“We are five minutes from class.”
“Well then, you better start asking questions.”
“Brutal.” He chuckles but then doesn’t waste any time in getting down to business. “Where did you transfer from?”
“California.”
“Cali girl? Explains the skirts. It gets cold here, so I hope you’re ready to pull on some pants.”
“I gathered that.” Our steps fall in line with each other, and it seems so easy to be walking side by side with him. Strangely, it doesn’t feel as weird as I’d expect. For the last six years, there’s only been one man’s arm that’s hung over my shoulder, and it certainly wasn’t as muscular and solid as Knox’s arm. Neil was barely two inches taller than I am, so I never felt so . . . cradled, for want of a different term. And it’s nice. Freeing somehow. Whereas Neil wasn’t openly warm and tactile, Knox is, and we’re barely friends.
“Why did you transfer?”
“Wanted a new beginning.”
“Someone wrong you?” he asks casually.
“Ex-boyfriend, but that’s not anything we need to get into right now.”
Instead of answering right away, Knox pauses and then says, “He’s an idiot for ever letting you go.”
It should sound like a line, an automatic response a guy would have to get inside a girl’s pants, but it doesn’t come off that way when Knox says it.
It’s genuine and to be honest, it makes me want to lean in a little closer to this guy.
“He is an idiot,” I confirm.
“So, you’re here, starting a new chapter in your life. How’s it going so far?” He opens the door to the lecture hall and ushers me in, sticking close by my side as we make our way through the crowd to our classroom.
“Well, there’s this guy who I seem to keep running into—pretty sure he wants to be the hero in the story—the secondary characters are the best friends a girl can ask for, even though they make her dress like a ‘panther,’ and the story arc seems to be in my favor so far.”
We reach the classroom, and he opens that door for me as well. Chivalry isn’t dead in this one. “Think the guy you keep running into will become the hero of your story? Solidify it?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Doubtful, probably just a funny side character.”
He grips his heart. “Ouch, Ealson, that hurts.”
I pat his shoulder. “You’ll survive.”
When I go to sit up front, he snags my backpack, halting me in place. “Where do you think you’re going?” He thumbs toward his friends who are sitting in the back. “We have seats already.”
“You might, but I prefer to sit in the front.”
He shakes his head. “Not going to happen. Who else am I going to write notes to?”
“I bet Carson would enjoy a love letter.”
Knox turns to look at Carson, who’s waving enthusiastically at us. “Look at that goon, he’ll be heartbroken if you don’t sit with us.”
“He’ll be heartbroken, or you will be?” I raise a brow in his direction.
“A man never reveals his true feelings after the fourth encounter. Don’t you know anything about love arcs?”
“Third,” I correct him smoothly, even though his literary knowledge can easily bring me to my knees.
He steps down to my level and holds his hand out, ticking off the times we’ve seen each other. “Today, the jungle party, last week’s class . . . and the night your boob tried to run away.”
I grip his hand and push all his fingers down. “We don’t mention that night.”
“I might if you don’t sit next to us.”
“Blackmail? Really, Knox?”
“It’s not beneath me,” he answers with a charming smile.
Rolling my eyes and letting out a long sigh, I walk back up the stairs and scoot down the baseball row—that’s what I’m calling it.
“Ealsonnnn,” Carson says, holding out his hand for a high five. How barbaric a greeting, but I give it a quick snap and sit down. Holt nods in my direction but is still stuck in his phone, texting away. I should get used to seeing the top of his head, because I’ve seen more of his unruly hair, than his actual face.
Leaning over, Knox whispers, “See, aren’t you happy you’re sitting with us? We’re a good time.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Annoyingly fun.”
Shaking my head, I take out my computer and get ready for class. Looks like I’m adding more secondary characters to my new story . . . just not a hero.
Knox nudges my arm and grants me his devastatingly good-looking smile.
Most definitely not a hero.
I hate him.
I hate him with every fiber in my being.
Knox Gentry is dead to me.
“Em, wait up.” He chases after me but I keep up my pace, trying to get as far away from him as possible.
But my short strides can’t get past his long and powerful ones and before I can get more than ten feet away, he has his arm around me again, laughing quietly to himself.
“Come on, you can’t be mad at me.”
“You made me snort in the middle of class when everyone was quiet.”
He laughs some more. “It’s not my fault that I’m funny.”
I stop and face him, arms folded across my chest. “Professor Culpepper now knows who I am and not in a good way.”
“He’s a douche. You don’t need to worry about him.”
“He asked me what was so funny.”
“And you gave him an amazing answer.”
I shift my lips from side to side. “Saying crackling pubescent voices was not an amazing answer.” It was the only thing I could think of on the spot without revealing what Knox wrote on his computer for me to read.
“It made the entire class laugh.”
“Yeah, and now he thinks I’m the class clown.” I wave my hand out to the side in anger.
“Nah, don’t give yourself that much credit. Maybe a witty student, but not the class clown. You have to do way more to earn that title.”
“Ugh,” I groan and start marching away but don’t get very far once again.
“Come on, Em, admit it was fun back there.”
“It was not fun. I’m not sitting by you anymore.”
“You wound me, Emory Ealson,” Knox calls out. “Where are you going? Come have lunch with me.”
“Never,” I call out, turning toward him for a brief second, hiding the smile that wants to pass over my lips. He must catch it because before I can turn away, he returns the smile in full force.
Damn him.
Damn his smile.
And damn his notes.
And thanks to Knox Gentry, I’ll never be able to look at Professor Culpepper the same way. Because when I was least expecting it, while the professor was mid-sentence, Knox so eloquently pointed out a cluster of freckles on Professor Culpepper’s face that had a striking resemblance to the middle finger.
Look at his face, Ealson. His freckles are telling us to fuck off.
So, whenever I see him, all I’ll see now is him flipping off anyone who looks him in the face.