1. Millie
“Shit.” I jerked my hand out of the overstuffed backpack and slipped the injured finger between my lips. Pulling it free, I examined the ultra-thin paper cut, a line of blood the only visible sign of the wound.
With a sharp headshake, I turned my focus back to pulling the binder and textbook for class free from the bag, both clasped in a single-handed grip. A loud smack vibrated through the large room when both slammed onto the desk in front of me. Someone two rows down turned at the sound, but I pretended not to notice. I’d grown used to ignoring curious stares and quiet whispers over the years. It didn’t bother me anymore. At least that was my favorite lie I liked to tell myself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a student across the room talk with her friend, their blatant stares on me.
With both hands tucked beneath the desk, I slowly released a centering breath while tapping out a familiar sequence along my thighs to distract me from their curious attention. I did what I could to stay invisible and off others’ radar, but my petite size and young age seemed to draw unwanted attention no matter what I did or where I went.
And believe me, it was unwanted.
Desperate for a distraction, I flipped through the textbook with one hand, the other nervously twirling the new gel pen along the top of the desk as the classroom’s stadium-style setup filled with students and their loud, excited chatter. Every few minutes, I anxiously checked the time, desperate for the class to start. If the professor were up front talking, then the chances of someone filling the empty seat beside me were slim, and I wouldn’t be forced to attempt a normal social interaction.
Which meant I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
Socially awkward would be a kind label to describe my ability to engage with anything that required air to live. Unfortunately, that wasn’t only my perspective, but my parents’, as well. They and basically anyone who ever interacted with me assumed something was wrong, all because they couldn’t understand why. Why I didn’t want to be social, why I preferred books over people, or why I couldn’t carry on a normal conversation.
Their ever-growing list of what made me different and awkward was long.
That definitely didn’t help with my self-confidence problems. Nothing said love and support like being labeled strange because you didn’t behave or want the things society deemed as normal.
After labeling my awkwardness too odd for their very social and public lives, my parents shipped me off to be someone else’s problem. I have bounced around the best boarding schools in the United States ever since. With my unusually high IQ, obsession for learning, and all the free time in the world because I had zero friends, I sped through grade after grade after grade at warp speed.
Which all led me here.
Nineteen years old, taking a senior-level psychology class at Stanford University all alone, and I was completely okay with that. I transferred from Harvard after the spring semester, hoping this program would prove more challenging.
Fingers crossed.
Speaking of which, I studied the injured finger, finding a dried slice of blood along the minuscule cut. Distracted, I didn’t notice the person squeezing their way down the aisle. My heart sank when the enormous shadow passed over the desk, a presence hovering at my side. Gaze lowered, I held a shallow breath, hoping whoever loomed over me would choose another place to sit. Seconds ticked by, but the person didn’t move on. My breathing picked up, and my pulse raced as my nerves skyrocketed.
The person at my back cleared their throat, cutting through the tense silence between us.
“Hey, quick question. Are you?—”
Heat flushed under my skin as my irritation swept away the earlier nervousness. Why couldn’t people just let me be?
“Yes,” I snapped, cutting the male voice off. “I’m in the right classroom,” I said without looking up. “Yes, I know this is a senior-level course. Yes, I wear kid-size shoes. No, I do not want?—”
“Really?” he asked.
I paused my practiced rant that answered the most popular curious questions tossed my way, finally daring a glance over my shoulder at the student who disrupted my solitude. For the first time ever, I had zero thoughts as I studied the stranger. Exotic aqua eyes filled with humor watched me as a single corner of his lips pulled upward in what the romance books I devoured would label a sexy smirk.
And holy shit, this was my first time to see it in real life. They were right. It was damn sexy. Or maybe it was just him, all of him. Heat pumped through my veins for a very different reason than the earlier irritation of my invaded personal space.
My breath caught and my stomach flipped with his stare locked on me.
What the hell was wrong with me? Was I sick?
Still gawking at the boy—no, this guy was all man—not uttering a single word, I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead, discreetly checking for a fever.
“As intriguing as your tiny feet are,” he said, that smirk pulling into a wide smile, “are you saving this seat?”
“Why would I save a seat?” My head tilted to the side in confusion, making my thick, black-framed glasses slip down the bridge of my nose.
“For a friend?” he questioned, clearly as confused as me.
I shifted my attention to the empty seat and frowned. “That wouldn’t make sense. I don’t have any friends.” When I dared a glance back up, his smile had faded, replaced with a look I was not only very familiar with but completely hated, too. “Don’t feel sorry for me, I don’t. I prefer to be alone.”
I did.
Right?
Or was that just all I was used to? Hell, this was the most I’d spoken to a fellow student in… well, ever, and somehow, it made me question all my life choices.
My brows furrowed as I tracked his movements. He slid into the vacant seat without another word and leaned back, still staring like I was a curiosity or a zoo animal. Again, something I was very familiar with. A forlorn sigh escaped, knowing he would dismiss me for someone more interesting or not as socially dysfunctional in three, two?—
“I bet you save a ton on shoes.”
I blinked at the too-attractive-to-not-be-fictional stranger. Yes, I would definitely call him attractive. Another first. If it weren’t for romance books, I wouldn’t know what this fluttering feeling was in my lower belly, considering this response hadn’t happened with a real-life, not-on-paper male.
