Because how am I supposed to believe him? That whole speech last week — the one where he swore he'd never hooked up with anyone — replays in my head, and for a second, it feels... impossible.
I mean, look at him.
Six-foot-three of stupidly gorgeous, with shoulders that barely fit through a doorway and a smile that could probably convince a nun to break her vows. Girls flock to him like moths to a flame, and I'm supposed to believe he swatted them all away? For years?
Yeah, right.
It's like someone telling me fire doesn't burn. Or that gravity doesn't apply to him.
Because Zach Westbrook resisting them?
That's what feels impossible.
Universe-bending, law-of-physics–defying impossible.
He was a teenage boy once — hell, he's still a college guy with hormones and a fan club of pretty girls practically throwing themselves at him. And I'm supposed to believe he just... ignored all of that?
Please.
I fight back a sigh, shoving the thought away as we finally reach Lucy, who's sitting halfway down the row, clutching her tablet.
I slide into the aisle seat beside her — but before I can even get settled, Zach steps in, still standing in the row, and leans slightly toward her with that easy, practiced charm.
"Hi, I'm Zach."
Lucy blinks, then practically squeaks. "I— I know." Her cheeks go scarlet. "I mean— I'm Lucy."
Zach flashes her that signature grin — the one that should be illegal, "Nice to meet you, Lucy."
Then he gestures to the row with a polite nod. "Would you mind moving over a seat so I could sit next to Caroline?"
"O-of course!"
Zach slides into the newly vacated seat, flashing Lucy a grateful smile. "Thanks, Lucy."
Then he turns to me, that infuriatingly smug grin plastered on his face.
I lean toward him, lowering my voice. "Okay, you've seen me. Mission accomplished. Now go."
He just shakes his head, settling back in his seat, one arm draped casually over the backrest like he's planning to stay a while. "Nope."
"Zach..." I hiss, glancing around as I catch a few heads turning our way. The last thing I need is the entire class turning this into entertainment.
"Nope,"
"Don't you have practice or... something?"
"Not until the afternoon," he says easily, like he's got all the time in the world.
I drop my head into my hands with a dramatic sigh, muttering under my breath, "Unbelievable."
He shifts in his seat, leaning closer until his shoulder brushes mine. "So... lunch after class?"
"No," I say automatically, keeping my eyes glued to the front like maybe ignoring him will make him vanish. "I already have plans."
It's a lie, but no way am I about to tell him that.
"Plans?" He arches a brow, skeptical. "What plans?"
