Page 9 of In the Net (Sin Bin Stories #5)
HARPER
A s my index finger hits the period key to end my latest paragraph, I realize I’m almost finished this essay.
I look at the clock on the upper right side of my laptop. I’ve been on a roll here in Last Word for an hour and a half.
I was having trouble concentrating back in my room, so thought a change of scenery might help spark my mind. I was right. I’ve flown through two whole pages of my essay, and now I’m at the point where I’m wrapping up all my arguments and setting the stage for my conclusion.
A wave of confidence rolls through me. This essay is good. I’m proud of it. And I have a feeling it just might send me to the city I’ve always dreamed of visiting.
I let myself fall into a daydream about it.
Strolling through the narrow streets of the Rive Gauche , where so many of the great writers, artists, and thinkers of history lived and worked; walking down the lofty, tree-lined boulevards that exude luxury and refinement; seeing things like Notre Dame, Montmarte, views of the Eiffel Tower from a distance; spending an entire day in the Louvre.
It's almost intimidating. I feel like I could spend months in Paris and not even come close to running out of things I want to do, things I’ve dreamed of doing so many times.
How am I going to fit it all into a couple days, all while preparing for and delivering a presentation at a major conference—and that’s if I do win?
Either way, finishing this essay will at least be a weight off my back.
Now that we’re getting deeper into the semester, it’s been a challenge to juggle the demands of making this essay as good as possible with my mounting coursework. It feels like I’ve hardly had time to hang out with my friends or just unwind by myself.
An unpleasant feeling tingles in my stomach as that thought dredges up a memory of something my mom said to me earlier today when she called to check in.
I was talking to her about how much I’ve been working on this essay, how busy I’ve felt, and how badly I want to win that trip to Paris. In response, she added some characteristic words of wisdom.
“Don’t you think you should make time in your schedule to try to find a nice guy already? You know, it doesn’t get any easier after college.”
Then she dropped some very unsubtle hints about how sad it would be if I showed up without a date to my cousin’s wedding— again .
It stopped being surprising a long time ago that, whenever I’d talk to my mom about my academic ambitions, she’d steer the conversation to encouraging me to put more effort into “finding a nice guy.” Or reminding me that I’m in my “prime years” to land a future husband, and that it would be a shame if I missed out on the best opportunity I’ll have by spending so much time focusing on “writing silly papers.”
The fact is, no one in my family has ever understood my interests in literature and culture.
I’m from a family where the men all care about making money and getting drunk at the golf course on the weekends, and the women all care about remodeling their kitchens and spending their husbands’ money on expensive clothes and teaching their daughters how to “lock down” men for themselves who can afford to “let them” do the same.
I don’t begrudge anyone for living the kind of lifestyle they want, as long as that goes both ways. But my family always has judged me for wanting a life that’s centered around books and thought, rather than men and money.
My attention gets yanked back to reality when the chair on the other side of my table pulls back and a broad frame settles into it.
“I assume no one’s sitting here,” Sebastian says, having just helped himself to the chair across from me.
I measure him with a nonplussed look. His hair is especially scruffy today, curly strands brushing the black frame of his glasses. He wears an oversized, maroon-colored t-shirt, but as roomy as it is, it does nothing to hide the width of his shoulders.
“Can’t you sit anywhere else?” I ask. I’d love to get all the way to my conclusion today, but my brain just doesn’t function the way it should when Sebastian is around. Being annoyed with him just uses up too many of my mental resources, I guess.
“Trust me, I would, but look around,” he says with a shrug. When I glance around the café, I find that it’s much busier than when I arrived. The seat on the other side of my table really was the only place for anyone to sit.
Just my luck.
Sebastian pulls his laptop out of his bookbag and opens it. “And I need to make progress on this paper I’m writing so bad, even having to share a table with you is an acceptable price to pay to get me out of my house and somewhere I can focus.”
“What class?” Why did I even ask that? Purely out of reflex. Not like I care to learn any more about what’s going on in Sebastian’s life than I have to.
“It’s not for a class,” he answers. “It’s for a competition the English department is doing.”
A knot forms in my stomach. “The Paris competition?” I ask.
His eyes pop up from his screen, locking with mine. A beat of silence passes while a shared understanding dawns between us.
“No way,” Sebastian says. “You’re my competition?”
My nerves buzz. I never thought Sebastian would enter this contest. He already has so much on his plate with hockey.
He’s a threat, I have to admit it.
His writing might not be the most technically polished, but it’s inventive and bold. It catches people’s attention.
