Even more so when it comes to a certain redhead.
Because I came to St. Monarché Academy for her.
For a woman.
A woman who caught my interest beyond a quick fuck and a clean exit.
I know she’s back from the States.
I won’t dwell onhowI know.
But she returned yesterday.
And now, she’s not here.
Which is strange, because Piper Ashthorne never misses class.
I know that for a fact.
I’ve checked.
I realise that this tension has very little to do with anger.
It’s because I haven’t seen her in days. And I suppose most people would call that missing someone.
Which is bloody ridiculous.
But even more ridiculous is the worry I feel.
Because if she’s back on the island, then where the hell is she?
I pull out my phone, but the classroom door swings open, saving me from doing something stupid.
Like texting her friends to ask about Miss Ashthorne’s whereabouts.
I look up, and there she is.
She steps inside quickly, her cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath, as though she ran all the way here.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice so damn quiet it barely reaches me.
She makes her way down the steps towards her row, careful to avoid my eyes.
She never once looks my way.
I clench my jaw.
Once seated, she places her bag on her lap, pulls out a notebook and pen, then fixes her attention on the empty page in front of her.
She has no idea what the assignment is, but it seems she’s so determined to avoid eye contact that she’d rather sit there and guess than ask.
Her hair falls over her face, shielding her from view.
The urge to close the distance between us is almost unbearable.
I glance at the clock and find there are still twenty minutes left of class.
Twenty bloody minutes.
