“You’re bailing? And leaving me here with her?” Paige asks, and I can’t help but chuckle lightly because I’m sure Rowe is thinking the same damn thing.
“It’s okay. We’re almost done anyway,” Rowe says, jutting her hip out with a little extra flair to show my sister how little she cares about her comment. I kinda think she cares a lot, though.
“Thanks,” I say, wiping my hands off on a paper towel and tiptoeing my way around our paint supplies until I can safely exit the room.
I’m a bit of a mess, but I don’t really have the time to shower, so I just quickly run a brush through my hair while back in our room and pull it up into a ponytail. I peel a few spots of paint from my hand and arm during the elevator ride, and by the time I hit the sidewalk that leads to the science building I look a little less like a contractor.
The lab room is quiet; only one other student is in there. I wonder if this is the normal turnout, or if it’s only the two of us struggling so far. I take a seat near the front of the room and pull out my book and my last quiz. The instructor is still busy reading whatever is amusing on his iPad. I don’t even know if he saw me come in.
“Ehemm,” I clear my throat, trying to make it sound natural, but it doesn’t come out natural at all. And the way he quirks his eyebrow up at me over the top of his iPad is a good indicator that it probably sounded a bit snobby.
“Yes?” he asks, his eyebrows raised and expecting some great response.
“I’m here to go over my last quiz.” My voice comes out small. I feel intimidated, but I can’t quite put my finger on the reason. I suppose it was his oh-so-warm greeting. The metal of his chair digs into the floor and makes the most abrasive sound as he slides it out from his desk and drags it along with him to sit next to me at the table.
“Let’s take a look,” he says, his arm reaching across me and slowly dragging the quiz into his view. His arm skims against mine lightly—an accident—but it sends a sharp sensation through my nerves that feels all kinds of wrong, so I pull my hands into my lap, making myself somehow smaller.
“Cassidy…what was your last name?” he arches one brow at me.
“Owens. Cass Owens,” I say, my voice hoarse again.
“Right. You’re missing the final step. Here, let me see your pencil,” he says, reaching in front of me again. He slides his chair a few inches closer so we can both look over my paper. I can feel his breath. It’s not like Ty’s breath. It smells of stale coffee and old cigarettes. “You need to divide by that number to get the total sum, like this.”
My brain is working overtime to make sure I remember every step he’s jotting down, and I’m grateful he’s writing it on paper so I can use it as a guide later rather than having to ask him again. I don’t want to go through this more than once. He slides the page squarely in front of me and holds the pencil out for me to take.
“You try the next one,” he says. When I grab the pencil, I swear his grip stays on it for a second too long, almost like we’re playing a mini-game of tug of war, and I think his lips might curl into a small grin. He’s young—probably a grad student like Ty. He’s also very attractive with light brown hair, closely shaved to his head, and forearms that look like they could throw something heavy with very little effort. As good looking as he is, his effect on me is opposite.
I force myself to stay focused on my work, and I manage to correct six of the problems in front of him. He relaxes while I work, leaning back in the chair, which also gives me some very welcome distance. The hairs on my arm are no longer standing. But for some reason, I can still hear him breathe. It’s a steady sound, masculine—unsettling.
“I think I get it now. I can’t believe I blew it on the quiz. It seems so easy,” I say, staring at my redone work with a little disappointment that it won’t matter to my grade. Suddenly, he reaches for the paper, folding it in half as he stands.
“I’m not done entering grades yet. Maybe this is the one I look at instead,” he says, winking as he heads to his desk and his iPad. I’m so uncomfortable by his suggestive tone, but I’m also pretty sure I’m overreacting. He’s flirtatious—that part I’m not mistaking. But I keep looking over at the other girl, sitting in the opposite corner—she hasn’t looked up from her work once. Surely, if something were really off, she’d be staring at us.
“Thank you…really,” I say, gathering my things and pushing the chair under the study table. “I will do so much better on the next quiz. This totally makes sense now.”