“I’m fine,” I tell him.
It’s the biggest lie I’ve told all day.
He doesn’t call me out on it. He just watches me for a beat longer than necessary, eyes steady, unreadable, before he reaches forward and steals the last bite of pasta before I can get to it.
I gasp. “Hey.”
He flashes that smug grin of his, fork already halfway to his mouth. “Too slow.”
I scowl at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re the worst.”
He pops the bite into his mouth anyway, chewing slowly before he leans back in his chair and stretches out, exuding lazy confidence, with his knee still brushing mine under the table.
He swallows slowly, wipes his thumb across the corner of his mouth, and keeps his eyes locked on me the entire time.
“Thanks, Bells,” he says more softly now.
The way he says it hits harder than it should. It’s simple. Almost nothing.
I nod once, pretending my heart didn’t just trip over itself. “Don’t get used to it.”
His smile softens just a little. “Too late.”
Chapter Four
Jace
Thursday hits differently than yesterday.
Not because I woke up with inspiration or optimism or any of that motivational bullshit people claim to experience. It hits different because I know I have an excuse to see her today.
Bells.
It’s enough to make me show up early again, even though I keep telling myself I don’t give a shit. Even though I keep pretending this is just tutoring. Just school. Just something to get Ms. Mallory off my back.
I’m already in the library when she walks in. The clock on the wall ticks toward four, every second loud in the quiet. I’ve got one foot hooked around the leg of the chair, posture relaxed, shoulders loose, acting like I didn’t check the time twice in the last five minutes.
She walks toward the table, and for a moment, the rest of the library fades out.
Bells is beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you. Brown curls spilling down her back, long and wild, pulled into the same messy ponytail she always wears. Baggy jeans hanging low on her hips, worn soft. She doesn’t need those tight ones to get my attention. She never has. My body reacts on instinct, cock tightening a fraction, and I hate that she does this to me without even trying.
She’s wearing that soft sweater she likes, sleeves pushed up. Same nerdy black glasses perched on her nose.
I stare at her for a beat too long, because every time I forget how fucking dangerous she is to me, she shows up and reminds me.
I swallow and force myself to lean back, to keep my posture loose, to act like my pulse didn’t just kick up a notch.
She comes in with that big ass tote bag slung over her shoulder, the thing practically swallowing her whole. It thumps against her hip as she reaches the table, and drops into the chair across from me with a long exhale, as if she’s been holding her breath all day.
“Okay,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I came prepared this time.”
I raise a brow, watching her start unloading things from the bag.
Notebooks first. Thick ones with tabs sticking out at odd angles. Next comes the sticky notes, an absurd number of them. Yellow, pink, blue. Flashcards held together with a small metal ring, already bent from use. Then the food comes out.
A granola bar first. Practical. On brand. Another packet of Oreos, which makes my mouth twitch before I can stop it. She digs a little deeper and pulls out a pack of Sour Patch Kids.
The good ones. The ones I like.
