Wordlessly, Georgia and I set off down the steps toward the sidewalk, awkwardly walking in silence the first block—I’m assuming we’re heading in her direction because she hasn’t told me to go the other way.

We stroll along quietly until Georgia asks, “What part of England are you from? I can’t remember.”

“Surrey.”

“How far is that from London?”

“’Bout fifty kilometers.”

“Um…I don’t have the conversion rate down.” She laughs.

I think for a few seconds, doing the math. “Roughly thirty or so miles, I wager? My parents have a flat in London but don’t spend much time there.”

“Why do they have a place there if they don’t go there?”

Because that’s what aristocrats in England do. The townhouse in the heart of the city has been in our family for generations—you don’t give that up unless you’re desperate for cash or want to trade up.

The family seat in the country, too.

Gets passed down from generation to generation, and someday, it will all be mine, along with the taxes and other debts.

But I digress…

“They don’t go often, but sometimes my brother and I will use it if we want to visit friends from school. Or whatever.”

Fundraisers, charity balls.

“Or whatever, he says,” Georgia scoffs, trudging along, not asking any more questions.

It goes from awkward to more awkward.

It occurs to me that she might not feel safe. She’s agreed to walk home with me, but it’s dark, I’m huge, and we’re alone.

I stick my hands in my pockets, shoulders slouched.

Shoot her a sidelong glance, tempted to lecture her on what a dumb decision it was to walk alone with a strange guy who outweighs her by probably a good hundred pounds.

For an aristocratic Brit, I’m stockier than most. The bulk of lads I went to school with haven’t seen an honest day’s work in their puny lives, weight rooms not a priority, and the blokes I played rugby with were never as large as I am.

Smaller by half.

Shorter.

Leaner.

More suited to the sleek gentleman’s club of their fathers than a rugby field.

My mates from home play cricket, a posh sport, or ride polo ponies on the weekends—something I’ve never been partial to myself.

Few of them have ever had a tooth knocked out from an elbow jab or a knee to the face.

I’ve had both.

It’s a bloody miracle my mum never banned me from playing, and Dad enjoys having a son who’s more masculine physically than his peers’ offspring.

He may be stuffy and proper, but he’s proud to have raised a strong son.

His heir.

Georgia and I trudge along, cars passing every few minutes, slowing to gawk at the pair of us on the sidewalk.

It’s still considered early—just eleven o’clock—students getting dressed to go out and party.

We approach campus, coming to a crossroads at the next stoplight.

“Uh…now which way?” I ask, glancing left then right.

“Straight. I’m up another five blocks.”

“Five blocks? Did you walk all this way?” I look down at her feet. “In those shoes?”

She looks down too. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

Nothing is wrong with them. They’re just…high. Who the hell wants to walk all that way in blasted heels?

Women.

I’ll never understand them.

It would have helped if Mum had had a girl and I hadn’t just been stuck with Jack and Dad—little more estrogen in the house would have served us all well.

Georgia sighs, probably out of boredom because we’ve barely spoken and now I’m ridiculing her choice in footwear, one city block behind us and four more to go.

My lips part, and I let slip a somewhat personal question. “How do you like it here so far?”

“It’s fine—not what I was expecting.”

“How so?”

“Well…” She pauses. “For starters, I didn’t think the girls on the track team would haze an upperclassman. I’m not a rookie, and it was uncalled for.”

I laugh at how ridiculous she sounds. How disgruntled.

“Didn’t you ever haze anyone?”

Her sharp look answers the question before she does. “No, Ashley, I didn’t. It’s against the honor code.”

Ha.

The honor code is a joke and everyone knows it. Everyone breaks it at some point, especially the second they step into an off-campus house party.

Duh.

“Where did you come from, the land of make-believe? This isn’t a fairy tale—you don’t think athletes at your old uni were initiating teammates? C’mon now.” My snort punctuates the sentence.

“I’m not an idiot—I know they were, but as far as the track and field team went…no. Not that I saw, thank god. It makes me sick.”

Pfft.

“Not sick enough,” I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for her to catch.

She halts in the middle of the sidewalk to face me, hands on her hips.

“Good. I’m glad you’re bringing this up, because it’s the only thing I can think about. I’m sorry, okay? I was just trying to…get it over with that night so they’d leave me alone. It had nothing to do with you—it wasn’t personal.”

Nothing to do with me? Is she delusional?

When a pretty girl walks up to you at a party and asks you on a date as a dare because she’s been told to find the ugliest bloke at a party—it’s personal.

“But that’s where you’re wrong.” I continue walking, hands still jammed into my jeans. “Think a bloke isn’t going to take offense to your little prank? I’ve seen it done before, and it’s not fucking funny.”

She hurries to catch up to me, hand pulling at my arm, latched onto my bicep. “You were the first guy I saw standing in that room! You’re like, three feet taller than every last one of those guys, okay?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

But I’d be lying if I said her observation isn’t oddly satisfying and doesn’t stroke my ego, even just a little bit.

“Ashley, stop.”

I stop.

Face her.

Hands out, beseeching, she’s in the middle of the sidewalk again, staring at me, defeated look on her face.

“I don’t know what else to say—I don’t know how to apologize. I don’t think you’re ugly, and I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Stupid.

Wait, what?

“Who the hell said anything about stupid? Was that part of the bet, too? Am I missing something?”

She facepalms herself.

“No one said anything about you being—” She inhales a deep breath. “It was a figure of speech. I’m nervous. I’m frustrated I put you in this situation, and I wish I could go back and do it all over again.”

Do it all over again.

Now there’s an idea.

I look back down the road toward where we came from, eyeing the path we just walked. Past the administration building on campus, up toward the ramshackle rugby house.

What would she do differently if we could go back—if it hadn’t played out this way? What would she have said to me, if anything at all?