I grab a hold of the gloves, and he lets them go, his eyes following my hand when I extend my arm beyond his bicep.
Arsen steps up with an aura of confidence I should expect yet find myself charmed by.
Scott’s glare is pointed right at Arsen, but he gives him not a moment’s attention. His face remains blank as he takes the outstretched gloves and turns his body sideways, so he’s now facing ours. His muscular arm glides beside my head to grab the size small I need for myself.
As he backs away, he decides it’s time to go, and hooks his middle finger with mine at my side.
Arsen tugs me forward with his backward steps.
I fight a grin when Scott doubles down on his frown.
“I have to go.” I slip past him, playfully whispering, “My partner needs me.”
He doesn’t find it funny, his body turning as mine does and then we’re facing each other again, but this time, he’s the one against the counter while I’m three steps away and counting.
“What your partner needs... is to stay in his lane, and to learn when to keep himself out of a conversation.” Scott’s words are delivered with a nasty, condemnatory tone, making it clear he believes this lane he speaks of is several miles behind his own.
Arsen comes to a screeching halt, causing my body to bump into his. The finger curled with mine twitches. I glance down, finding I’m subconsciously running my thumb along his knuckle.
“Oh, that’s right.” Scott delivers a foul laugh, widening his shoulders. “Conversations aren’t something he’s capable of.”
I jerk free of Arsen’s hold and I’m in Scott’s face before I know what I’m doing or why.
Threats are ready to spew from me like vomit, vomit he deserves to be served fresh and hot across his ridiculous shoes for calling attention to someone’s disabilities, but I take a second to swallow, to heed the subtle warning in his eyes when what I really want to do is spit in them.
He and I, we run in the same circle, the one I was pulled into when my old friends learned I was coming back here.
Arsen, he doesn’t even have a circle, but a triangle, and I don’t doubt he’s capable of handling anything thrown his way.
So why am I standing in his way?
I lick my lips.
“Lucky for him, I’m not a fan of useless conversation.” I manage to hold the indignation at bay and hit him with a bored grin. “Catch you later, Scott.”
Stepping out wide, I maneuver myself around Arsen, and head straight for our table, but I’m caught around the wrist and yanked to a hard halt.
My eyes snap up to meet Ransom’s.
His glare is instant and he shoves to his feet, his head jerking in the direction I came from.
His jaw flexes and he releases me, but I don’t stand there to see what comes next and I don’t know why my muscles have turned to knots.
I hastily slip the gloves on and dive straight into the mixing bowl to blend the ingredients, ignoring the ridiculous way my pulse beats through my palms.
I don’t realize I’m basically strangling the poor dough until a solid chest meets my back, a familiar one that shouldn’t feel familiar, and large hands slip inside the bowl, molding over mine.
His fingers do the work, entwining ours together and guiding us both, kneading and rolling the dough as if he’s done this a hundred times when the whisk already gave away the truth.
His chin dips slightly, bringing his jawline to my cheek.
At my back, his chest rises and falls with long, full breaths, and my lids decide to close.
Suddenly his lips are at my ear, parting, but all that comes out is a half-exhaled chuckle.
“Ms. Filano.”
My eyes fly open, and every other pair in the room is now on me, thanks to Mr. Gant’s critical tone.
Arsen, in absolutely no hurry, removes himself as my blanket and steps beside me.
Mr. Grant crosses his arms, taking a few short steps into the main aisle with his focus on me. “Something wrong?”
I might be losing my mind.
I might feel hot all over with only a second’s foreplay… in the middle of a cooking class, with a guy I basically just met, like a practiced hussy.
Are those things ‘right’?
I shrug to myself.
Hell if I know.
I look to the expectant man with gray-speckled hair and a mustache that would make Gomez Addams proud.
“Define wrong?” slips from my lips without thought.
Two memorable chuckles follow, as do a few others from around the room, but those come from people who are most definitely not on the same page.
Mr. Grant’s eyes widen before he can stop them, but he returns to his desk with a simple, “See me after class.”
As he turns away, I pull the gloves from my hands and toss them in the trash can near our feet. My eyes shift to Arsen.
His are already on me, a deep frown curved along his forehead, and the longer he stares, the deeper it gets. With a hint of reluctance, he looks over his shoulder.
Toward his friends.
Friends, I have a feeling, he’ll have long after this year is over.
Or maybe not.
They’ll probably fuck him over, or vice versa.
Every real relationship turns sour eventually.
Convenience and precise understanding are so much smarter, cleaner.
Necessary.
It has to be.
I don’t look away from the task at hand until the bell rings and we’re sliding our dough into our slot in the fridge.
Thankfully the teacher is occupied with another student, so I’m able to slip from class without a lecture on etiquette. A second after my heels cross the threshold of the room, my phone dings with a text from Scott.
Scott: I’m wearing white on Saturday. You should, too.
And just like that, the self-proclaimed capo demands confirmation our little interaction was simply banter between rich kids with superiority issues.
With a long inhale, I do my part.
Better to pet a persistent dog than attempt to shoo it away, everyone knows it only makes them more eager.
Scott will get his dance, and he knows it.
Ah, how the circle of the high society goes round.
I frown at my screen, at the smirking emoji I sent back, and just before I press the little button on the side to turn the screen black, a sneer fans along my hair.
All at once, Beretta, Arsen, and Ransom are slipping past me. The first two keep forward, without looking my way, but not Ransom. He spins, walks backward down the hall with his head cocked the slightest bit, shaking it back and forth.
I swear a heavy breath escapes him as he reaches out, tugging on his friends’ shirts before spinning and throwing his arms over their shoulders.
A girl walks by then, stepping out wider as they grow closer, and all at once, they jolt toward her, making me jump when a short scream flies from her mouth.
They chuckle, disappearing around the corner, and the girl growls, flicking her gaze their way in disgust. She recomposes herself, and I squash my grin as she breezes past me with a low mumbled, “Freaks.”
I don’t know why, but I push forward with rapid steps, gliding around the corner they curved, and continue toward the exit it leads to.
I throw it open and step out, jerking in surprise.
I glare, but as quick as it sets in, an unexpected low laugh slips free. This time I’m the one shaking my head.