“What?” I asked and dipped my head to glance under the desk. “You’re asking because my shoes look cheap?” Sure, they were worn, but the Converse held up well. Considering my feet stopped growing years ago, why waste money on new shoes when the ones I had worked just fine?
His brows furrowed. “No. Because they’re so small.”
Frantic movement across the room had us both glancing toward two girls, both waving their hands with wide smiles on their faces. Having his attention, they pointed at a seat between them and motioned for him to join them.
For some unknown reason, my heart sank, knowing full well he’d go sit with his friends—hell, he’d probably take an opportunity to move by a stranger, anyone less awkward than me.
“It just makes sense that kids’ shoes would be cheaper than adult shoes, considering they use less material. Right?”
I flicked a confused look at him, then back to the still-motioning group. “Your friends are waiting.”
Lips pressed in a tight line, his aqua eyes scanned my face before looking away. “I don’t have any friends.”
“That’s my line,” I responded immediately, like an idiot.
Those exotic eyes locked on me, and for a brief second, everything around us faded.
Holy shit, those romance authors actually knew what they were talking about. Now I felt bad for scoffing at all the descriptions of swooning that I believed were completely made up. Because I was pretty sure whatever was going on with me was, in fact, swooning.
Too soon, the boom of a voice had me breaking our stare off and turning toward the professor down front. The first day of class was always the same, no matter the level or university, but I still hoped we would dive into the first few chapters of the textbook. I read the entire thing front to back and couldn’t wait to discuss the areas I had questions about and found intriguing.
“You know we’ll just go over the syllabus today, right?” the stranger whispered while leaning into my personal space. Strangely enough, for the first time ever, I didn’t mind.
“I like being prepared.” I scanned the desk space in front of him that was empty, except for a single pen with chew marks denting the cap. “Apparently, you don’t.”
Arms folded on the fake wood, he rested his cheek on a single forearm, face turned toward me. I shifted in the seat, squirming under his full attention.
“As long as I hear whatever we’re covering, I’ll retain it.” My lips parted in surprise. A wide smile made his cheeks bunch. “I’m not just a pretty face, and if you’re here, in a senior-level class, at the age of….” He trailed off, obviously wanting me to fill in the blank, and arched a brow.
“Nineteen,” I whispered, trying my best to ignore him and pay attention to the professor.
“Then I’m betting you aren’t either.”
“Aren’t what?” I reluctantly dragged my focus from the front to him.
“Just a pretty face.”
A sharp laugh escaped, and I clapped a hand over my mouth. The few students in front of us turned with scowls on their faces before noticing the guy sitting beside me, their annoyance immediately vanishing.
No friends, my ass. What was this guy up to? It wouldn’t be the first time one of the popular kids befriended me to conduct something cruel later on, all for a good laugh from their real friends.
Clearing my throat, I shot him a glare. “What do you want?”
He studied me like he needed a second to debate his answer. “A chance.”
“A chance at what?”
“Being your friend.”
I blinked, the professor forgotten, as I watched the guy suspiciously. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Do you always ask so many questions, Velma?”
“My name isn’t Velma,” I huffed. So that was it. He thought I was someone else. Which made sense and explained this whole unprecedented conversation. But what it didn’t explain was why I suddenly hated this Velma. Someone I didn’t even know yet wanted to throat punch.
“You remind me of her. The dark, reddish hair, thick glasses.” He gestured to my face. “All of it.”
“Where is she?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His blond brows pulled in tight. “I don’t know. Somewhere helping the gang solve a case, probably.”
“So she’s in law enforcement?”
“The paranormal kind, sure.”
I wracked my brain for anything I’d ever read that suggested the US government had a paranormal law enforcement division.
“I’ll have to look that up,” I mumbled, not enjoying him knowing about something I didn’t.
Another first.
“You do that,” he said with a knowing smile. “If you’re not Velma brought to life, then who are you?”
I clenched my hands beneath the desk and wiped both sweaty palms along my dark jeans to clean off the layer of sweat. “Millie,” I whispered, catching the professor’s pointed glare. “Millie Anderson.”
That knowing smirk reappeared. “Did you take the blue pill or the red pill, Miss Anderson?” He chuckled under his breath, like that was some kind of inside joke.
“I don’t do drugs.”
That smile of his grew even wider. “Never seen The Matrix either, I take it.” He unfolded an arm to slide a hand along the desk; he held out his hand, fingers wiggling in invitation. “Then, as your friend, I demand that you watch it. I’m Killian. Killian Cooper. My friends call me Coop or Cooper.”
I blinked at his offered hand. “I’m more of a reader.”
“Really?” He laughed. “That, I expected.” My cheeks flamed. Was he making fun of me? “Sorry, that sounded bad. I meant it as a compliment.”
His fingers continued to wiggle, tempting my hand to slide against his. With a full inhale, I placed my palm on his and squeezed.
“Nice to meet you, Millie,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to lie,” I said, pulling my hand back. “No one wants to meet me.”
A hard glint appeared in his aqua eyes. “I do. Now stop distracting me,” he said with a wink. “I’m trying to listen. This is very important stuff.”
With that, he turned, chin on his folded arms, gaze locked on the professor.
I blinked several times, trying to understand what the hell had just happened. Turning to look around the space, I noted the others in the room, the chilled air pumping through the vents, brushing along my bare arms, and then, of course, the feel of his skin against mine. So, this wasn’t a dream.
Was it?