Marty?
I can’t remember her name. Probably because I’ve never bothered to ask for it. She’s cute, though. A helluva lot cuter than I realized. Pretty face, dark hair, smokin’ body—shit, how have I never noticed that body before?
But I’m noticing now. Skinny jeans cling to a round, perky ass that just screams “squeeze me,” and her V-neck sweater hugs a seriously impressive rack. I don’t have time to admire either of those appealing visuals because she catches me staring and a frown touches her mouth.
“Everything okay?” she asks with a pointed look.
I grumble something under my breath. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment.
One dark eyebrow rises in my direction. “Sorry, was that English?”
I ball up my midterm and scrape my chair back. “I said everything’s fine.”
“Okay, then.” She shrugs and continues down the steps.
As she picks up the clipboard that contains our tutorial schedule, I fling my Briar Hockey jacket on, then shove my pathetic midterm into my backpack and zip it up.
The dark-haired girl heads back to the aisle. Mona? Molly? The M sounds right, but the rest is a mystery. She has her midterm in hand, but I don’t sneak a peek because I assume she failed just like everyone else.
I let her pass before I step into the aisle. I suppose I can say it’s the gentleman in me, but that would be a lie. I want to check out her ass again, because it’s a damn sexy ass, and now that I’ve seen it I wouldn’t mind another look. I follow her up to the exit, suddenly realizing how frickin’ tiny she is—I’m one step below her yet I can see the top of her head.
Just as we reach the door, she stumbles on absolutely nothing and the books in her hand clatter to the floor.
“Shit. I’m such a klutz.”
She drops to her knees and so do I, because contrary to my previous statement, I can be a gentleman when I want to be, and the gentlemanly thing to do is help her gather her books.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine,” she insists.
But my hand has already connected with her midterm, and my jaw drops when I see her grade.
“Fucking hell. You aced it?” I demand.
She gives a self-deprecating smile. “I know, right? I thought I failed for sure.”
“Holy shit.” I feel like I’ve just bumped into Stephen fuckin’ Hawking and he’s dangling the secrets to the universe under my nose. “Can I read your answers?”
Her brows quirk up again. “That’s rather forward of you, don’t you think? We don’t even know each other.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to take your clothes off, baby. I just want to peek at your midterm.”
“Baby? Goodbye forward, hello presumptuous.”
“Would you prefer miss? Ma’am maybe? I’d use your name but I don’t know it.”
“Of course you don’t.” She sighs. “It’s Hannah.” Then she pauses meaningfully. “Garrett.”
Okay, I was waaaay off on the M thing.
And I don’t miss the way she emphasizes my name as if to say, Ha! I know yours, asshole!
She collects the rest of her books and stands up, but I don’t hand over her midterm. Instead, I hop to my feet and start flipping through it. As I skim her answers, my spirits plummet even lower, because if this is the kind of analysis Tolbert is looking for, I’m screwed. There’s a reason I’m a history major, for chrissake—I deal in facts. Black and white. This happened at this time to this person and here’s the result.
Hannah’s answers focus on theoretical shit and how the philosophers would respond to the various moral dilemmas.
“Thanks.” I give her the booklet, then hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans. “Hey, listen. Do you…would you consider…” I shrug. “You know…”
Her lips twitch as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Actually, I don’t know.”
I let out a breath. “Will you tutor me?”
Her green eyes—the darkest shade of green I’ve ever seen and surrounded by thick black eyelashes—go from surprised to skeptical in a matter of seconds.
“I’ll pay you,” I add hastily.
“Oh. Um. Well, yeah, of course I’d expect you to pay me. But…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I bite back my disappointment. “C’mon, do me a solid. If I fail this makeup, my GPA will implode. Please?” I flash a smile, the one that makes my dimples pop out and never fails to make girls melt.
“Does that usually work?” she asks curiously.
“What?”
“The aw-shucks little boy grin… Does it help you get your way?”
“Always,” I answer without hesitation.
“Almost always,” she corrects. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time. I’m already juggling school and work, and with the winter showcase coming up, I’ll have even less time.”
“Winter showcase?” I say blankly.
“Right, I forgot. If it’s not about hockey, then it’s not on your radar.”
“Now who’s being presumptuous? You don’t even know me.”
There’s a beat, and then she sighs. “I’m a music major, okay? And the arts faculty puts on two major performances every year, the winter showcase and the spring one. The winner gets a five thousand dollar scholarship. It’s kind of a huge deal, actually. Important industry people fly in from all over the country to see it. Agents, record producers, talent scouts…. So, as much as I’d love to help you—”
I can’t remember her name. Probably because I’ve never bothered to ask for it. She’s cute, though. A helluva lot cuter than I realized. Pretty face, dark hair, smokin’ body—shit, how have I never noticed that body before?
