I consider her words, then shake my head. “No, you’re right. It’s not worth it.”
“Exactly.” She crosses her arms resolutely. “So, here’s what we’re going to do . . .”
Carson isn’t one for harebrained schemes—that’s more Rainey’s domain. But, since she’s gone home to Virginia for a few days, it’s just the two of us coming up with a way for me to keep my position and my sanity. All weekend, we map out my course of action, writing and rewriting different approaches for different situations involving me, Smith Asher, and my unfortunately illogical libido.
“He said he wasn’t going to tell anyone about the bar, right?” she asks as she scribbles some notes in a spiral.
I nod. “Right.” She bites her lip and jots down a few more lines. “So, in reality, this is something both of you are technically going to ignore.”
“Technically, yes.”
“That is what your mind wants to do. But, of course, your body seems to want something else—namely, his body on top of yours.”
“I never said that.”
Carson snorts. “Didn’t have to. I’ve never seen you this hot and bothered before. This guy’s got your number for sure.”
She glances down at her notebook, then back up at me.
“So, what I think you should do,” she continues, “is have a contingency plan. Something to throw him off if he hits on you or propositions you.”
I frown. “Couldn’t I just report him?”
She eyes me. “I mean—you could . . . but it’s sort of bullshit.”
“Why?” I frown. She cocks an eyebrow.
“Because he didn’t report you, Cyn.”
I sigh. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Fine, what do you have in mind?” Carson shoves a hand back through her short hair, and it spikes up in all directions.
“Let’s role-play. You’re Smith and I’m you. Say something sexy to me.”
I blink at her. “Like what?”
“I don’t know—something that gets your panties wet.”
“Carson!”
She groans. “Come on—you know what I mean. Something that is clearly an attempt to catch your interest. Sexually speaking.”
I took a deep breath then closed my eyes.
“Um . . . how about, ‘Damn, you look hot today.’”
“Seriously?”
My eyes fly open and Carson is shaking her head again. “What!?”
“You can do better than that.”
I cross my arms. “Fine—what about, ‘Hey, sexy—let’s go take a ride in my truck and I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.’”
Carson’s eyes widen, then she collapses into giggles. I can feel my face reddening as I jump to my feet.
“Forget it, I’ll figure this out on my own.”
“No—no.” She grabs the hem of my shirt. “No, I’m sorry. It just sounded funny when you said it. Say it again.”
“Absolutely not.”
“No, come on, Cyn. I’m sorry. I’m an ass—say it again. I promise I won’t laugh.”
I glance at the clock, then back at Carson. Then I sigh.
“Hey, sexy,” I sort of grumble. “Let’s go take a ride in my truck and I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.”
Carson stands up and gets right up in my face. She pokes a finger into my shoulder, hard.
“Ow!”
“Listen to me, Smith Asher,” she says, her eyes narrowed into slits, “you and I had nothing but one night that’s ancient history. Forget it ever happened and, if you can’t do that, transfer to another class.”
I step back, blinking. “That’s pretty good.”
Except that night wasn’t ancient history.
I keep reliving it in my memory.
I mean, it wasn’t just the physical attraction, which was clearly potent—it was also the little moments where he was . . . well, sweet. Where we joked and laughed. There were times I could imagine enjoying his company in a million places other than in bed. And I can’t help but think about that. Again and again and again.
“I wonder if I can talk to him about transferring classes anyway,” I muse. I hadn’t considered that before.
“You could do that.” Carson nods. “Is there a class for him to switch to?”
I shrug. “There are a few morning sections of senior English besides mine. I don’t think it would be too big of a deal.”
“Well, then do that first,” she says, closing her spiral. “And if that doesn’t work, take the high road. Act like he doesn’t affect you at all. And, for God’s sake, don’t be alone with him.”
“Right.”
Don’t be alone with him.
Except tomorrow, and every day next week, for detention.
***
In the end, I decide to have Smith come after school as scheduled. Once he’s there, I’ll ask him to switch classes—and then I’ll go on with my position and he’ll get his diploma and everything will be perfect.
Case closed.
But, all the confidence I’d mustered, the bravado I’d felt coursing through me, disappears when Smith walks through my door after school for detention. He’s changed his clothes since this morning—now, he’s wearing a Wizards jersey over a white T-shirt and mesh shorts, and he looks freshly showered. He also looks absolutely scrumptious.
Dammit.
“Miss Hendricks,” he drawls, his gaze locking on mine. “I’m here for detention.”
I give him a sharp nod, then motion to a desk at the back of the room.
“You can sit there and work on whatever you have with you.”
He sort of smirks. “I don’t have anything with me.”
“Grab a book, then.” I gesture to a shelf with a few dozen copies of Hamlet and a handful of other books.
“Not much of a punishment,” he quips, but he heads to the back of the room and grabs a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Once he’s seated, I force myself to look down at my desk at the writing diagnostics I’m reading.
I just need to make it a half hour. Thirty minutes without talking.
I only make it two.
“I think you should transfer classes,” I blurt out.
I can’t look at him as I say it, but, once it’s out there, I steel myself and glance up. He’s leaning forward now, both elbows on his desk and the book open between them. My gaze locks in on his arms, and I want to close my eyes and savor the memory of how they felt wrapped around me. But, unlike the night we met, his shoulders are tense and I watch his throat working as he swallows. Slowly, he closes the book in front of him and stands.
I feel my heart begin to pound and I want to smack myself. Why did I have to say something now? I should have waited until we were on our way out or something—then I wouldn’t be stuck in this room with him, alone, making excuses for myself.
“Why do you think I should transfer classes?” he finally asks as he gets closer.
His voice is deep and low, and I just stare at him as he grabs a chair and drags it up in front of me. He flips it around backward, straddles it, and sits down. Now, our eyes are at the same level, and a half smile tugs at the left side of his mouth.
“Because,” I say, frustrated. “I just feel like it would be better if you weren’t in this class.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?” I practically growl.
“Why does it matter if I’m in your class or not?”
I clench my jaw and take a long, slow breath. When I let it out, I splay my hands wide on the table, palms up. Maybe appealing to his sense of morality might work.
“I just don’t think it’s right that I be responsible for your record here. I don’t want to give you any special treatment or anything. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Smith’s smile kicks up into a wide grin.