Page 85 of Sugar

No.

More obsessing about you and me andthis.

“Nope. Assignments are a problem for Sunday-me.”

Easton snagged my wrist in the way that was hard to ignore. I did my best anyway.

Arousal still pooled at my core, but at least I didn’t tremble.

Small victories.

“Do not procrastinate again, Madeline. If I have Saturday night with you, I want your full attention without impending schoolwork lurking at the back of your mind.”

“It won’t be.” It was the honest truth—and part of the reason why I was a C+ student and not a permanent Dean’s List resident like Greer.

“Correct. It won’t be because next time your assignments will be completed.”

“Is that another rule?”

The elevator opened, but he ignored it, and it eventually closed. “Does that mean that you’ve reached a decision?”

“No,” I lied. “It means I’m taking a note from you and being thorough. Reading the fine print.”

“Then yes, it would be a rule.”

“Fair warning, that might not be possible. I can start assignments, but most of them are extensive.”

He raised a dark brow. “Then why did you leave them to do tomorrow?”

My cheeks flushed. “I may not be the, uh, best student.”

He seemed to know that I wasn’t just talking about my effort level, and his expression softened. “From now on, if you can’t finish in time, we’ll reschedule our plans. School comes first.”

If anything could break me of my slacker habits, the consequence of not seeing him would be it.

I pressed the button to summon the elevator again, and the doors immediately slid open. Once we were closed inside, he asked, “Do you have any other thorough questions you’d like to review?”

“Yes, but not in public.” The words just left my mouth when the door slid open into the busy lobby.

Easton looked tempted to drag me back into the elevator and hit the emergency stop button to prevent disruptions. Instead, he opted to make the journey toward the exit at a quick pace. And since my wrist was still firmly in his grasp, I had no choice but to rush my much shorter legs to keep up.

We weren’t holding hands, but the grip he had on me felt somehow more intimate than if we were.

He continued at that speed until we got outside. Like when he’d picked me up for dinner on Wednesday, it was his own SUV waiting at the curb. His hold on my wrist slowly released as he opened the door for me. I climbed in and practically sank into the seat. It wasn’t as fun as my Jeep, but it had some perks.

Okay, it had a lot of perks.

It was the most luxurious vehicle I’d ever been in—and that was saying something. I could spend an hour touching buttons andgoing through the various menus on the panoramic touchscreen, but I would likely mess with all his settings.

Accidentally, of course.

Well, except the radio settings. That would be on purpose. All his presets were for news and sports stations. I understood staying informed. It was a big part of my future career. But he didn’t have a single music station saved, and that seemed fundamentally wrong.

Not that I was subjected to that torture. When he started the car, he pressed a button on the steering wheel to mute the sound and cut off the droll voice reciting stock price changes. I was tempted to tell him he could leave his stuff on, but that would mean I would be asleep before we reached the party.

I might’ve consumed a lot of news, but reporting on the financial market would never be my field of choice.

I didn’t get the chance to say it anyway. The moment we started driving, he prompted, “Your thorough questions.”