Not only that, but this competition isn’t anonymous. The judges will see the name of every entrant attached to their essay.
In a school as hockey-crazy as Brumehill is—especially after the team won the college championship last year—I wouldn’t put it past them to be biased in his favor.
“Guess so,” I answer, trying to firm up my voice with confidence.
Sebastian shrugs, shooting me a cocky look. “Well, may the best man win.”
I purse my lips. “Only one of us is a man.”
He grins. “Exactly.”
Am I above sabotage? Should I go get another drink, then pretend to trip and spill the liquid all over his keyboard, hoping that it ruins his computer and that he doesn’t have the file saved anywhere online, thus losing it for good?
Tempting. But, yes, I think I am above a stunt like that. Damn it.
Besides, Sebastian has done me two good deeds in a row with Mackenzie. At the very least, not only should I not sabotage him, but maybe I should even …
“Well, I wish you good luck,” I push out the words.
“Ha-ha,” Sebastian says mockingly, his fingers already dancing over his keyboard.
“I mean it,” I say. “I’m sure you’ve been working hard on it. Brumehill should send its best to this conference, so whoever writes the best essay deserves to go.”
The clatter of Sebastian’s typing stops. He looks at me with a lifted eyebrow, an edge of surprise in his blue eyes.
“May the best man, or woman, win,” he says, this time with a touch of sincerity in his playful tone. He extends his open hand toward me in a sportsmanlike gesture.
I slide my hand into his. With a firm but gentle pressure that’s so much warmer than I expected, he gives my hand a shake.
A tendril of charged heat snakes up my arm and fills my chest with a light, unsteadying feeling that urges me to pull my hand out of Sebastian’s grasp maybe a bit too quickly.
Sebastian quickly turns his attention back to his computer screen, the ticktack of his keyboard popping over the ambient sound of conversation and clanking glassware.
I, on the other hand, find my concentration stalled out. My mind is stuck trying to explain away why there’s a lingering buzz on my hand that was just enveloped in Sebastian’s.
I try to refocus myself by reading over the last two paragraphs I’ve written. I feel like I’m just about to dive back into my writing, when Sebastian pulls my attention away again.
“Oh, shit, that must be her.”
I lift my eyes to see that Sebastian’s head is turned to the checkout counter of the café here on the ground floor.
“Who?” I ask, the fascinated look on his face making it impossible for me to mind my own business. Even though I should, especially where Sebastian is concerned.
“I think that’s the girl,” he says again, mostly to himself.
“What girl?” I ask, a pinch of annoyance in my voice. If Sebastian is going to commandeer my table and then distract me by talking out loud to himself about some random girl, he might as well have the decency to let me in on what’s so damn interesting.
I follow the line of Sebastian’s eyes to a girl restocking the display of chips and snack bars next to the order counter. My brows perk up, because she’s gorgeous.
As beautiful as her face is, there’s a look on it that would make me think twice about approaching her if I needed to ask one of the employees here something.
Her features look refined and forbidding, and there’s a certain coldness in her dark brown eyes.
Her hair is long, black, and curly. She’s short and petite, but there’s something about the way she carries herself that makes her more intimidating than a man as tall as Sebastian with twice the muscle would be.
When she’s finished stocking, she turns so that I’m able to read her nametag: Carmen.
“I think that’s the girl Jamie’s into,” Sebastian says, interest thick in his voice.
“Jamie? Her?” I ask, taken aback. I don’t know Jamie super well, but I know him well enough to know that he’s basically a cuddly stuffed animal in the body of a ripped hockey player.
I don’t think Jamie’s physically capable of even giving someone a nasty look. This girl looks like she’d bite the head off a sweet boy like him.
“I know,” Sebastian says in a voice that sounds like he’s having the exact same thought. He shrugs. “But then again, sometimes, opposites attract.”
He shifts in his chair to turn back to his computer. In the process, his knee brushes against mine under the table.
My thighs clench as a ripple of searing electricity travels from where we touched and blasts a tight, aching sensation through my center.
All I can do is tighten my jaw and focus my eyes intensely on the words on my computer screen, willing my body to calm down as heat simmers low in my belly and I try to fight off a warm blush crawling up my neck.
My body is reacting this intensely because the contact was so unexpected, I tell myself.
I pull in a slow, deep breath through my nose, trying to unknot my chest. Finally, my body temperature goes down, my thigh muscles release, and I start to feel normal.
With another deep breath, I summon the focus I need to get back into writing my essay.
Now that I know Sebastian is my competition, losing isn’t an option.