Meanwhile, I can’t absorb anything except him.
He’s so loud in this quiet way. It’s like his existence takes up more oxygen than the average person, and the longer I sit here, the thinner mine feels.
“Now, class,” Professor Foster announces, snapping my attention back to the front, “I'd like you to look at the person sitting next to you.”
I look to my left, full of disappointment that I'm in an aisle seat, so there's only one way for me to look.
Rolling my head to the side, I risk a glance at Scotty, and his eyes are already on me. He flashes a small smile. I want to call it bashful, but after the numberof videos I’ve watched of him online—research Lyss insisted I do to “know my enemy”—I’m pretty sure bashful isn’t in his vocabulary.
I only have to remember that his dick was out when I met him to realize that.
His blue eyes skim over me, slowly enough that I swear I feel it. Yeah… he’s still beautiful. Annoyingly so. Would it kill the universe to give him a giant zit on his chin? Just one? Something to make hating him easier?
His smile widens, making his dimples pop.
Prince Alaric.
That’s when it hits me. He looks just like Princess Blanca’s boyfriend inIced out—which is probably a sign I’ve been working way too hard if I’m comparing real people to animated royalty.
But none of that—his stupid face, his stupid dimples, the stupid cartoon prince resemblance—changes the truth: His looks don’t make him any less of an asshole. If anything, they’re part of the problem.
“You're going to get to know this person really well,” Professor Foster continues.
I let out a dramatic sigh, just to make a point. I mean, how much better are you supposed toget to knowsomeone after they’ve slapped their giant dong across your face?
Yeah, I’m still thinking about it. How could I not? That thing was a full-blown mythological creature. A monster amongst men. A weapon of mass destruction.
And unfortunately for me, the memory is way too vivid to ignore.
“Because they are going to be your study partner for the rest of the year.”
I almost miss the end of Professor Foster’s sentence because I’m still too busy thinking about Scotty’s dong. Truly unfortunate timing. When the words finally register, something flutters low in my stomach—and not the good kind.
It’s dread. Pure, unadulterated dread.
I glance around the room, waiting for someone to jump up and shoutgotcha!Because this has to be a joke. A mistake. A fever dream brought on by too much caffeine and one very traumatic encounter with a very large…situation.
I’ve been watching too many clips of his reality TV show, and now I’ve somehow been brought into my own TV show hell.
“This week, I’d like you to write a joint paper onRomeo and Juliet,” Professor Foster continues, completely oblivious to my spiral. “Develop a shared thesis answering: To what extent are Romeo and Juliet responsible for their own fate versus being victims of external forces?”
Well. There it is.
The moment everything collapses.
The moment I pack my bags, kiss Covey U goodbye, and move to a remote, off-grid cabin where no one with a hockey stick—or a weapon of mass destruction in his pants—can find me.
Professor Foster steps away from her little podium, and I swear when she glances at me, she’s suppressing a grin. Maybe I’m imagining it—wouldn’t be the first time—but it feels a little too convenient if you ask me.
Everyone around us starts chatting. Happily, I might add, since they aren’t partnered with the dick assassin.
“Guess that means we’re working together,” Scotty says, his side leaning against mine. The little pressure is enough to make my blood boil.
“You planned this, didn’t you?”
He pulls back an inch, his brows lifting. “What? No,” he says, his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything.”
I scoff. “Please. For the first two weeks, I didn’t even know you existed. Now you’re everywhere. Running through fountains, sitting in my class, invading my dreams.”
