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CHAPTER ONE

The large clock in the library catches my eye as the rhythmic ticking continues on and on. Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock. Still, the student I’m supposed to tutor is nowhere in sight.

“I wonder why you're failing your classes,” I whisper to myself and roll my eyes as I open my planner and look at what else I have on my schedule. After saying it aloud, I immediately feel bad and wish I could take the words back, but I'm at least thankful no one was around to hear it.

It takes a lot to upset me, and tardiness is a major pet peeve of mine. If I can squeeze a forty-five-minute study session into my extremely busy schedule with my extracurriculars and double course load, then the least I expect is showing up on time.

The door to the study room opens, and my breath hitches in my throat seeing the man who walks in. He doesn't look like anybody I've seen before on campus. He's tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and a long tattoo down his forearm of a viper with its mouth hanging open to snap. What strikes me most as I look at him, almost forcing me to look away, is the intensity in his green eyes. His eyes are a proper green, too. Not the hazy, subtle green bordering on a murky brown you often see with green eyes. These are intense, vibrant eyes the color of spring moss that almost take my breath away.

He sits down across from me, running his fingers through his short black hair. It's semi curly and tousled, like he just slipped out of bed to walk here. I sit up straighter in my chair as I look at him, studying his face. He doesn't look like a student, and I wrinkle my eyebrows as his eyes scan my face.

“I have this room reserved. I think you're in the wrong place,” I say, slamming my planner shut and preparing myself to get up and leave. I have my own stuff to worry about, and I can't wait around any longer. Besides, do I really need the extra credit?

The door opens again, and I look up, expecting to see the student I've been waiting for, only to spot Sawyer casually strolling in with his backpack draped over one shoulder.

“Hey, Corinne,” Sawyer says with a slight grin. “Cool, I see the two of you have already met then. I can leave you two alone. I just wanted to show Jax to the library since he didn't know where it was.”

How could someone not know where the library is? It's one of the first things we show on our campus tours...

I catch myself mid-thought, realizing that this is the student I'm supposed to help study. Professor Blake told me it was a student in our English class, so I was waiting for one of them to show up. I've never seen Jax in class before. Not that I would have been particularly looking for him, but he kind of sticks out.

“You're in Professor Blake's English class, then?” I ask the man, double-checking I still won’t be wasting my time. He leans back and folds his arms across his chest, raising an eyebrow as he nods one singular time. “Why haven't I seen you all semester?”

My heart drops, thinking I will have to practically teach him everything we've gone over so far. We're already halfway through, with midterms right around the corner.

“Jax just transferred, and he needs to get caught up on things,” Sawyer explains, still lingering by the doorway to run away as quickly as he can. I'm sure Rowen is waiting for him outside, and the two of them can't wait to escape to their house. “He's on the team now, and it's university policy that he keeps up his grades. Otherwise, he'll get cut from the team, and Coach Emerson will have a heart attack.”

Great, so I'll be responsible for someone's heart attack if I don't do this. No pressure. I definitely need to talk to Professor Blake about how much extra credit I'm getting for this. I sigh and lean back in my chair, tapping a pencil against the mahogany table without thinking.

Jax doesn't say a word as Sawyer explains why he's here. That irritates me more than I can articulate. Here I am, volunteering my time to help him, and there Sawyer is doing the same thing. Yet Jax can't even give us the courtesy of speaking for himself.

Instead of speaking up and telling me about where he transferred from and what his working knowledge of the subject is—given his silence, I’m inclined to wonder if he has any working knowledge of English—he stares at me. Even when my attention is turned to Sawyer to listen to him, his eyes linger on my face, studying every curve and groove as if he is going to draw me from memory later tonight.

“Do you know how to get back to the apartments from here?” Sawyer asks Jax, hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.

“Yeah,” he says, only giving me a moment to hear his voice. It reverberates and rumbles in his throat, and that singular word almost sends a shiver down my spine I can't control.

Sawyer says goodbye and promptly rushes from the library, leaving the two of us alone once and for all. There's a heavy moment of silence between us as I wait for him to say something, anything to make this easier for me. His eyes stay on me, refusing to leave as he drinks me in.

