A month since the breakup, and still a shiver ran down my spine like cold fingers. I hated it. I slammed my locker shut. Bang! As much as I wanted him to disappear, I had to deal with him eventually. Might as well be now.
Bowen rested a shoulder on the locker beside mine. His tall, broad-shouldered frame screamed all-American. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why I fell for all that. Include bronzed skin and sun-kissed brown hair, and you had a combination lethal to the female population of all ages, if I based my info on my grandmother’s opinion. His eyes—the color of black coffee—raked over my body with a familiar possessiveness I never liked. They started from my face, down to my respectably sized chest, all the way to my skinny jeans.
My foot tapped an uneasy beat. “What are you doing here, Bowen? Don’t you have practice this morning?”
His biceps bulged from crossing his arms. “We did.” He pointed at his wet hair. “We just finished.”
“Right.”
“Hey, Bowen!” Penny skidded to my side, her long, black braid bouncing over her shoulder. Today she chose a ruffled, pink shirt and jeans combo with cowboy boots, embracing her inner farm girl. I breathed an immediate sigh of relief. “What’s a jerkwad like you doing harassing my best friend this early in the morning?”
I smirked. Score one for Penny. The frown on Bowen’s face filled my chest with satisfaction. Lots of it.
He shifted his gaze from Penny to me. “We need to talk.”
Before she could answer for me, I said, “No. We don’t.”
“Selena—”
The bell interrupted him.
“Let’s not.” I held up my hand to stall anything else he had to say.
“See ya!” Penny tugged at my arm, and I went with her willingly.
…
My encounter with Bowen put me in a mood. The rapid tap, tap, tap of my pencil hitting my desktop helped distract me from the invisible two-ton hands that settled on my shoulders. Rogue, copper curls tumbled down my forehead. I blew them away, but they kept bouncing back down. Officially annoyed, I ran my fingers through them. Still no go. Giving up, I slumped forward, pencil squeezed between my thumb and forefinger.
At least I had Mr. Sloan’s entrance to look forward to. But even the thought of seeing him again didn’t lighten the zombie apocalypse feel math always inspired.
“Is it me or does our textbook get thicker every year?” I sat up and pushed the book away with my pencil. The less contact the better as far as I was concerned.
“It’s you.” Kyle, equation sympathizer, leafed through the glossy pages. A lock of dirty blond hair hid the devious sparkle in his eyes, highlighted by his too innocent smile. With his striking looks, he charmed members of the estrogen club, too, but to me—the best kept freak in Newcastle—he’d always be a mix of protective and annoying. Like a Labradoodle—half fun, half uptight.
“I can’t help being allergic to math.” I pouted.
“Not a real thing.”
I heard the eye roll in his comment. “Oh, yeah? I break out in hives every time I start solving a problem. Explain that, Mr. I Like Math.” I crossed my arms and eyed the cover photo of a kid smiling down at a worksheet.
“You sure this is about math?” his drawl cut through my bitterness.
“Okay, no.” His question hit the nail on the head, and I was the nail. “Seeing Bowen before first period—”
Mr. Sloan walked in, cutting off all negative thoughts inspired by the ex. Math just got way better. All the girls gaped in silent adoration, while the boys sat straighter in their seats in an attempt to look cool in front of the man who personified cool.
Rainer Sloan. Even his name was cool.
Last year, someone had organized a vote for hottest teacher at Newcastle High for the yearbook. Mr. Sloan got 346 votes even though the school only had about 300 students. His dark brown hair framed his perfect face: high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips, and an adorable dimple on his chin. And those blue eyes legit smiled. Always.
He made our math teacher, Mr. Hilton, look featureless as they stood side by side, speaking in hushed tones. If I took out my phone and snapped a picture of them together, Mr. Hilton would be the lowly mortal beside a Greek god.
Everyone leaned forward in a too obvious attempt to listen in. I couldn’t blame them. After handing Mr. Hilton a white piece of paper, Mr. Sloan gestured for someone to come in. A second period latecomer.
“This is where my vision stopped,” I said to Kyle through the side of my mouth, my eyes narrowing at the door.
“You mean…” his chair squeaked.
“Yeah.”
The teachers ignored the collective gasp when a tall boy walked in, the strap of a messenger bag slung across his chest. He stood at the head of the class with a slight, downward curve to his lips and the ghost of a knot on his brow. The too-cool-for-school type, huh? The way he wore his clothes from the navy blue sweater to the dark jeans and well-worn boots screamed rock star. His hair, the color of rich chocolate…was that a faux-hawk? My eyebrow twitched. So five years ago. But on him, it seemed to work. And those eyes…like the clear, blue skies stretching up to forever all over Wyoming. If I imagined Mr. Sloan years younger, he would be the guy that just walked in, complete with slight chin dimple.
Great, just what we needed.
At Newcastle High, a new student was as rare as a fire rainbow streaking across the sky. It happened, but not often enough. The jury was still out on whether I liked this rare occurrence. But it seemed like I was in the minority.
As if a switch had been flipped, all the girls in the room turned their full attention from Mr. Sloan to the new guy. Lust at first sight. My ears rang from the chorus of sighs. Some girls fluttered, batting fake lashes and smiling outrageously. The newcomer acted like they weren’t even there. Even Sheila Easton’s infamous hair flip didn’t change his sour expression. He just stood there and waited for Mr. Sloan to finish talking with Mr. Hilton like the last place he wanted to be was in a classroom.
“You didn’t see that walk in?” Kyle raised an eyebrow at me.
“It doesn’t work that way, remember? I only see what I see.” I spoke through my teeth. He would so get me in trouble if he spoke any louder.
“Class, settle down,” Mr. Hilton drawled.
On cue, a hush dropped over the room.
“I’d like to introduce Dillan Sloan.” Mr. Hilton gestured lazily at our new classmate. “And yes, he’s Mr. Sloan’s nephew, so no need to gossip about their relation. Will you tell us a little something about yourself?”
New guy ignored him and took the empty seat next to mine. Of course he was his nephew. Mr. Sloan looked way too young to have a son Dillan’s age. I wouldn’t accept it.
“Hi,” he said like he didn’t mean it.
I did a double take. “You mean me?”
“Why not?”
I snorted. “Selena Fallon.”
Just to be polite, I extended my hand. He reached out to take it. The second we touched, a spark zinged up my arm.
“Ye-aw!” I jumped out of my seat. All eyes in the room immediately focused on me.
“Miss Fallon?” Mr. Hilton harrumphed from the blackboard.
Dillan’s expression swiftly went from indifferent to slightly pained, ending with confused anger. I stared. He stared. Hard. First at his hand, and then at me. Like he couldn’t believe what just happened. Hell, even I didn’t know. I looked at my hand, too. My palm sort of tingled. What the hell?
Chapter Three
Dillan
Anywhere But Here
Lunch break couldn’t come fast enough. With every subject he sat in, Dillan kept darting his eyes to the clock, mentally counting down the seconds. When finally the bell rang for lunch, he rushed out of the room and stood out in the hallway, trying to make sense of the map attached to his schedule. Why he needed one for a school so small annoyed him. Did they think he couldn’t find his way around? From the haphazard representation of the school floor plan, it seemed like a six-year-old drew it. He’d seen ancient scrolls with clearer images.