Chapter 4
I’m sprinting to class, cursing under my breath as I rip off a fake eyelash and shove it in my bag. The second one comes off with a painful tug that makes my eyes water.
I’m late.
Never again am I booking a birthday party between classes. Sure, the money’s good, but it’s worthless if I end up kicked out of Covey U.
My backpack lands on my back with a hard, repetitive thud as I dash across the quad. My lungs burn, and I’m pretty sure there’s glitter glue in my hair from when Emma squirted it on my head while we were making a magical glitter unicorn, but there’s nothing I can do now.
By the time I reach the lecture hall, I'm seventeen minutes late.
It’ll be fine. People walk in late to classes all the time. I've just got to sneak in and sit in my usual corner seat. No one will notice, and I can just listen to the professor talk about the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.
I take a deep breath, smooth down my clothes, and push the door open—only to realize I've just interrupted Professor Foster mid-sentence.
All eyes are on me.
The silence in the hall is deafening.
My knees knock in mortification because not only am I late, but my face no doubt has half my Princess makeup caked on.
What an impression to leave not only on my favorite professor, but the rest of the class.
“You're late, Miss…” Professor Foster glares at me with enough intensity to burn a small village, and I deserve it.
“Conners. I'm Laura Conners,” I say, trying to sound confident despite the fact that I probably look like an Evermore princess who just ran through a bush.
I suppose I should be happy that I at least managed to put some sweats on in the car before my sprint.
“I'm sorry, Professor. I had some car trouble.”
It's technically not a lie. My car did make a very concerning noise that sounded like a dying whale when I turned into the parking lot. The fact that I was late because I was washing glitter out of my hair at Princess Emma's house isn't relevant information.
“Don't let it happen again.” She gestures to the front row. “Take a seat.”
I scan the room, and to my absolute horror, realize that the only available seat is right next to none other than the dick slapper himself.
Scotty Hendricks.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The hockey king is staring at me with those impossibly blue eyes and a slow-spreading grin that makes my stomach do a weird little flip. I force myself to ignore it, because it’s probably just hunger. I haven't eaten since that single strawberry I managed to snag from the dessert table.
I hurry to the seat, avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially with him, and slide in, making myself as small as possible.
Put me on a stage or in front of a group of kids and I can handle all the attention in the world, but when it’s just me—Laura Conners—I can’t stand making a spectacle of myself. I don’t know…sometimes it feels like I don’t have anything worth giving and I’m wasting people’s time.
“Hey,” Scotty mumbles. My body tenses, but I hold back from snapping at him, or even looking at him, since I don't want to draw any more attention to myself.
I just want to get through this class with no one mentioning how I'm still wearing iridescent highlighter on my cheekbones. Besides that, last time Scotty and I were in close proximity, I was soaking wet and flashing my nipples to the entire freshman class. I’m still waiting for those images to show up on social media and for my drama class to use it against me.
Professor Foster dives back into the lecture, so I scramble to pull out my notebook and pretend I’m capable of focusing. I really try, but there’s one tiny, impossible problem.
Scotty is right there.
It’s easy to ignore him—hell, I didn’t even know he was in this class—when he sat far away from me, but now that he’s here I can’t shake him.
Every time I finish writing down a sentence, his hand brushes mine. It’s light and accidental, but it’s enough to send a jolt up my arm. When he types something on his laptop, I can’t help but notice his hands.
Big. Huge, in fact.
His fingers are so thick, it’s ridiculous.
How does the keyboard survive the finger assault?
Finger assault.
I roll my eyes.
And of course he smells good. Hockey players don’t usually smell like that.
His presence is… overbearing.
He takes a steady breath, completely absorbed in whatever she’s saying.
Meanwhile, I can’t absorb anything except him.
He’s so loud in this quiet way. It’s like his existence takes up more oxygen than the average person, and the longer I sit here, the thinner mine feels.
“Now, class,” Professor Foster announces, snapping my attention back to the front, “I'd like you to look at the person sitting next to you.”
I look to my left, full of disappointment that I'm in an aisle seat, so there's only one way for me to look.
