Chapter Three
Gemma
Icheck my teeth in the rearview mirror for a third unnecessary time as I listen to Willa tell me all about Bane’s sleep schedule. While I love my sister-in-law, sometimes the baby tales are too much. We’re in such different places in our lives right now.
I’m about to start my second semester in college and she’s about to change yet another diaper. I certainly don’t envy her at times like these.
“I’m sorry,” Willa says with a tired sigh. “I know you don’t care about all this stuff.”
Jolting at her words, I shake my head, though she can’t see it. “What? I do care. I love my Bane-bae. I’m just nervous about one of my classes. I randomly chose it because all the ones I wanted were full, thinking it was a blow-off class, but I heard since then it’s not exactly an easy one.”
“You’ll do fine. You kill it with everything you do. What’s the class?”
“Historical Preservation and Urban Design. Womp, womp.”
She chuckles. “That does seem like the least Gemma Park class to ever exist, but I’m sure it won’t be so bad.”
“Says the nerd who married her teacher.”
We continue chatting until Bane starts wailing. Once we’re off the phone, I check my appearance one last time before grabbing my backpack and the giant Michael Kors handbag my parents got me for Christmas. The familiar nerves are in place as I attempt to gracefully climb out of my Tahoe.
Breathe, girl.
You’ve totally got this.
I affix my signature smile and start through the parking lot toward the building where my class is located. An old hunk of junk nearly plows over me, forcing me to jump back with a squeal. Several other students in the parking lot briefly look my way. The careless driver whips into an open spot nearby and parks partly on one of the lines.
The idiot drives like Dempsey does.
With a huff, I make sure no other runaway clunkers are about to take me out before making my way safely to the walking path. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder at the perpetrator. Some tall guy in a military jacket and messy dark hair flings himself out of the vehicle. His bag is half open and several papers fly out of it. Of course he doesn’t seem to even notice, kind of how he didn’t even see me crossing the lot.
What a dick.
Turning my attention back to the building, I lift my chin and walk with all the confidence I can muster. A couple of girls whisper and point at me before they both giggle. I give them a small wave that they don’t return.
Being a Park and now a pretty successful influencer, I’ve earned my fair share of notoriety. Sometimes it makes me friends and other times it makes me the butt of a joke. Most often, when people take the time to get to know me, they end up liking me. It’s just getting there that’s the problem.
“Weirdo,” one of the girls mutters as she passes.
I turn just in time to see the reckless driver hot on my heels. It’s then I realize they were laughing at him, not me. He’s absently unwrapping a piece of candy, not paying a bit of attention to the fact he’s about to slam right into me. Right before I start to move out of his way, another big guy pounces on him.
“There’s my boy!”
The weirdo grunts as he attempts to swat away the other guy, who’s now trying to put him in a bear hug. I step aside to watch them. They’re both older than me and one of them wears a PMU letterman jacket with a football patch and the number fourteen below it.
“You’re not in this building today,” Weirdo says, voice low and quiet. “Why are you here?”
“To see you, dipshit. You’ve been avoiding me and I’m over it.” The football guy finally pulls away to grin at his friend.
“Dax,” Weirdo huffs, “I told you—”
“I know,” Dax says with a groan. “Cedarwood comes first. Dude, sometimes you make it difficult as fuck to be your bestie.”
What is Cedarwood?
As though I’ve asked the question aloud, Dax turns his head my way. His green eyes rove appreciatively over my carefully selected outfit before landing back on my face.
“Hey,” Dax says, lips curling into a grin. “What’s up, beautiful?”
“Tell your friend to watch where he’s going,” I blurt out, ignoring his attempt at flirting. “He nearly ran me over with his hunk of junk.”
The weirdo snaps his head up, finally giving me his attention, and pins his light gray eyes on me. His almost creepily pale eyes slice right through me, penetrating me in a way that makes me shiver, and not from the chilly January wind.
“It’s a 1988 Land Rover Defender 90,” the weirdo clips out, scowling, the scent of butterscotch enveloping me with his nearness. “It’s called a classic, not junk.” His eyes dart over me quickly, instant dislike twisting his features. “And the parking lot is for cars. You should have been paying attention to where you were going.”
I gape at him. What a dick.
“Two, bro, chill,” Dax says, moving to stand in front of his friend. “Sorry about that. His dads dropped him on his head a lot when he was a baby.”
My alarm on my watch beeps, reminding me I need to be in class now. I wave off Dax before pivoting and storming away from the two men. What kind of name is Two anyway? And did he seriously just chastise me for nearly getting run over by him?
Rude.
Whatever.
I’m not going to let that guy ruin my day. Forcing another smile, I make my way into the building and down the hall to my classroom. Since I’m late, there’s only one available table right up front. The professor, a man with a long, graying beard, arches a brow at me but doesn’t mention my tardiness. I’m just settling into my seat and unzipping my bag when another person enters the classroom.
“Mr. Sheridan,” the professor says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I was wondering if you were going to show up.”
Two Sheridan gives the man a slight nod before he scans the room for a seat. His eyes land on mine and then dart to the chair beside me. He flares his nostrils as though the thought of sitting beside me is annoying.
Join the club, buddy. You’re no prize peach yourself.
Ignoring him, I face the professor, eager to get class started. My morning has been off and I’m ready to get it back on track again.
