When she uncovers his plan to lead an entirely uneventful life, Mia Evian is determined to teach Preston Maddox how to stop living like a ghost, but Mia and Preston have history, tension, and a lot of complicated feelings.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
UCL's induction week passes like a storm. I'm jumping from building to building and darting between introductory lectures, all the while barely having time to come up for air. I can't complain; I've brought this all on myself. The threat of FOMO is so strong that I wound up attending basically everything the uni could throw at me, messy nights out included, and it's not until the Friday that the storm becomes weatherable.
The only thing I have to worry about today is the societies fair, although it'll be a miracle if I sign up for anything. While the concept of missing out shakes me to my core, I also have an insatiable desire for as much alone time as possible. I'm a notoriously conflicting person, in case it wasn't obvious.
I've attended most of the induction week's events and parties with my flatmates, who've now all moved into our shared flat. Thankfully, everyone seems sane, and the biggest qualm I have so far is with one of the guys who I'm convinced is a figment of my imagination because I've only ever seen him once. He must have a private kitchen in his room or something–I've got zero clue how the man eats, otherwise.
I'm taking a break from my flatmates for today and attending the fair with Preston. There are stalls upon stalls being haunted by enthusiastic society reps wearing fluorescent purple t-shirts across campus, and within ten minutes of exploring them, I realise he loves this shit. We've passed fifteen society stalls so far, and I swear Preston's signed up for over half of them.
'So, tell me,' I begin as we stop beside the agricultural society's stall. 'How do you plan on being in a million places at once every week?'
'I'm not going to attend any of these,' he replies as if my suggestion was absurd.
While I stammer, confused, he scribbles his name and email, then drops the pen onto the agricultural society's table with a wink in the direction of some poor guy who gazes back like a rabbit caught in headlights. I figure he's not used to someone signing up in such a blasé fashion, nor is he used to someone so effortlessly charming doing so. It is the agricultural society, after all.
'Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door,' Preston utters as we begin walking again. 'Emily Dickinson.'
I blink. Sort of like a brain-dead goldfish.
'I'm signing up to receive their monthly newsletters. If something piques my interest, I can dig deeper.'
'So what you're saying is that you're chronically indecisive?'
'Don't forget insecure,' he chimes in.
I fail to hide a smile, so resort to looking at the floor. 'You've gotten funnier over the past year or so. Well done.'
'Thank you. The prolonged distance from you has had its perks.'
'Actually, I take that back; you're a cun–'
'Hello!'
I jump at the sound of a chirpy voice, and I'm stunned into a halt by a smiling blonde woman, who holds out her hand. I hesitantly shake it, and I'm suddenly horrified that I may have gotten myself caught up in something when I realise she's wearing a purple t-shirt.
