Page 17

17

SCARLETT

I hate math.

I’m sitting crisscross applesauce on the bed in my new room with my calculus textbook open and papers scattered in front of me.

Just days ago I was saying that I was excited to really jump into the class material and challenge myself. Talk about be careful what you wish for .

I haven’t taken a math class since high school. Even though I’m pre-law, Brumehill has a famous philosophy that they want their graduates, no matter what major, to be well-rounded in rigorous subjects, so Calc I is a graduation requirement for any degree.

My teeth grind together as my pencil scratches against my notebook. My next step for the problem I’m working on isn’t making any sense at all.

Holding up the notebook to my eyes, I examine my previous work … and realize I made a major mistake on the second step.

My work that’s filled up two entire sheets of paper is completely wrong. I have to start from the very beginning.

“Oh, fuck me,” I groan, flinging my head back in frustration.

“You’re lucky no one else is in the house right now. Someone might’ve taken that as an invitation”

Suddenly, Lane is filling my doorway, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb with his hands casually slung into his jean pockets. Said jeans hang low on his hips, and the white cotton t-shirt he wears is molded against the jagged ridges of his muscles.

Pinpricks of heat scatter over my skin as I remember just how acquainted I used to be with those trim hips and that sharply toned physique. I try to chase the reaction away, but that’s when my gaze ticks up to his face and I see his thick, blonde hair spilling out of the backward baseball cap he has tugged on.

Heat pools between my open thighs, and a tingling sensation dances at the base of my spine.

It’s my third day sharing this house with Lane and the guys. The last time I spoke with Sabrina, my (I guess now former) landlord, it didn’t sound promising that the basement apartment was going to be livable anytime soon. This might just be my permanent abode for the rest of the semester.

And I’ve been wound up so tight that I’m practically buzzing. Living in the same house with Lane isn’t good for my nervous system, not when I can’t stop remembering how his big, rough hands felt raking over my skin every time I glance at him.

Maybe I should take the same approach that you’d take with a cold pool. Plunge in and get my system used to it instead of slowly, torturously lowering my body inch by inch.

Lane’s able to deliver that joke with no tension, so I should work on volleying back with the same coolness. Convince myself that I’m so over what happened between us a year and a half ago that I can joke about it, just like he can. Fake it ‘til I make it.

I pull a grin onto my lips and crook it at Lane. “Maybe I meant it to be.” I inject a playfulness into my voice so he knows I’m just kidding around. Like he was.

I didn’t expect his eyes to darken and smolder, though, or for his Adam’s able to bob in the thick column of his throat like it is now.

But the reaction erases from his face so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it.

He’s as cool and blasé as a moment ago when he answers, “Probably wouldn’t be a good idea in case the other roommates found out. Sebastian might get jealous.”

I laugh, even though deep down I feel a poke of disappointment that us sleeping together is something Lane finds so easy and natural to joke about.

But rationally, I know he has the right approach. He and I are ancient history in that respect. We’re just old acquaintances now, and he’s helping me out because he’s a good guy who doesn’t want to see me without a place to live.

I try to get myself into the same mindset. “Jealous of you, or jealous of me?”

Lane chuckles. “Maybe both.”

I shrug. “We could turn it into a Why Choose situation.”

Lane laughs, quirking an eyebrow. “ Why Choose ? Is this some dirty book thing, like your mafia romances?”

A silly, happy feeling lights up my chest. He remembers the kind of book I was listening to on that plane when we first met?

“Yes, but I won’t scandalize you with the details. Something tells me Sebastian isn’t the kind who shares, anyway.”

“Neither am I.” Once again, Lane’s expression seems to sharpen, and something unreadable flashes in his eyes, a stark contrast to the laid-back, playful demeanor he wore just a split-second ago.

But once again, it disappears so quickly I convince myself I imagined it.

“Maybe we could hide our lurid tryst from the other roommates,” I continue to roll with the joke.

An amused sound pulls from Lane’s throat. “Yeah, I’m sure they won’t notice us sneaking into each other’s rooms.”

I shrug. “We could be quiet.”

“No. We couldn’t.”

This time, the thick gravel that coats Lane’s voice is too real for me to pretend I’m imagining it. I certainly can’t pretend I don’t feel the vibration from its low rumble between my legs.

We never were quiet in bed that summer, eighteen months ago. I recall his raspy moans against my ear while he moved between my legs. I chase the memory away before it skyrockets my body temperature and ruins my panties.

“What are you working on?” Lane asks, his voice now cleared.

I’m grateful for the change of subject.

“Math.” Right now, the word alone is enough to douse some of the flames flickering inside me. Some of them.

“Hm. My favorite subject.”

I narrow my eyes at him and bunch up my mouth at the side. “I’m waiting for you to say something to indicate your sarcasm.”

His lips tilt. “No, I mean it. I love math. I know a lot of people hate it, but I just don’t think they approach it right.”

“I’d like to approach it with a serrated knife,” I grouse, giving the textbook and papers gathered at my knees the stink eye.

“I’ll tutor you,” he says.

“Now?” I ask. With desire still winding through me, I don’t think that sitting next to Lane at a desk—or even worse, on my bed—is a wise decision.

“I have a late afternoon class I have to get to right now,” he says, “but what about tomorrow? We can meet at the library or a restaurant in town or something.”

I nod. “It’s a date.”

He tilts a wry grin at my choice of words, and my conscience whispers at me, be careful .

Too bad being careful isn’t something I’ve ever been good at.