Chapter 4 #2
He sat beside me like it was a throne and not a school chair, flipping his pen between his fingers and smirking like we were already mid-conversation.
Across from us, Tristan watched the two of us like we were the opening scene of a particularly juicy episode of reality TV. Popcorn energy. No shame.
“So,” Leo said, kicking his long legs out like he owned the floor under them. “What’s it like being the most talked-about girl on campus?”
I arched a brow, not looking up from my laptop. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t follow irrelevant accounts.”
Tristan gave a low whistle. “Damn. Round one to the scholarship girl.”
Leo’s grin deepened. “Touché. Though for someone trying to fly under the radar, you kissed me in front of, like, eighty people.”
“You kissed me,” I shot back, still not looking at him. “Let’s get our fairy tale facts straight, Prince Charming.”
Tristan laughed. “Yo, I like her.”
“I never said I didn’t,” Leo said, low and smooth.
That made me glance up.
He was watching me. Not in a sweet, harmless way. In that slow-burn, scan-every-detail way that made your spine straighten and your stomach flutter like it forgot how gravity worked.
I blinked. “Do you flirt with all your group partners, or am I just that lucky?”
He smirked. “Only the ones who bite back.”
Tristan leaned in, whispering loud enough for us to hear, “This is so much better than Econ. Please keep going.”
I crossed my arms. “You know, I came here to work.”
Leo shrugged. “I’m multitasking.”
I narrowed my eyes. “So, let’s clarify this little group dynamic. You’re the jock. Tristan’s the jester. I’m the brain.”
Tristan gasped dramatically. “Excuse me, I have layers.”
Leo tilted his head at me. “And what makes you think you’re the brain?”
“Because I read the assignment. You were too busy thinking up your next Instagram caption.”
He barked a laugh, full and unbothered. “Fine. I’ll let you take the lead.”
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered. “Chivalry’s not dead after all.”
Leo leaned closer then, elbow on the desk, that crooked grin playing on his lips again. “Don’t get cocky, Jade. You’re smart, I’ll give you that. But you’re not really my type.”
The smile dropped from my face before I could catch it.
Tristan stopped laughing.
Leo just looked at me like he hadn’t said anything wrong at all.
I swallowed. “Good. Because being someone’s ‘type’ isn’t on my college resume.”
He looked at me for a beat longer than necessary.
I didn’t look away.
And even though it stung—what he said—I refused to show it. Because I knew what he was doing. The push and pull. The interest and the insult. He was keeping control.
He just didn’t realize I was learning the game too.
The bell rang like a fire alarm.
I was up before the echo finished bouncing off the stone walls, stuffing my laptop into my bag so fast I almost zipped it closed on the charging cord. I didn’t wait for Leo to say another word. Didn’t glance at Tristan. I practically launched myself toward the door.
Every step away from that desk felt like peeling off a layer of heat. Embarrassment. Frustration. That sharp burn in my chest I didn’t want to name.
He wasn’t my type either. Arrogant, smug, born with a silver Rolex on his wrist and a killer smile that meant trouble. So why did that one sentence feel like a slap I didn’t see coming?
You’re not really my type.
I took the long way out of the building, darting down a side hallway like I was avoiding security cameras.
Royal Oaks Prep was a maze of polished stone and centuries-old prestige, but I’d already learned where the shadows were.
Where the back exits led to faculty courtyards and the little cobblestone alley between the science lab and the fencing gym.
I kept my head down, backpack tight against my shoulders, heart thudding like I’d just failed something vital.
By the time I reached the back quad, my breathing was shallow and fast, like I’d just run a mile—but it wasn’t the physical sprint.
It was the emotional one.
I cut across the lawn, past the sculpture garden where girls posed for aesthetic reels and future alumni begged their names to be remembered in bronze. Slipped between the manicured hedges like a fugitive.
I made it to the iron gates without seeing him again.
Small miracle.
From there, it was two crosswalks, a quick slide through a chain-link gap the campus landscapers clearly ignored, and a scramble up the narrow dirt path behind the maintenance shed.
That’s where I’d stashed it—my escape pod.
The trusty beach cruiser with rusting handlebars, faded teal paint, and a squeaky brake that made me feel like I was riding a time machine straight out of a coming-of-age indie flick.
But it was mine.
I straddled it, shoved off, and let the wheels take me away from marbled columns and perfect teeth and boys with biting mouths and eyes that lingered too long.
I survived.
Barely.
By the time I got home, I was out of my uniform in under thirty seconds.
It was still hot—early September, but Rhode Island was holding onto summer like a grudge. I pulled on a pair of frayed denim shorts and a plain white T-shirt, tied up at the waist. Sandals. No makeup. Just salty breeze and skin still pink from the sun.
I didn’t tell Aunt Susan where I was going. She knew the look—needed air, needed the ocean, needed away.
I’d texted Shani to meet me at the cove.