Rolling my head to the side, I risk a glance at Scotty, and his eyes are already on me. He flashes a small smile. I want to call it bashful, but after the number of videos I’ve watched of him online—research Lyss insisted I do to “know my enemy”—I’m pretty sure bashful isn’t in his vocabulary.
I only have to remember that his dick was out when I met him to realize that.
His blue eyes skim over me, slowly enough that I swear I feel it. Yeah… he’s still beautiful. Annoyingly so. Would it kill the universe to give him a giant zit on his chin? Just one? Something to make hating him easier?
His smile widens, making his dimples pop.
Prince Alaric.
That’s when it hits me. He looks just like Princess Blanca’s boyfriend in Iced out—which is probably a sign I’ve been working way too hard if I’m comparing real people to animated royalty.
But none of that—his stupid face, his stupid dimples, the stupid cartoon prince resemblance—changes the truth: His looks don’t make him any less of an asshole. If anything, they’re part of the problem.
“You're going to get to know this person really well,” Professor Foster continues.
I let out a dramatic sigh, just to make a point. I mean, how much better are you supposed to get to know someone after they’ve slapped their giant dong across your face?
Yeah, I’m still thinking about it. How could I not? That thing was a full-blown mythological creature. A monster amongst men. A weapon of mass destruction.
And unfortunately for me, the memory is way too vivid to ignore.
“Because they are going to be your study partner for the rest of the year.”
I almost miss the end of Professor Foster’s sentence because I’m still too busy thinking about Scotty’s dong. Truly unfortunate timing. When the words finally register, something flutters low in my stomach—and not the good kind.
It’s dread. Pure, unadulterated dread.
I glance around the room, waiting for someone to jump up and shout gotcha! Because this has to be a joke. A mistake. A fever dream brought on by too much caffeine and one very traumatic encounter with a very large…situation.
I’ve been watching too many clips of his reality TV show, and now I’ve somehow been brought into my own TV show hell.
“This week, I’d like you to write a joint paper on Romeo and Juliet,” Professor Foster continues, completely oblivious to my spiral. “Develop a shared thesis answering: To what extent are Romeo and Juliet responsible for their own fate versus being victims of external forces?”
Well. There it is.
The moment everything collapses.
The moment I pack my bags, kiss Covey U goodbye, and move to a remote, off-grid cabin where no one with a hockey stick—or a weapon of mass destruction in his pants—can find me.
Professor Foster steps away from her little podium, and I swear when she glances at me, she’s suppressing a grin. Maybe I’m imagining it—wouldn’t be the first time—but it feels a little too convenient if you ask me.
Everyone around us starts chatting. Happily, I might add, since they aren’t partnered with the dick assassin.
“Guess that means we’re working together,” Scotty says, his side leaning against mine. The little pressure is enough to make my blood boil.
“You planned this, didn’t you?”
He pulls back an inch, his brows lifting. “What? No,” he says, his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything.”
I scoff. “Please. For the first two weeks, I didn’t even know you existed. Now you’re everywhere. Running through fountains, sitting in my class, invading my dreams.”
“You’re dreaming about me?” His lips twitch but he can’t stop the goofy smile sprawling across his face.
“Scratch that. I meant my nightmares.”
He drops his hands. “Do you really think that if I had the power to hand-pick my partner, I’d choose a girl who looks at me like I’m a walking felony?”
“That’s exactly why I think you did it. You knew my name before I told you.” Then I gesture to his body, waving it around his face. “You’re also sitting down here. Something you’ve never done before.”
He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “I wanted to give you something,” he mutters to himself. Then he leans in and drops his voice just a touch. “I swear, I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t ask to be your partner. I didn’t bribe Foster. I didn’t… do anything.”
Remorse flickers behind his eyes, and for one stupid beat, I want to believe him.
“You did a hell of a lot,” I deflect.
“Yeah, and I already know I’m never living this down,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Erik’s gonna have a fucking field day when he hears,” he mutters to himself, facing the opposite direction. I don’t think that was meant for me—but jokes on him, my hearing is freakishly sharp.
He takes a long breath as though he’s bracing for impact.
“For us to…survive this assignment, we’re gonna have to talk, coordinate, and…communicate.” He pauses, and I know where this is going. “Which usually requires…” his hand gestures between us with an almost coy smile.
“No.”