Chapter 3
chapter three
The classroom door swings shut behind me with a soft click. I scan the room, and there it is—the last island in a sea of occupied desks. Right next to Alec Vanderholt again. Shit. For a second, I consider standing for the entire lecture, but that would just draw more attention. So I suck in a breath and start walking.
"Look who's gracing us with her presence. Vanderholt’s greatest nemesis,” someone mutters. I don't glance their way, don't give them the satisfaction.
Alec's eyes meet mine as I approach, ice-blue and uninviting. He shifts his muscular frame, making the chair next to him seem even less welcoming. I hesitate, just for a moment, feeling the weight of every stare in the room. But giving up isn't my style.
"Excuse me," I say, voice steady, as I slide into the seat. Personal space becomes a luxury we apparently can't afford.
"By all means," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Take a seat next to this snake, if you dare.” I settle into place, accidentally brushing his arm with mine. It ignites a line of heat in an otherwise cold exchange.
"Never said I was afraid of snakes," I reply, matching his tone. My gaze locks with his, challenging, fierce.
"Didn't take you for the masochistic type," he quips, a smirk playing on his lips, "choosing to sit next to me."
"I always knew you were the self-flattering type," I shoot back. "Take a look around and tell me what other options I had."
His laugh, low and unexpected, catches me off guard. There’s something cold and sinister to it, as if it’s a challenge.
The professor's voice slices through the murmur of the classroom, snapping me back to our surroundings. "Today we will be kicking off your semester project, which will span the entire semester. As you all know, this project will be a crucial part of your final grade, as it will account for fifty-five percent of it," Professor Harlow announces, his voice carrying authority. "Today, I'll be assigning partners for this project."
"Excuse me, Professor?" My hand shoots up before I even register the impulse.
"Ah, Miss Winters," he says, eyebrows raising as he gives me the floor.
"Isn't it more practical if we choose our own partners based on complementary skill sets?" I ask, confidence and nervous desperation lacing into each word.
"Interesting point, Salem," the professor says, though his tone implies it’s anything but. "However, this assignment is as much about adapting to different work styles as it is about the content."
"Adapting is one thing, sir," I counter, "but efficiency is another. We could maximize productivity?—"
"Miss Winters, always so eager to streamline," Alec interrupts, his voice smooth like whiskey but just as potent. "Afraid you can't handle a little unpredictability?"
My gaze snaps to him, my blood heating up. "I handle just fine," I bite back. "Some of us are here to excel, not coast on family names."
"Ouch," he says, feigning hurt, that smirk never leaving his face. "Here I was thinking you enjoyed a challenge."
"Challenges, yes. Time wasters? Not so much."
"That’s enough," the professor cuts in. But I'm not looking at him; I'm locked in on Alec, who leans back in his chair, all casual arrogance. The air between us crackles, and I swear, if looks could kill, one of us would be leaving in a body bag.
"Partners will be assigned," the professor concludes. Decision final. No room for argument. “Whoever you’re sitting with, congratulations. You’re now partnered for the project.”
"Fantastic," I mutter under my breath, realizing it’ll take all my restraint to keep from starting World War III in Westcroft University with Alec Vanderholt. Fate has a twisted sense of humor.
"Can't wait to see you play nice," Alec whispers, so only I can hear.
"Playing nice is overrated," I whisper back, meeting his ice-blue eyes with fire in mine. "Challenges are just opportunities in disguise," I shoot back, my voice slicing through the growing tension. The rest of the class is a white noise backdrop to the battle unfolding between us.
"Spoken like someone who's never faced a real one," Alec retorts, his eyes glinting with a provocation that sets my nerves alight.
"Trust me, Vanderholt, my whole life's been an obstacle course. This project? It’s just another hurdle."
"Is that so?" He leans forward, arms folded on the desk, muscles flexing beneath his crisp shirt. Fuck. I hate that I even notice them. "Let's see if you can keep up then."
"Keep up?" My laugh is sharp, bitter. I lean in too, which is a mistake, because suddenly I’m close enough to catch a whiff of his cologne—a subtle, expensive scent that makes my brain reel. Fuck. Why does he smell so damn good? The fact that it’s affecting me like this somehow infuriates me even more. "Try to not slow me down."