“I’m Jack Pederson,” our professor says, hands on his hips, “and this is not a blow-off class. If you signed up thinking you were going to sleep through this one, you may as well take yourself down to Administration and drop this course.”
One guy playfully pretends to stand up, but Mr. Pederson waves a dismissive hand at him. “Charlie, don’t be cute.”
Charlie sniggers but settles back in his seat. I’d been hoping it would be easy, but as Mr. Pederson passes out the syllabus, I’m beginning to question that initial line of thinking.
“As you can see,” Mr. Pederson says as he makes his way back to the front, “this class will be comprised of lectures on architectural history, seminars on preservation techniques, case studies that analyze successful examples of historical preservation and urban renewal projects, and of course various class trips to local historical sites.” He waggles a finger at Charlie. “Yes, the field trips are for a grade. You skip them and you get a zero.”
Charlie groans. “Hard-ass.”
“You’re still here.” Mr. Pederson shrugs. “That makes you a masochist.”
The class, everyone aside from me and Two, sniggers. There’s clearly history—no pun intended—between Mr. Pederson and some of the students in this class, including Two. Once again, I feel like an outsider.
“What about the semester project?” a girl with fiery red hair asks. “This says it’s worth seventy-five percent of our grade. When do we choose partners? When is it due? When do we start?”
Mr. Pederson waves her off. “We’ll get to that. First, I want you to look at your table partner. This will be your seat for the entire semester and your partner for the semester project. I want you to take the next five minutes to get to know the other person.”
My heart sinks. I have to partner up with the guy who almost ran me over? As if this day couldn’t get any worse. Ugh.
The classroom breaks out into a hum of chatter. Reluctantly, I turn to look over at Two. He’s swiping rapidly through his phone. I try to peek at what he’s doing, but it looks like he’s just scrolling through his camera roll.
I know his type.
I’m going to be stuck doing this whole stupid project alone and he’ll pop in at the end to get half the credit. Maybe I should go down to Administration and drop this class.
Dad would be disappointed.
“You got lucky, miss,” Mr. Pederson says as he walks by our table, rapping his knuckles on the wood surface. “Mr. Sheridan, for the love of God, let her do some of the work.”
Two grunts but continues his rapid-fire scrolling. He pauses long enough to dig around in his bag. Once he pulls out a butterscotch candy, he unwraps it, pops it into his mouth, repeats the process with another, and then continues his scrolling.
Right.
Solucky.
I suck in a deep breath and slowly exhale to settle the irritation burning in my gut. While I wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s doing, I skim through the syllabus again.
Seventy-five percent of my grade depends on this whack job.
“So,” I utter, forcing myself to look over at Two. “Tell me about yourself.”
He runs the candies along his teeth, making a clanking sound that has my eye twitching. I arch an eyebrow, waiting for his answer.
Nothing.
When he finally finds whatever he’s looking for, he lets out a sharp whistle that has everyone looking his way. Mr. Pederson chuckles and saunters over to us.
“Cedarwood,” Two says, thrusting his phone at the professor.
Again with this Cedarwood.
Mr. Pederson’s eyes widen. “Wow, Mr. Sheridan. You’ve got quite the gift for this.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Arrogant much?
“Thanks for sharing,” Mr. Pederson says as he returns the phone. “Now get to know your partner, please.”
Finally, Two pockets his electronic distraction and turns his critical stare my way. “Why do girls wear fake eyelashes?”
I blink at him in confusion. “What?”
He points a long arm my way, his bony finger inches from my eyeball. “Fake.”
Though he’s talking about my eyelashes, I can’t help but flinch at the word. Some of my harshest critics in the social media world accuse me of being fake. I’m not fake. I just don’t share all the imperfect parts of me.
“Why are you so dismissive and rude?” I snap back, cheeks growing hot.
His brows knit together. “It was just a question. Why are you so sensitive?”
The gall of this guy.
It takes a lot to get me riled up, but Two has managed to boil my blood since the second he nearly took me out with his car. And I’m supposed to deal with this all semester? Yeah, right.
“Tell me about yourself,” I grit out. “What’s Cedarwood?”
His pale eyes glimmer with excitement and he flashes a shockingly handsome smile my way complete with dimples and all. “Cedarwood Mansion. I’m working on a miniature restored replica. It’s all hypothetical and based off historical photographs since those bastards won’t fix her up to her original beauty.”
Okaaaaay.
Not at all what I was expecting.
It makes sense now why he’s apparently besties with our professor.
Two is still grinning at me, and it’s a bit disarming. Maybe this terrible day is because of my mood, not his. He’s an oddball but an attractive one.
“Can we start over?” I ask with a tentative smile as I thrust my hand at him. “I’m Gemma Park. Nice to meet you.”
The dimples fade and his full lips tug into a frown. “Are you fucking for real?”
Oh great. What did my family do now?
“Excuse me?” I ask, the heat once again burning at my cheeks.
“Is your mom named Jamie?”
I stiffen and gape at him in confusion. Usually, it’s my dad or one of my brothers or Spencer who earns the shocked gasps or pissed-off snarls. Never Mom.
“Yeah. Do you know her?”
He sneers at me, “Nah, Golden, and I hope I never have to.”
What the actual hell?