And she was beginning to feel that was okay.
“We’re here,” Angelo murmured as they made it to the university’s parking lot. He unlocked the trunk of his car and placed her bag in it. Closing it, he turned to see Lane frozen in her spot, a look of horror on her face.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded right away.
Lane couldn’t answer, couldn’t stop staring at Angelo’s ride.
She wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but one thing she was absolutely sure of was that his car was expensive.
Extremely expensive, she corrected herself numbly, considering that it wasn’t just an ordinary car but some kind of super fancy sports car.
“Tesoro?”
She slowly lifted her gaze to Angelo.
Her fallen angel, who turned out to be extremely rich—
Oh, how could she have failed to consider that?
How could she so be stupid, thinking that he had been chosen to mentor their class just because he was smart and good at his work?
Lane swallowed. “Sorry. I’m just…” She gave up explaining and said instead, “I d-didn’t change my mind.” She mentally begged him to leave it at that.
But he didn’t.
“Then what is it? What’s wrong?” He came close, and she had the painful urge to back away from him.
Angelo’s gaze narrowed at the increasing pallor of her face. “Tell me what’s wrong.” And was he merely imagining things, or did she truly look like she was thinking of running away from him?
It didn’t make any sense.
His jaw clenching, he said again, “Tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.”
He saw her glance at his car.
“Is it the car? You have some kind of trauma with cars? You had a car accident in the past? Is that it?”
She only looked at him, unshed tears in her eyes.
“What is it, my Lane? Tell me.”
Tell him, he said.
She wanted to laugh and cry. He always made things sound so easy. And maybe they were, but not this time.
Tell him that she was a weirdo who was afraid of rich people…like him?
Tell him that she had been in a mental hospital because of that?
Tell him that it all started because of how her grandfather treated her mother like she was nothing but a brainless bimbo who could be bought to do whatever he wanted?
She heard herself say shakily, “Yes. I had a car accident.”
And she wondered how many more lies she would have to say before the night was over.
Chapter Seven
“Do you want to freshen up or have a tour of the house before we have dinner?”
“Whichever is fine.”
“You’re my guest. It’s all about you.”
“Well, anything is okay, really.”
Angelo stared at Lane, and Lane stared at anywhere but him.
It had been like this since she had seen his car, and he had a feeling it would keep getting worse. Frustration ate him. He wasn’t used to not doing anything to solve a problem, but how could he solve this when he wasn’t even sure what was wrong?
He said finally, “Let’s have the tour then.” From his experience, most women liked being toured inside homes.
Unfortunately, Lane proved to be unlike most women.
By the time they made it to the dining room, she seemed paler and weaker, like he had made her run a marathon at gunpoint.
Angelo’s frustration grew, but he strove to keep his polite mask in place as he pulled her chair for her.
“Thank you.” Lane mumbled the words without looking at Angelo. Taking her seat, she felt like slumping in relief. The tour of his home had made her feel like she was near her breaking point. Angelo’s place was even more palatial than she feared, and its elegance only made it even more intimidating. Everything was so beautifully understated, and she knew from what Nellie taught her that the subtler the décor was, the more expensive it usually was.
She tried not to be so obvious as she willed herself to breathe normally. You’re going to get used to this, she told herself. Christopoulos University wasn’t just bigger, it had thousands of rich people, too, but she had succeeded in acclimatizing herself to it.
She would be able to do the same here.
It was just a matter of time.
As someone started serving them salad, she couldn’t help stealing a look at Angelo.
He looked stiff and tense, and her heart cracked a little at the sight.
He probably thought she was some kind of psycho, the way she had blown hot and cold at him without reason.
And she couldn’t blame him, could she?
She started eating her salad mechanically, hoping to distract herself, but her worries only grew in proportion to the increasingly tense silence between them.
The second course was served, and again she tried stealing a look at him from behind the waiter—