"Grow up and deal with each other, Mr. Vanderholt and Ms. Winters!" Professor Harlow's voice booms over ours, and the room falls silent. All eyes on us, but it's Alec's gaze that burns into mine. "This isn't a boxing ring."
"Could've fooled me," I mutter. I thought I’d said it quietly, but a ripple of laughter to spreads through the classroom.
"Whether you like it or not, you two are partners for this assignment," Professor Harlow says, his tone brokering no argument. "I suggest you figure out how to cooperate or receive a failing grade."
"Yes, professor,” I immediately state, sitting straighter in my seat. I’ll do just about anything to keep my perfect grades. Even fake nice with Alec fucking Vanderholt.
"That’s what I thought,” the professor says flatly, his eyes flicking between us, a warning clear in his gaze. “Consider this part of the learning experience."
“Don’t fuck this up for me,” Alec mutters quietly.
A retort is right at the tip of my tongue, but the professors gaze returns to mine.
“Your assignment is to sell the class on something undesirable,” he explains, turning his attention elsewhere. His aide stands and hands the students in the first row a paper bag. “You’ll draw out your assignment. You and your partners will draw up an outline for your presentation. It is to be twenty minutes long. And if you can convince fifty-five percent of this class to buy it, you pass.”
Interesting. I watch with eagerness as the front row withdraws pieces of paper. The partnerships lean in to each other and whisper, already getting down to business.
Finally, the bag is passed our way and I accept it. Looking at Alec with an arched brow, I hold it presented, forcing him to be the one to pick what we’re going to have to sell.
He holds my gaze the entire time as he reaches a hand inside. He swishes his hand through the papers as if he can sus out the perfect one. Finally, he withdraws his hand.
A ten-acre piece of swampland in Florida infested with pythons and the occasional alligator.
“Fuck,” Alec mutters as he reads it.
I pass on the bag to the next table. The aide follows along, recording names and project subjects.
“This ought to be a blast,” I say flatly as I grip my pen so tight, it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two.
The next evening, I march up to the courtyard table where Alec's already sprawled out like he owns the place, course materials forming a neat fortress in front of him. I toss my own notes down with more force than strictly necessary, the papers fluttering like wounded birds.
"Move your empire, Vanderholt. We need space to work," I snap.
He shifts, angling those piercing blue eyes up at me, amusement flickering in them. "Your stuff can fit in the corner, Winters. Wouldn't want it to get lost in the vastness of my... 'empire.'"
"Ha-ha," I deadpan. I plop down next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Too close. I scoot several inches farther away.
"Let's get this shit show started," I say, flipping open my binder. "We need a plan."
"Already have one," he responds, tapping a finger on a color-coded timeline.
"Great," I mutter, "a plan without any input from half the team. How collaborative."
"Feel free to suggest changes, Salem," he says, that damned smirk tugging at his lips. "If you can improve perfection."
"Challenge accepted." I snatch the timeline, scanning it with a critical eye. "Okay, these deadlines are too loose. We have to speed things up," I assert, eyeing the calendar.
"I've got a lot going on, Salem. Can't rush through everything," Alec defends, his tone slightly annoyed.
"This is our grade,” I prod. “This is our senior year. What could be more important?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The rest of our classes. Family. Work. Personal projects," he replies condescendingly.
I study him for a moment, trying to decipher if he’s actually overwhelmed. It’s easy to lay down judgements, but if I think about it critically for two seconds, he really does probably have a lot on his plate. I mean, he is the heir to the biggest diamond company in the country. Plus, he’s the only student here at Westcroft who can keep up with me. That doesn’t happen with a lax schedule.
Still, I don’t want to have any sympathy for the bastard. "We have to adjust it, at least a little," I insist firmly, pushing for a compromise.
He sighs wearily, tousling his blond hair in frustration, a gesture that annoyingly suits him well. "I could push it a week earlier, but that’s all."
"Wow, compromising. Is that painful for you?" I tease with a smirk, sarcasm lacing my words.
"Absolutely excruciating," he deadpans but there's a spark in his eyes hinting that he’s amused by the banter.
"So, what are your suggestions on selling this muddy shithole we’ve been assigned?” I ask, diving into the meat of it.
And to my great annoyance, he presents the exact same idea I had.
Great minds think alike?
Great minds just might kill each other.