Chapter 3: Goodbye, New England

The fake concern faded from his face, replaced by a lazy, half-amused smirk. He took back his jacket, looked at me with genuine interest, and smiled: “Ah, you figured it out.”

He didn’t bother denying it. That was Graham—too honest to lie, too cocky to care.

So boring.

I turned away coldly, walked past him without a word, but as I passed, he caught my wrist, making me pause. He tilted his head, gave me a playful look, and asked, “Lauren Merritt, are you playing hard to get?”

His grip was gentle, but his tone was teasing, like he was daring me to prove him wrong.

That made me laugh.

I couldn’t help it—a sharp laugh escaped. The whole thing was so ridiculous.

I stopped, turned to face him, and sneered, curling my lip and raising my eyebrow: “Then be patient and stay out of my way. When I decide to play, you’ll know.”

I met his gaze, unblinking, letting him see I wasn’t bluffing.

He held my wrist, eyes locked on mine. After a moment, he smiled.

It was a real smile, not the lazy, mocking kind. For a second, he looked… impressed, like I’d surprised him for the first time.

He said, “Interesting.”

He let go, and I walked away, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.

I didn’t love Graham Whitaker.

But apparently, no one believed that.

It became a running joke in the halls—how could anyone not fall for Graham? Even the teachers seemed to expect me to give in eventually.

How could anyone not love Graham? He was so handsome, smart, and charming. My indifference seemed to get under his skin. I often caught him studying me, deep in thought.

He’d stare at me during study hall, tapping his pencil, as if I were a riddle he couldn’t solve. Sometimes I’d meet his gaze, and he’d just smile and look away.

He was like a gamer waiting for the final boss to make a move.