The attention is unusual, and I don't know what to do with myself. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I would give anything to be able to control my reaction, not to give him the pleasure of seeing me flustered. But I can't take the silence anymore, so I have to break it.

“Where did you transfer from?” I ask, waiting a moment for a response and not getting one. “Listen, I need you to help me. If I know where you transferred from, I can at least try to understand what you might have accomplished on your curriculum so I know where to start.”

“I just need to pass the midterm,” he says, sitting up straighter and resting his elbows on the table as he continues to watch me. “As long as I get a C or above, I can stay on the team.”

I can't help myself as a disappointed sigh escapes my throat. Of course, someone like him doesn't actually care about the course load. Aside from staying on the team, he won't put in any effort. I might as well just take the midterm for him at this point because I know professors and coaches will do everything in their power to help him over other students like me.

It's unusual enough to have a student transfer midsemester, but then to make it another student's responsibility to help them understand the course load is something else altogether. I'm irritated, and that's not something I feel often.

“Well, let's not waste any more time because, believe it or not, you're not the only one who has things going on,” I say, feeling the venom in my words only after I say them. A rush of heat flows through my body when I realize I've potentially said something to set him off. I don't know if it's fear or excitement, but when I look at him and see a small smirk on his lips, something ignites inside me.

“Have to go see your boyfriend?” Jax asks, cocking an eyebrow as he awaits my reply.

I don't know why his question makes me blush, but it does. “No. Not like that's any of your business, anyway.”

“You're a little fiery,” Jax comments, a hint of amusement in his normally deep, almost monotone voice. “I like that.”

My body responds to that in a way I cannot anticipate, and I have to look away. I feel silly, almost like I'm admitting weakness by doing it, but if I stare at him any longer, I'm going to explode.

“What's the last thing you remember about your English class at your old school?” I ask, redirecting the conversation to studying. I don't want to have to tell him our boundaries outright because it feels like I'd be assuming something, and if I'm wrong, that would be humiliating. But I'm hoping he can at the very least take a hint.

“So no boyfriend, then?” Jax says, leaning forward as his eyes darken. The smile on his lips becomes more playful, and I don't know what to think about it. “The men in the school really must have no taste.”

God, why can't I stop blushing? This is so unfair...

“You'll have to take that up with them, not me,” I say, trying not to stammer over my words as a rush of heat moves through my body and lands between my legs. I don't understand what is happening to me. Regardless, I can't take this anymore, so I straighten my spine and press my palms flat against the table while I stare at him. “Now, either you tell me what you know or I have to end the session. I'm serious.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I need to know where you're from, what course you were taking, and what you remember,” I say, almost relieved that we're finally getting somewhere.

He leans forward, taking a sharp inhale and momentarily looking away from me as he studies his hands on the table. “I just transferred from Glendale. Honestly, I don't remember anything about my English class.”

I expect to be more irritated about the fact that he clearly wasn't paying attention at his old school, but I'm too preoccupied by the fact he told me he's from Glendale College to care.

Glendale is notorious around here. Their football team has had a historic rivalry with our own, and I hear a lot about it thanks to Sawyer and Rowen talking about it all the time. Glendale is brutal. They don't hold back on or off the field. Everything I know about them has encouraged me to stay as far away from their side of town and their campus as possible.

Looking at Jax now, I can see how his darkened eyes and bad-boy exterior came from a place like that. My stomach twists at the idea of him being in one of the brutalist groups, almost functioning like a gang. I've heard a lot of rumors about men like him, and I don't know how I feel spending every Tuesday and Thursday locked away in a study room across the table from him.

And the fact that every time his gaze falls from my eyes to my lips, a shiver washes over my body, landing between my legs, scares me. I shouldn't be interested in him at all—and I swear that I'm not. Someone like him doesn't work with someone like me.

A student worker knocks on the door and jolts my attention away from Jax. Another student is behind them, immediately telling me that this room has been reserved for someone else, and we have to leave.

Even though Jax is bad news, I can’t help being a little excited for our next session.