Page 38
Perfect. Why does every item in my bag roll? Note to self: Buy more things with edges.
I’m kneeling to collect lip balm, pens, and tampons when a low voice comes from above me.
“You didn’t quit.”
I look up to see Jameson Ashford wearing chinos and a preppy shirt, his dark hair a mess of waves that’s probably the only soft part of him. After watching him on video, seeing his face up close is even more of a trip.
“You didn’t have me expelled,” I can’t resist commenting as I reach for my phone, sliding it in my pocket as I straighten. “You’re really slacking in the ‘reign of tyranny’ department this week.”
Jameson’s brows lift under his hair. “Reign of tyranny?”
I wave a hand. “Mean girl syndrome. Hall monitor on steroids. Whatever you call it.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“You keep crashing into me. It’s hard not to.”
He folds his arms, his biceps pulling at his tailored shirt. It’s at eye level, which is the only reason I notice.
He gave me a ride to campus. He’s still an asshole, I remind myself.
Hall traffic flows around us. I start to shoulder the bag when a cramp has me buckling. Jameson moves so fast I don’t see him, grabbing my bag before it falls with one hand, the other finding my arm to steady me.
A little zing runs along my nerve endings. It’s like when he grabbed my wrist in the car, but this time, he’s circling my entire upper arm. The backs of his fingers brush the side of my breast.
My eyes fly up to his in time to see his expression go blank, as if he’s a computer and I pulled the power cord.
Before he can respond, two girls call his name.
“Jameson, are you coming?” One’s wearing the shortest skirt imaginable and the other is in tight pants.
“In a minute.”
He’s back online, all systems go, “impatient” and “dismissive” modes engaged.
He releases me and I brush off my jeans. I’m grateful for the distance, and the reminder that my natural state is minding my own business and the guy across from me is a prick revered by the kind of people who revere rich pricks.
The girls head back down the hall, breaking their necks for another look at their precious idol. Neither is familiar from classes, but with the drivers around, conventionally attractive people seem to magically appear.
“Do they even go here?” I ask when they’re out of earshot.
“I have no idea.” He frowns, as if it never before occurred to him to consider the question.
“Hey, New Girl.” Theo’s voice has us both turning.
The tightness in my chest relents. He’s gorgeous and smiling and that instantly puts me at ease.
Okay, not quite at ease. It’s impossible to be completely relaxed when you’re the focus of Theo Ashford’s attention.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, shiny, blue-wrapped package.
“A present?” I’m taken aback, but also immediately appreciate that it’s square, not round. “It was your birthday, not mine.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll talk you through it. Step one, unwrap,” he says, deadpan.
I tear into the package. Inside is a sleek white case containing AirPods.
“They’re not Bose, but they’re way easier when you’re working on cars.”