She didn’t reply, but I didn’t think twice. I needed to breathe. Needed to stop replaying Leo’s words on a loop in my head like some cursed track.
You’re not really my type.
Whatever.
The path to the beach was familiar now. Down the cracked sidewalk, past the cottage with the tomato vines, across the wooden footbridge that creaked with every step.
The sand welcomed me like it always did—warm, grainy, familiar.
What didn’t?
The volleyball net.
The shirtless boys.
The high-pitched laughter.
The yacht anchored offshore, shining like some trust fund trophy.
I paused at the edge of the dunes, sunglasses already sliding down my nose. Music thumped low from a portable speaker. Sparkling water bottles in one cooler, White Claws in another. Someone was taking slow-mo video of Leo spiking a volleyball like it was a GQ shoot.
Of course.
Of course it was him.
Leo Holt.
Tristan.
Xavier.
The whole damn varsity wolfpack.
And their accessories.
Girls draped in triangle bikinis and fake lashes. Glossy mouths and blinding veneers. One wore a pearl anklet that probably cost more than my aunt’s car. They were sprawled across towels and driftwood like they belonged to the sand itself.
And then they saw me.
A few of them looked over, then really looked. One leaned toward another and whispered. Laughter followed. Sharp and practiced.
“Someone get lost?” one of them asked, loud enough for me to hear.
The brunette in the pink halter smiled without warmth. “I didn’t realize townie trash was allowed this close to the yacht.”
My spine went stiff.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t shrink. I stepped forward, chin high.
“This is a townie beach,” I said, slow and clean. “Been here all summer. What happened to your silver spoon—get lost in the sand?”
The silence snapped sharp.
“Burn.” That was Tristan, grinning wide as he slapped Xavier’s arm. “Girl’s got teeth. I like her.”
The girls went quiet.
One huffed and turned back to her phone.
Another muttered something about “locals with attitude.”
But they didn’t press it. Not with Leo there. Not when he still hadn’t said a word.
He was standing off to the side, one hand on his hip, towel slung around his neck, sunglasses low on his nose. Watching.
His eyes slid over me like molasses.
Down my bare legs, across my knotted tee, up to my mouth. Not a word. Just heat and calculation behind those shades.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
I bent down, pulled off my sandals, and padded across the sand like I’d been doing it all my life. Because I had. Because this was my beach, not theirs.
I dropped my towel near the edge, planted my feet, and stared out at the sea like it was the only thing in the world that hadn’t judged me yet.
From behind me, I heard Tristan’s voice again.
“She’s staying. Back off.”
Leo said nothing.
But he didn’t stop looking.
Shani showed up twenty minutes late and barefoot, with a towel over her shoulder and half a chocolate croissant in her hand like she hadn’t just walked into a battleground.
“Did I miss a turf war?” she asked, eyes flicking from the volleyball net to the yacht to the girls still throwing shade in my direction.
“Only the usual,” I said, lying back on my elbows.
“Damn. And I didn’t bring popcorn.”
She dropped her towel beside mine and flopped down with a groan, letting the sun hit her full-on. The waves crashed just far enough to keep the tension from sinking in too deep, but it was there—unspoken, just under the surface. Like sea glass under sand.
I could feel him watching.
Leo.
He was pretending not to, but his body gave him away.
He was across the beach, arms crossed now, leaning against a weather-bleached piece of driftwood while Tristan and Xavier joked beside him. He didn’t laugh. Barely moved. Just stood there, lips pressed into a hard line, jaw tight.
Clenched.
Damn, I hated how good he looked like that.
Tan. Broad-shouldered. Volleyball sweat glinting down his chest. Like the crown prince of chaos had been airbrushed into reality.
I turned back toward the sea, pretending not to see it.
Pretending not to care.
Shani pulled a can of lemonade from her bag and cracked it open. “You know he’s watching you, right?”
I smirked, eyes on the horizon. “Is he?”
“Girl.” She tilted her head. “That jaw could cut steel. You broke him.”
I laughed. Loud, careless, because I could.
Because I’d made it through the week without falling apart and right now? I was on my sand, in my skin, with my friend. Not some legacy puppet paraded around in plaid and pearls.
“Maybe he’s just mad I didn’t beg him for attention,” I said.
Shani raised her can in a toast. “To men not getting what they want.”
I clinked my lemonade against hers and took a sip. It was warm, a little flat, but perfect.
We started joking about our AP Gov group—Tristan being the class clown, Leo being the “aloof genius with anger issues.” I was mid-laugh when I caught it again.
That heat.
That presence.
My skin buzzed under it.
I looked over my shoulder casually—and there he was. Shades still on, face unreadable, but his whole posture screamed irritated.
Control slipping.
I tilted my head, offered the faintest, most defiant smile.
Then I turned back to Shani.
Let him stew in it.
Let him feel what it’s like to want something that won’t play the game.
Because I was done being anyone’s entertainment.
Even his.