Chapter 2 #2
He tilted his head, studying my face. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes.
“Are you going to be a brat, Amara? Because I don’t have the patience for it today.”
“I’m not a brat,” I whispered, though it lacked conviction. My heart was racing so fast I thought he might hear it. “I’m just… not a maid.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re not. You’re currently a squatter with a very expensive wardrobe and zero survival skills.”
He pushed off the counter, the loss of his proximity leaving me cold.
“Clean the counter,” he said, walking toward the fridge. “Then sit at the island. We need to review your schedule.”
“My schedule?” I scoffed, though I reached for the cloth. I started wiping at the coffee, hating how satisfying it felt to watch the marble gleam again. “I don’t have a schedule. Classes are cancelled.”
“Your schedule here,” he corrected. He pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and uncapped it. “If you’re staying, you’re not going to float around my apartment creating chaos. You will have a routine.”
I finished wiping the counter and threw the cloth into the sink with a wet thwack.
“I don’t do routines,” I said, crossing my arms. “I’m a creative. I flow.”
“You flow like a leaky faucet,” he muttered. He pointed to the barstool. “Sit.”
I hesitated. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to flip him off and storm out. But then I remembered the text from my father. On your own. I remembered the zero balance. I remembered the snow outside.
I sat.
Ezra placed the tablet on the island in front of me.
“What is this?” I asked, looking at the screen. It was a spreadsheet. A color-coded spreadsheet.
“The protocol,” he said. He walked around the island to stand opposite me. “Wake up at 0700. Bed made immediately. Common areas tidy. Study hours from 0900 to 1200. Gym or physical activity from 1300 to 1400. Quiet hours after 2200.”
I stared at him, my mouth agape. “Are you joking? Is this a joke? Am I on a prank show?”
“Do I look like I joke?”
He didn’t. He looked deadly serious.
“Ezra, I’m an adult,” I said, laughing nervously. “I’m twenty-one. I don’t need a bedtime. And I definitely don’t need ‘Study Hours.’ I’m a Design major. We don’t study, we create.”
“You’re failing two classes,” he said.
The air left the room.
I froze. “How… how do you know that?”
“Leo,” he said simply. “He complains about you constantly in the locker room. Says you’re one academic probation away from being pulled out of school entirely. That your dad threatened to cut you off if your GPA didn't hit a 3.0.”
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the island.
“And now he has cut you off. Which means you didn't hit the 3.0.”
Shame, hot and burning, flooded my face. I looked down at my hands, picking at a loose thread on my sweater.
“It’s not because I’m stupid,” I whispered. “It’s… the classes are boring. Economics? Business Law? I hate them. I just want to design.”
“Discipline isn’t about doing what you love,” Ezra said. His voice was softer now, less commanding, more… instructive. “It’s about doing what is necessary so you can do what you love. You have no money because you have no discipline. You have no safety net because you refused to play the game.”
I looked up at him, tears stinging my eyes. “I didn’t ask for a life coach, Sterling.”
“You asked for a place to stay,” he countered. “And in my house, we strive for excellence. I won’t watch you waste your potential just because you’re too spoiled to open a textbook.”
He tapped the screen.
“You have three days of blizzard. You will use them to catch up on your coursework. I will tutor you.”
I blinked. “You? You’re a jock. You get hit in the head for a living.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was terrifyingly attractive.
“I have a 4.0 in Finance and I’m finishing my MBA,” he said dryly. “Now. Phone.”
He held out his hand.
“What?” I clutched my phone to my chest. “No. absolutely not. It’s my lifeline.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said. “You spent twenty minutes staring at it in bed this morning instead of getting up. Hand it over. You get it back during breaks.”
“You can’t do this!” I stood up, the stool screeching against the floor. “This is theft! This is… kidnapping!”
“This is the deal,” he said calmly. He didn’t move. He just held his hand out, palm up. A silent demand. “You want to stay here, warm and fed? You give me the phone. You sit down. And you study.”
I stared at his hand. It was large, calloused. A hand that could crush me or catch me.
I looked at the window. The snow was coming down harder, a white curtain erasing the world. I had nowhere else.
I hated him. I hated his arrogance. I hated his spreadsheet. I hated how right he was about my grades.
But mostly, I hated the way my body reacted when he told me what to do. The strange, warm flutter in my belly. The feeling of safety that came with his absolute certainty.
Trembling, I placed my phone in his hand.
His fingers closed around it. He didn't gloat. He just nodded, slipped it into his pocket, and slid the tablet toward me.
“Good girl,” he said.
The praise hit me like a physical blow. My knees went weak, and I sank back onto the stool before I fell. It wasn't sarcastic. It was approval. Pure, unadulterated approval. And god help me, I wanted to hear it again.
“Open the Business Law module,” he commanded, walking around the island to stand behind me.
I could feel him there. A wall of heat at my back. I could feel his breath on the top of my head as he leaned over to look at the screen.
“Chapter 4,” he murmured, his hand coming down to rest on the marble right next to my arm. His pinky finger grazed my elbow. A spark of electricity shot up my arm, making me gasp softly.
He heard it. I knew he heard it.
His hand didn't move.
“Start reading, Amara,” he said, his voice dropping to that rough, intimate timber again. “And if I see your eyes drift... there will be consequences.”
I swallowed hard, my eyes focusing on the blurring text.
“What kind of consequences?” I whispered.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Read,” he commanded.
I started reading. I didn't understand a single word, but for the first time in my life, I was too terrified—and too excited—to stop.