“I’m fine also.” His tone sounded mocking. “How’s that prep school? Do the nuns beat you?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “It’s not a parochial school.” At his confused look, I added, “No nuns.”
“Well, if they give you trouble, you tell Old Sal. I’ll set them straight for you, princess.”
Yeah, and get your ass thrown in jail for assault.
Idiota.
I felt him before he spoke. The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickled in warning. The dark presence, like a summer storm, crept up behind me, hovering over me. I didn’t have to look to see what was scrawled on his face.
I was that in-tune with his body. With his moods. With hissoul.
“She’s not a princess. Not a Blue Blood.” A hard hand fell on my right shoulder, the arm of solid muscle draped behind my neck. “Her name is Amanda. Call her anything else, and I’ll break your teeth.”
Another raging hot shiver raced down my spine.
“She your girl now, Messina?” Sal drawled, debating if he wanted to pounce. To fight for a claim.
“She’s here with me, yes.” The note of possession in Vincenzo’s voice settled deep in my chest.
No…lower.
I keptmy body deadly still, preventing it from doing anything awkward like rubbing my thighs together.
“I see.” Sal shoved away. “Have a nice night…Amanda.”
I let out a sigh of relief when I didn’t hear the mocking title.
Vincenzo’s touch lingered for a moment. It felt nice. Protective and familiar. I wanted to lean into him but was scared because I didn’t know if it would be well received.
“What did you want to show me?” I asked, trying to break the tension crackling around us.
Vincenzo dropped his arm, set his backpack on the table, and slid onto the seat across from me. “Do you understand American Literature?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “A little.”
“You’re not in that class, but do you think you could explain where I went wrong?” Vincenzo opened his bag and pulled out a neat, unwrinkled plastic binder.
“Yeah, it’s tough, but I think I can figure it out.” Reading was the one thing I did in my spare time that was for me and me alone.
I caught myself before I could make a quip, though. Vincenzo looked…forlorn. His brows were drawn together, his gaze tearing across the paper.
“Here.”
He shoved the paper to me with a note of resignation. As if it were a death sentence.
I gasped softly. Yeah, a D- kinda was the same thing.
“If I don’t improve my grades, my scholarship is at risk.”
My head jerked up.No! No, no…no.“That’s not happening.”
“I just…don’t get it.” Vincenzo clasped his fist on the table, lowered his chin to it, and glared into space. “Who cares if Hemingway romanticized the Spanish peasantry? It means jack shit.”
This time, I snorted. A plan was forming in my head. The sociology class was better suited for the college applications I planned to start filling out next month. But…American Literature sounded way more fun.
Especially if it meant reading Hemingway with Vincenzo.