But I’m noticing now. Skinny jeans cling to a round, perky ass that just screams “squeeze me,” and her V-neck sweater hugs a seriously impressive rack. I don’t have time to admire either of those appealing visuals because she catches me staring and a frown touches her mouth.
“Everything okay?” she asks with a pointed look.
I grumble something under my breath. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment.
One dark eyebrow rises in my direction. “Sorry, was that English?”
I ball up my midterm and scrape my chair back. “I said everything’s fine.”
“Okay, then.” She shrugs and continues down the steps.
As she picks up the clipboard that contains our tutorial schedule, I fling my Briar Hockey jacket on, then shove my pathetic midterm into my backpack and zip it up.
The dark-haired girl heads back to the aisle. Mona? Molly? The M sounds right, but the rest is a mystery. She has her midterm in hand, but I don’t sneak a peek because I assume she failed just like everyone else.
I let her pass before I step into the aisle. I suppose I can say it’s the gentleman in me, but that would be a lie. I want to check out her ass again, because it’s a damn sexy ass, and now that I’ve seen it I wouldn’t mind another look. I follow her up to the exit, suddenly realizing how frickin’ tiny she is—I’m one step below her yet I can see the top of her head.
Just as we reach the door, she stumbles on absolutely nothing and the books in her hand clatter to the floor.
“Shit. I’m such a klutz.”
She drops to her knees and so do I, because contrary to my previous statement, I can be a gentleman when I want to be, and the gentlemanly thing to do is help her gather her books.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine,” she insists.
But my hand has already connected with her midterm, and my jaw drops when I see her grade.
“Fucking hell. You aced it?” I demand.
She gives a self-deprecating smile. “I know, right? I thought I failed for sure.”
“Holy shit.” I feel like I’ve just bumped into Stephen fuckin’ Hawking and he’s dangling the secrets to the universe under my nose. “Can I read your answers?”
Her brows quirk up again. “That’s rather forward of you, don’t you think? We don’t even know each other.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to take your clothes off, baby. I just want to peek at your midterm.”
“Baby? Goodbye forward, hello presumptuous.”
“Would you prefer miss? Ma’am maybe? I’d use your name but I don’t know it.”
“Of course you don’t.” She sighs. “It’s Hannah.” Then she pauses meaningfully. “Garrett.”
Okay, I was waaaay off on the M thing.
And I don’t miss the way she emphasizes my name as if to say, Ha! I know yours, asshole!
She collects the rest of her books and stands up, but I don’t hand over her midterm. Instead, I hop to my feet and start flipping through it. As I skim her answers, my spirits plummet even lower, because if this is the kind of analysis Tolbert is looking for, I’m screwed. There’s a reason I’m a history major, for chrissake—I deal in facts. Black and white. This happened at this time to this person and here’s the result.
Hannah’s answers focus on theoretical shit and how the philosophers would respond to the various moral dilemmas.
“Thanks.” I give her the booklet, then hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans. “Hey, listen. Do you…would you consider…” I shrug. “You know…”
Her lips twitch as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Actually, I don’t know.”
I let out a breath. “Will you tutor me?”
Her green eyes—the darkest shade of green I’ve ever seen and surrounded by thick black eyelashes—go from surprised to skeptical in a matter of seconds.
“I’ll pay you,” I add hastily.
“Oh. Um. Well, yeah, of course I’d expect you to pay me. But…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I bite back my disappointment. “C’mon, do me a solid. If I fail this makeup, my GPA will implode. Please?” I flash a smile, the one that makes my dimples pop out and never fails to make girls melt.
“Does that usually work?” she asks curiously.
“What?”
“The aw-shucks little boy grin… Does it help you get your way?”
“Always,” I answer without hesitation.
“Almost always,” she corrects. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time. I’m already juggling school and work, and with the winter showcase coming up, I’ll have even less time.”
“Winter showcase?” I say blankly.
“Right, I forgot. If it’s not about hockey, then it’s not on your radar.”
“Now who’s being presumptuous? You don’t even know me.”
There’s a beat, and then she sighs. “I’m a music major, okay? And the arts faculty puts on two major performances every year, the winter showcase and the spring one. The winner gets a five thousand dollar scholarship. It’s kind of a huge deal, actually. Important industry people fly in from all over the country to see it. Agents, record producers, talent scouts…. So, as much as I’d love to help you—”
