The unexpected compliment thrummed through her. Swallowing thickly, she made a careful show of examining her notes. “I’m busy.”
“Hostile,” he noted. He looked offensively like himself today—all hard lines and sharp angles, his mouth bladed and his eyes just a shade too dark. “You’re mad at me.”
“You miss nothing.”
“Would it help if I apologize?”
“No,” she assured him, “so don’t waste your breath.”
He ignored her, dragging her open notebook closer for inspection. The leaden wings of a butterfly were mortifyingly visible on the page. “Look, Wednesday,” he said, examining her work. “You caught me off guard yesterday. I really do want to help you.”
“I don’t need your help, Price, but thank you.” She leaned across the table and tugged at her notebook. It didn’t give.
Colton flashed her a wounded look. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do, actually. Letgo.” She gave the notebook another tug, harder this time than before, and he relinquished his grip. The unexpected compliance sent her toppling back into her seat with anow.
“Think about this rationally for a minute,” he said, unwinding his scarf. She could see the smallest peek of his clavicle at this angle—the fine cordage of his throat. Her mouth felt dry. “I’m not exactly supposed to have one-on-one study sessions with freshmen in the class I’m assisting. It might look like I’m helping you cheat.”
The way he was looking at her, his eyes swallowing up the light, made her nerves pop into sparks. “What are you saying? You want us to have secret study dates?”
“If you put it that way, sure.” He glanced down at his watch. “The fewer people who know, the better.”
“I don’t know.” From across the café, she felt the force of Mackenzie’s stare drilling into her. She knew what her floormate would say, if she were here. She’d tell Lane a study date would be the perfect chance to find out more about the wall of names. She’d tell her to do a better job playing detective. She’d tell her to say yes. Instead, Delaney chewed at the cap of her pen and said, “Sounds risky.”
“For me,” Colton assured her. “Not for you.”
“Then why’d you offer?” The question wobbled in the air between them, strung thin beneath the acrid smack of burnt espresso, the wet slap of September rain. When he didn’t reply, she took the liberty of answering for him.
“Because you feel bad for me. You look at me, and you don’t see a contender. You just see a kicked puppy. Poor deaf Delaney, who draws butterflies in her notebooks and can’t even pass an open-notes quiz.”
“That’s not why,” he said, with a severity that brooked no argument.
Delaney swallowed, her reply sticking in her throat. She wished he would leave. He was unnerving her—this too-communicative Colton, his smiles sharp enough to nick an artery. He was a far cry from the Colton she’d grown accustomed to—distant and monosyllabic and determined to avoid her at all costs.
“You caught me in a moment of weakness the other day,” she said, in a voice that was much too small for her liking. “I dumped a lot of personal information on you when I shouldn’t have. I think it’s probably best for both of us if we just pretend it never happened.”
Flatly, he said, “No.”
“Sorry?”
“You heard me, Wednesday. I don’t want to pretend it never happened. I told you I wanted to work together. I meant it.”
There was something alarmingly earnest in his gaze. She looked away from it, ignoring the stutter of her pulse. “Working together implies you get something out of this, too.”
He hooked an elbow over the spine of his chair and regarded her through a too-level gaze. “Maybe I’m an altruist.”
“Hah.” She stifled a laugh. “Try again.”
A groan built in his throat. She saw it rather than heard it—evident in the way his chest expanded, the way his shoulders tensed. The way he said “Wednesday” one syllable at a time.Wed. Nes. Day.
“Lane,” she corrected.
“Ms. Meyers-Petrov.” His voice was imbibed with sweetness, an All-American-Boy sound that set her immediately on edge. “You want quid pro quo? I can do quid pro quo.” Leaning across the table, he tore the butterfly from its binding and brandished it between them in a flourish. “I want you to paint this.”
“A butterfly,” she deadpanned.
“Oh, is that what it is?” He held it up for inspection. “I thought it might be a locust.”
