Page 82 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

“All right,” I give in.

“On three?” Xavier asks.

“On three.” I nod.

“One,” we say together.

I tiptoe toward the door.

“Two.”

My hand reaches for the knob.

“Thre—”

I haven’t even opened the door an inch before Xavier’s pulling me behind the massive filing cabinet beside us. Not a single word or warning escapes his lips. He just traps me into an isolated corner, his tall, towering frame swallowing my five-foot-seven body whole.

He’s hiding me.

But from what?

“What the hell are you doin—”

His index finger cuts to my lips, shutting me right up.

Then I hear them.

The voices, the running footsteps outside of the classroom. “We got another one. Back door. Chasing him now,” I hear an officer shout on the radio, his words shrouded by static.

My mouth drops in realization, and I look up at my pen pal, only to find him already staring at me. It doesn’t take a degree to figure out who they’re referring to.

It’s Theo.

He got caught.

And if it weren’t for Xav stopping me, we’d be the ones getting chased. If he hadn’t heard them first and dragged me away from the door, the cops would’ve seen us through the window.

A door slams in the distance, and I jump, clutching Xavier’s varsity jacket instinctively. I think I see a smirk forming on the corner of his lips, and my cheeks blaze with embarrassment.

Jesus Christ, how does he smell this good?

Is it his cologne?

His fabric softener?

Makes me want to sniff him.

Don’t you dare sniff him.

We remain in this position, with my face level to his torso and my fingers squeezing the fabric of his jacket, until the noises subside. I let go of him with a gulp, giving him the green light to back away from me, which he does too soon.

Too fast.

As he moves back, I catch myself yearning for more. More of his nice-smelling fabric softener. More of his infuriatingly toned body on mine. More of that feeling I get when he stands this close. But “more” wasn’t made for girls like me…

Especially not with the captain of the basketball team.

Plus, it’s not like I ever had a real shot with him anyway. The guy doesn’t do love. His last confession made that clear. I beg my emotions to take a beat. Beg my composure to return to me, but the stupid butterflies in my stomach are having a hard-core party, and they’re not going home anytime soon.