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Summary
“I can buy my own drinks, you know,” she tells him later, projecting her voice to carry over the din of the bar. She’s wearing the nicest dress she could dig out of the recesses of her cramped closet, and yet she still feels distinctly out of place where she sits perched on the barstool beside him.
“I’m sure,” he says, violet eyes gleaming as he taps a finger against the rim of his glass. He’s looking at her in a way she can’t quite place — thoughtful, hungry. Certainly amused, as he finally goes on, “A bit of a shame though, isn’t it? Pretty thing like you shouldn’t have to.”
Arcelia is just doing her best to make it through midterms. The rich guy she meets is more interested in her doing other things.