The Offer
Chapter two
Hayes Rosewood
I should not have sat next to Aurora on the first day of class.
Or the next class when she moved. Or for a third time to really solidify the fact that she wasn’t getting away from me.
It was a fun game at the time. Her cutting remarks are vastly entertaining, and trying to decipher the emotions hidden in her icy blue eyes is the best kind of puzzle.
But when you combine those elements with the fact that she’s unbelievably gorgeous …
she becomes a distraction. One that I can’t exactly afford in this class, given my last few assignment scores.
So far, college has been a breeze. I learned a lot from my dad about software and business, and that made the first two years easy enough to skate by unscathed.
I could have fun and do what I wanted without needing to study.
Digital Logic, however, has broken that lucky streak. Not just broken it, shattered it.
I stare blankly at the test grade on my student portal.
“Due to severely disappointing results across the class, I made a few minor adjustments to your grades, with the expectation that you will all review this subject so that it doesn’t affect you come finals,” Professor Riggins announces with a condescending raise of his gray brows.
I’m surprised he changed the grades at all, given that he warned us all this was a course that would separate the weak from the strong on the first day of the semester.
The tall, lanky professor has many wrinkles, most of them developed from frowning, and a plethora of wispy silver hair.
He’s smiled a handful of times, and each time it’s been like seeing a fish flopping around on the deck of a yacht.
You just want to stare, concerned, until it stops.
“Now, let’s get into logical truth tables,” he says, and presses a button on the clicker in his hand.
I need to open up my notes and focus, but the number on the screen holds my attention captive. Not even Aurora can distract me now. Because somehow after the bump in percentage, I have a sixty-eight.
Professor Riggins drones on about inclusive versus exclusive arguments, but one thought drowns out his every word: I’m going to fail this class.
The one rule my father gave before putting me on a plane and sending me to the university was don’t fail.
If I do, life as I know it comes crashing down.
I’ll have two options: be cut off completely, or move back to New York and apprentice under him like he wanted me to do from the start. Both options are bleak.
I rake a hand through my hair and force myself to listen to the lecture. Contemplating failure isn’t going to keep it from happening.
I don’t think I understand any of what he says, but I copy almost every slide down. There’s a pain behind my eyes from straining, which feels like an indicator of studying hard. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never really had to.
“Please use my office hours if you are struggling,” Professor Riggins says in a tone that indicates he’d rather cut off his right thumb than talk to any of us outside of class.
“Or make use of the wonderful tutors in the library. I know a few of the students in here are tutors.” He gestures to Aurora with one of his unsettling smiles.
Aurora gives the briefest of nods and sinks down farther in her seat. I’ve come to realize that the ballerina is allergic to attention, which seems like an oxymoron given her extracurricular choice.
After a parting study or else monologue, Professor Riggins dismisses us. I shut my laptop and slide it into my black backpack. Aurora mirrors my movements, but everything she owns is pink or white.
“So, you’re a tutor?” I ask.
She pauses for a moment before zipping shut her backpack.
“Yes.” Her tone is clipped.
I know her answer before she says it, but I ask anyway: “Do you have any openings?”
“No.”
She brushes past me, the scent of vanilla sugar bathing my senses. I follow her down the risers.
“Are you just saying that because I’m the one asking?”
“If I am?” she throws over her shoulder.
A few girls from class wave as I pass, and a couple of guys nod to me. Someone calls my name, but I ignore them. I know that I won’t have long before Aurora disappears off to wherever she has to go next.
“Then that would be ridiculous,” I say as I follow her into the hallway.
“What would be ridiculous is you pretending to need a tutor so that you can waste my time with games.”
“I’m not pretending,” I insist. “I need a tutor.”
Her long brown ponytail swishes as she shakes her head. She pushes open the door to the building. Crisp autumn air nips at my face. Aurora takes long strides down the leaf-strewn path leading away from computer sciences.
“Please,” I call out, making her stop.
Students swerve around us, shooting curious glances our way. Aurora seems all too aware of them as she turns and hesitantly closes the short distance between us.
“I’m going to fail,” I confess quietly, which earns me a surprised raise of her brows. “I need help.”
“Even if I believed you, what does that change? I saw you in class last year. You don’t try. All you do is flirt and mess around. I can’t work with someone who doesn’t care.”
“Why does it matter?” I counter, because I know I won’t convince her that I’m serious. “I’m guessing you’re doing this because you need money. Mine is the same as anyone else’s.”
Her expression hardens. Apparently, that was the wrong approach. She crosses her arms, somehow managing to maintain her sharp appearance even with the oversized pink sweatshirt draped over her like a blanket.
“I don’t need your money. There are plenty of students who need a tutor that won’t annoy me incessantly.”
I can’t help the smirk that tips my lips.
“Somehow, I doubt that. You’re not much of a people person.”
Her glare is colder than a cryotherapy chamber.
“You know what? I hope you fail.”
“Ouch,” I say, and kind of mean it.
She turns on her heel and sets off down the path again.
“One hundred thousand,” I offer before she can get too far. “If you help me pass, I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars.”
Her steps pause again. She adjusts the straps of her backpack. The din of conversations around us dulls as I wait with bated breath for her answer.
“I wouldn’t do your work for you, not even for that much money. You’d have to actually study.”
A grin spreads across my face.
“Does that mean you’re going to do it?”
“It means I’m going to think about it,” she replies, her back still to me.
My pulse thrums with the thrill of a win.
“You won’t regret it!”
“Oh, I definitely will.”