My cheeks are on fire. It takes all my willpower to keep my eyes fixed on his.
Tristan is cruel. I know this. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
How could it hurt when he’s clearly a fucking idiot?
I lift my chin. “Pride and Prejudicetakes place during the Regency period, which was several centuries after the medieval period. I guess they cut a few corners when they gave you that football scholarship, huh?”
His smile is fixed, but warmth glints in his eyes. This is the expression of his that always confuses me. His smile is almost…
Kind.
No wonder he has so many friends when he’s such a dick. He tricks them all with the appearance of kindness.
“I’m a math and science guy, Amelia,” he says. “I don’t know history or literature.”
Amelia. My full name. Tristan always calls me anything but Amy. Sometimes even nicknames like Ames, as if we’re buddies. It’s just another way to taunt me.
“You should read some literature,” I say. “It would make conversations with you less tedious. Should I explain ‘tedious’ for you? It means boring. You’re boring to talk to, Tristan.”
His smile fades. He stares at me for a long moment before his eyes flash and his nostrils flare. This is his cruel look, and a chill skitters down my spine.
It’s dangerous to make fun of Tristan. Usually, he brushes my insults off like dust, but you never know when you’re going to hit a nerve.
I need to change the subject. Fast.
“Explain this,” I say, lifting the envelope. “I know you’re the reason for it.”
He smiles slowly. “What makes you say that?”
I slap the envelope across his chest. “Because I didn’t apply. I would never apply.” I grimace. “I knew you were going to be the homecoming king.”
When I say the last part, his jaw clenches. “I just thought a shy little virgin like you could use an exciting new experience.” He smiles. “You can act out your fanfic in real life. I’ll be your Mr. Darcy.”
Heat washes over my face. I want to slap that smug smile off his face. “You’re more of a Mr. Wickham,” I say.
He chuckles. “Either way, I’d be happy to pop your cherry for you.”
I grimace. What a disgusting euphemism, if it can even be called that. And I’m not a virgin, goddammit. I’ve had sex.
A few times. With my boyfriend during freshman year.
Each time was fast and awkward and a little painful, and we broke up before we had the chance for it to get better.
I’m not a virgin, but I know exactly what Tristan is implying.
You must be a virgin because who would want you? Who would want a short, chubby girl who spends all her free time writing Jane Austen erotic fanfiction?
The anger pulsing through my veins is as heady as a drug. He might be a fatphobic narcissist, but I’m not ashamed of my body. I feel almost like I’m in a dream as I step forward until my chest brushes against Tristan’s. I grab his shoulders and look up at him from under my lashes. I slide my hands down his chest and lean up on my tiptoes so my lips brush along his prominent jaw.
Damn, he smells good. Clean and musky at the same time. Isn’t scent supposed to be the root of attraction? If it is, I should be repulsed by him right now.
I want to be repulsed by him right now.
Maybe there is some magic to Tristan that I didn’t see before. Maybe I should be more forgiving of Harper.
I strain to keep what I think is a sultry expression. “I’m not as innocent as you think,” I whisper.
His body stiffens, and his eyes widen. For the briefest moment, triumph sizzles over my skin.
