Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
The older man stiffens. The muscle in his jaw ticks. “What exactly did you tell her?” he asks, too flat.
I smile, all sugar and plausible deniability. “Just that you were helping me with the Moby Dick paper. Swear to god, that’s all.”
He narrows his eyes, then nods. “Good,” he says, and for a second he almost looks relieved. But then he grabs onto the edge of the doorframe and his knuckles go white. “Let’s keep this professional, Simone. You’re a smart girl. You know how dangerous this is.”
“Of course,” I say, and it lands in my chest like a dart. I want to ask if he always does this—if every girl who can’t write a decent essay gets to be his dirty little secret—but I bite my lip until the need passes.
He adjust his bag, throws it over his shoulder. “We’re just having fun, Simone. This isn’t anything serious, just two consenting adults enjoying one another. By the way, I expect to see a first draft of your essay by next week,” he says, before opening the door. Then, he strides out and is gone.
I stand there, suddenly alone, not sure if I’m about to cry or set the place on fire. I pull out my phone, check it out of habit, then remember I’m not going to get a text from him. Not now, maybe not ever because this isn’t anything real. We’re just “two consenting adults.” Right.
I pick up my bag, and adjust my clothes, trying not to let the humiliation show on my face.
This is what I wanted, right? I asked for it. I took the risk. What did I expect—a wedding ring? A monologue about how I changed his life?
He’s a professor. I’m just another dumb blonde in a school full of dumb blondes. I’m practically failing my classes, and there’s a 99.9% chance I’m going to lose my scholarship and get thrown out of school. Tears brim in my eyes, but I wipe them away with a dash of my hand and make myself stand straight. Right. I mean nothing to Liam. This is just “fun” for him.
I step into the hallway, and the world resumes its normal volume: lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, a couple of band kids giggling down by the trophy case. I try to shake off the sting, walk like nothing’s happened, but every nerve in my body is still high-voltage, skin humming with aftershocks.
I make it as far as the stairwell when I almost collide with Dylan Tourneau.
The jock is huge, with chestnut hair and mesmerizing green eyes. He looks a bit like the actor Jacob Elordi, and a lot of girls at Century are in love with him. He’s got a duffel slung over one shoulder, and the logo of Century College’s swim team stitched onto every article of clothing he owns. Today it’s a quarter-zip and athletic shorts, and his thighs look like they could break a watermelon.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping back. His voice is deeper than expected, a little shy.
I try to sidestep, but he grins and blocks my escape, all affable jock confidence. “You’re Simone, right? From American Lit?”
“Yeah,” I say, wary. My mind is still racing with the carrot and the way Thomas never even said goodbye.
“I saw you in class. You asked about the Hawthorne thing,” he says, and I realize he’s been watching. Maybe not as closely as Professor Thomas, but close enough.
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I say, fidgeting with the strap of my backpack.
He smiles, softening the hard edges of his jaw. “I’m Dylan. Dylan Tourneau.”
“I know,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Everyone knows.”
His cheeks go a little pink, and for a second he looks younger than me, despite being a senior and probably old enough to drink beer with actual adults. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway—” He stops, runs a hand through his hair, and then holds out a flyer for some campus event. “I’m supposed to invite people. The whole team is, like, required.”
I take the flyer, but don’t look at it.
“It’s at the pool,” he adds. “There’ll be food, and stuff.”
I look up. His green eyes are actually pretty nice—gentle, no calculation. He’s nothing like the professor.
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m not really a party person.”
He grins, showing perfect teeth. “It’s not a party. It’s more like…a mixer? You can just watch. You don’t have to swim.”
I fold the flyer, tuck it into my bag. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
He shifts on his feet, then blurts, “May I see you?”
The words hang in the air, formal and awkward, like he’s reading from a script. “I mean—would you want to go, with me? On Friday?”
I stare at him. Honestly, the words “may I see you” were just so awkward and weird. Where did he get that from? Wasn’t it the billionaire Bill Ackman who recommended that pick-up line?