Part 3My Dead Ex Is Grading My Thesis

I turned my head, curiosity instantly turning into whiplash.

I looked, and then I snapped my head back, slamming my hands over my face and vigorously rubbing my eyes.

No. No, no, no.

I must have been groggy from my afternoon nap, or maybe I’d hit my head on the way over. It had to be a hallucination.

How could my ex-boyfriend possibly be here?!

“Dad. Mom.”

That deep, low, magnetic voice—it was exactly the same as the one etched in my memory.

Damn it. Not a hallucination.

“Linc, quickly, introduce yourself to June. You two need to get acquainted.”

Lincoln didn't speak immediately. I just felt two intense gazes, like high beams, fixed on my face.

Stiffening my neck, I slowly turned my head back.

He was in a perfectly tailored black wool coat over a charcoal turtleneck—looking impossibly sharp, almost clinically clean. Two years had stripped away the last traces of boyishness, leaving a man who was undeniably sexier, but still utterly reserved. His hair looked carefully styled, every single strand immaculate.

He had clearly dressed for a serious meeting.

And me? Pajamas under a puffy coat, a rat's nest for hair, and fuzzy Crocs.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

Lincoln West stared at me, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth and spoke, his tone flat. “Lincoln West. Twenty-six. Six-foot-one. Just back from London.”

I nodded rigidly, a pathetic sound escaping my throat: “Uh-huh.”

Could you tell me something I don’t already know?

Seeing me turn into a mute, Mrs. Stanford prompted me again: “Well, June? What do you think? Satisfied?”

How could I possibly answer?

If I had known this was a blind date, that the date was the ex-boyfriend I’d dumped, and that the ex-boyfriend was Professor Stanford’s own son...

I would have starved to death in my dorm room before stepping foot outside the gates.

This dinner was clearly a strategic ambush to couple us up. Lincoln was dressed so meticulously that he must have taken the introduction seriously. And now he looked up, saw me, and his emotional damage was probably large enough to eclipse the entire restaurant.

I strained to keep my face muscles from spasming, trying to hold a polite, slightly awkward smile.

The older couple, completely oblivious to the radioactive tension between us, were just happily watching the pot boil. I lowered my head, frantically picking at my fingernails, while Lincoln sat beside me, slowly sipping his tea. Though we were inches apart, the emotional distance between us was wide enough to fit another person.

Mrs. Stanford suddenly piped up, “I was right there when you texted Harry this morning. You said your boyfriend starved to death, and oh, that sounded so sad... But the old must make way for the new, right? So we sent you a new, very much alive one!”

I wished for immediate death.

Professor Stanford sighed, joining in on the public shaming. “I remember you mentioning once that you had a first love back in sophomore year. But you haven’t dated anyone since, so I figured you broke up—I never imagined he’d passed away. You should have told me! I wouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

Aaaah! Stop! Please!

Lincoln was my first love! I had casually invented the "he died" story years ago to stop people from asking nosy questions about the breakup!

Professor Stanford seemed to realize I hadn’t actually given an introduction and tapped the table. “Linc, stop being so aloof. Don’t you have anything to ask Piper? You young people should talk.”

Lincoln set his teacup down.

He turned his body toward me, those impossibly gorgeous eyes fixed on mine.

Then, his thin lips parted, and he slowly, deliberately delivered the sentence that shattered my soul:

“So… after we broke up, you’ve just been telling people I died?”