Amazing.
I’m trapped between a professor who does not care… and a hockey player who just caught me bad-mouthing his whole profession.
Kill me now.
I drop my hand and shut my mouth fast. I can’t think of a single plausible excuse for why I can’t work with this man. And honestly? I blame Danny—my scene partner in Duo Acting Lab—for talking me out of taking improv this semester. If I’d taken it, maybe I wouldn’t crumble under basic human interaction.
The class ends, and Professor Foster continues talking to Kinsey. No one understands me and the pain I’m about to endure.
Great. Fucking great.
I turn, and the inevitability of being stuck with Scotty starts to sink in.
“So,” Scotty says, far too casually, “tell me—what job makes you so busy you can’t work with a hockey player?”
“None of your business,” I choke out, because the last thing I’m doing is admitting I’m a literal party princess. I’d imagine he’d find that funny, considering he’s never had to struggle for anything in his life.
“I think you’ll find it is my business,” he says, stepping a little closer. “How else are we going to work together if we don’t know each other’s schedule?”
I hate—hate—that he makes sense.
Pushing past him, I head back toward our seats. I’m about to sit when it hits me: if I sit first, I’ll just have to stand up again when he needs to get in. No thank you. My dignity has taken enough hits lately.
So, like a dutiful fangirl, I stand in the aisle, watching him stroll towards me, his eyes never leaving mine.
I hate the way they simmer with intensity. I hate the way it makes me wonder what he’s thinking. I hate that I care at all. He humiliated me in front of everyone.
Toe-to-toe, he stands in front of me, and waits. For what? I don’t know, so I make the first move. I gesture my hand to direct him to his seat like I’m a butler. That’s probably what he’s used to anyway.
“Are you just not going to talk to me now?” he asks, lowering into his seat but keeping his gaze on me. “Kind of hard to work on an assignment if you don’t want to communicate.”
I huff as I drop into the seat beside him, and I hate the way it makes my skin prickle. It’s clearly annoyance. Nothing else.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’m a theater major with a busy job so I can afford my cute little off-campus room,”I admit with a shrug.
He studies me for a second in that slightly unnerving way before he nods to himself. “Theater major makes sense.”
My head snaps toward him. “Why? Because you think I'm over-dramatic?”
He laughs. It’s low and short, but annoyingly warm. “No.” Then he tips his chin toward my face. “Your makeup. It's heavier than how you usually wear it. Were you rehearsing for a show? Is that why you were late?”
Red flag.
I stare at him with wide eyes. He sits up straighter, suddenly concerned.
He bites his bottom lip. “I probably shouldn’t have pointed that out.” He tilts his head, taking me in. “Don't get me wrong. You’re absolutely stunning with makeup on. It really brings out how deep your eyes are, but it hides your freckles and I like them. Reminds me of those cartoon princesses.”
I freeze, not sure what to do.
Did he just call me stunning?
Scotty Hendricks?
I thought he was trying to soften the blow when he mentioned he'd seen me in class. At no point did I think he'd been paying enough attention to see my freckles.
“Uh oh,” I blurt. “Am I going to have to call campus security? They have this new guy, Todd, and I hear he doesn’t play well with stalkers.”
“Stalker?” He looks genuinely alarmed. “I’m not—I just saw you in our first class and wanted to talk to you. Is that so weird?”
