‘63.”
Huh. “Did she get to talk to him?”
“Perhaps more than just talk. Mom dropped unsolicited hints over the years that there might’ve been an affair there, but Gram never confirmed it. I never probed deeper because I’d rather not know about my grandmother’s private life. Or my mother’s.” He says the last in a way that seems to imply his mom overshares—easy to believe in light of his earlier comment about Metallica.
“Your grandmother sounds fun,” I say. His mom, not so much, but I don’t point that out. “And you seem to know a lot about her.”
“I do,” he says. “I know that Gram’s favorite book is The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan. Her favorite movie is 2001: A Space Odyssey, and she was a huge fan of the moon race.”
I cock my head. “Did you get your love of technology from her?”
He considers this for a second. “You know, it’s possible.”
“Does she also want to be a robot?”
“Not in so many words,” he says. “Gram is skeptical that an artificially created body would allow all the nuanced sensations and emotions that humans can feel. That’s what it would take for her to put her brain into one.”
“If that becomes possible, I’d consider shoving my brain into such a body,” I say. “When I’m eighty, anyway.”
Lucius points his lobster fork at me triumphantly. “So you’re not as technophobic as I thought.”
“Never said I was.”
He clears his throat pointedly. “The CD player. The flip phone. You don’t see how someone could get that idea?”
I roll my eyes. “When am I going to meet the legendary Gram?”
His phone dings.
He checks it and grins widely. “Jinx. She’s just asked me when she’s going to meet you.”
“How about shortly after we’re back?”
“You sure?” He glances at his phone, as though his grandmother can overhear us through it—and for all I know, maybe she can.
“Yeah. I’d love to meet her.”
He fires off a text. “It’s set up. No backing out now.”
I eat another morsel, then ask, “Any last-minute things we should get to know about each other?”
“You haven’t told me much about your family.”
I purse my lips. “Did your dossier on me not go into that?”
He sighs. “Can you forget about that already?”
Can I? No. Can I pretend so we can continue the meal in relative peace? Sure. “Well, my parents and their parents are all nice people, with whom I have a great relationship. They all reside in or near Big Bear Lake, which is where I grew up.”
He looks genuinely interested, or is a better actor than I thought. “What do they do?”
“My parents own a snowboarding company,” I say. “Mom’s parents own a fishery, and Dad’s parents are retired teachers.”
I pointedly don’t go into detail about how disappointed my whole clan was when I moved to the big city, an entire two-hour drive away. Or about how I’ve so far foiled their dreams of lots of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Or—
“Must be nice to have such a big family,” Lucius says.
The hint of wistfulness in his tone makes something in my chest squeeze. “Is it just you, your mom, and your grandmother?”
“More my grandmother than my mom, but yeah.”
“What about your dad and his family?”
His lips flatten. “My father wasn’t there when I was growing up, so I have no interest in him now, and my grandparents on his side have passed away.”
My hand reaches of its own accord to cover his. “One day, you’re going to make a family of your own.” It will not be with me, but I’m sure the list of volunteers would stretch from here to Antarctica.
He glances at my hand with such a strange expression that I yank it back.
His face changes again.
Is that disappointment? Anger? Would his future face—the robotic one—also be this difficult to read?
After a few seconds of silence as uncomfortable as a bed of nails, he says, “I’m not sure I’m the type to make a family.”