“I’m taking this art history class.”God, why am I still talking?I should shut up. Give him the silent treatment, but Carrson tilts his head like he’s actually listening, and the sad truth is…it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that. Like I’m worth hearing.
Besides, I love a good argument. Always have. I can’t help wanting to prove I’m right, even to the wrong people. “We’re learning about the Renaissance now. It’s fascinating.”
“Ah, yes. The Renaissance.” He nods solemnly. “Everyone’s favorite excuse to ogle half-naked people. The original thirst trap. You know there’s a modern version? It’s calledPlayboyor maybe Only Fans.”
I whirl on him, toothbrush in hand, toothpaste dribbling down my chin. “Don’t youdarecompare the Sistine Chapel to centerfolds or cam girls.”
Carrson lifts his hands in mock surrender. “My apologies to the masters.”
I jab my toothbrush at him. “Since you’re such a critic, what’s your favorite class, Mr. Smarty Pants?”
“Smarty Pants?” He arches a brow. “I’ve been called many things over the years, but that’s a new one.”
“Answer the question. Favorite class. Favorite teacher.”
He tosses me a towel. I catch it mid-air and use it to wipe my mouth.
With his arms folded, he says, “Haven’t been to a lecture or taken a test in over two years.”
“Twoyears?!” I nearly drop my toothbrush. “How’re you going to get your degree?” I’m not thinking of his future at that moment, I’m thinking ofmine, of our deal and how it ends when he graduates, a date I already have marked on my calendar with a big red circle.
“What’s the point when every teacher automatically gives me an A?” He catches the look of horror on my face and grins. “Relax,” he says, with the kind of dismissive wave that belongs to someone who’s never heard the wordno.“I already know enough. Elite tutors, private advisors, legacy connections. School’s a formality.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Real lessons happen off the record, and Ialwaysgraduate with honors.” I roll my eyes as he says, “My role here is more like…on-the-job training.”
I grab my brush and rake it through the snarls in my hair, pretending I’m not rattled by his casual entitlement. Carrson talks like the world is a game rigged in his favor. Like he’s holding all the cards, which he probably is. With my hand that’s not holding the brush, I tug up the blanket that covers my nakedness, tightening my death grip, and ask, “Training?”
He shrugs. “I manage the university. The town—”
“So you’re what? Some evil mid-level administrator with delusions of grandeur?”
He laughs at that, low and amused, like I’m a child who just said something cute. “You could say that. For now.” He pauses. “Later, I’ll be in charge of much…”
“What?”
“More.” He says it simply, like that answers everything.
It doesn’t.
I try to read his face, but there’s nothing, just cool detachment, like he’s already moved on from the conversation. Whatevermoremeans, he’s not telling. And why would he? If I were him, hoarding secrets like pocket change, I wouldn’t spend them on me either.
Which makes me wonder.Why tell me anything at all?
It can’t be because he needs someone to talk to. Someone to listen, the way I do.
Can it?
“After classes today, you’ll go to the Sisters,” he says, shifting topics. “Our sister sorority next door. Rosewood Hall. You stay there until five p.m.”
“What if I want to come back earlier?”
“You can’t. No women are allowed here until the evening.”
“But why?” I hold up my hand, frustrated. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when rules don’t make sense.
“Partly because women are distracting.” Carrson doesn’t bother to hide how his eyes trail down my neck and over my collarbones and then lower, unapologetically lingering on my cleavage.
I hitch the blanket higher, and he grins, feeding off my discomfort.
“Also,” he adds, “just becauseIdon’t go to class doesn’t mean my brothers get the same freedom. They use the afternoon to study. They’re expected to get good grades, go to grad school, and rise through the ranks of their assigned professions.”
