SADIE
Familiar?
That actually sends shivers down my spine.
After what happened with Ezra today, I really hope whatever is making me look familiar has nothing to do with him.
I don’t want to be remembered as his mate. I don’t want to be remembered as his friend. Frankly, I’d prefer everyone forget we ever occupied the same square mile.
He’s worse than the devil, and the only good thing he’s done for me lately is make sure I don’t have to spend the rest of my life with him.
"She looks plain."
The commentary continues while Trey settles in.
The longer I sit here, the more attention seems to find its way to our corner. Not everyone is staring outright, thank Goddess, but conversations dip into whispers whenever someone looks over, and twice now I’ve caught people turning away the second our eyes meet.
Lola’s warning from this morning crawls back into my head.
Be careful.
For the sake of my remaining sanity, the running critique of my face can continue without my participation. I already own a mirror. I know I’m nowhere close to the prettiest girl in this room, so there’s no need to hear it from them.
I lean slightly toward Trey. "Does this happen all the time?"
He’s busy emptying his bag onto the table. A notebook comes out first, followed by his laptop, two pens and a protein bar that looks as though something sat on it.
"What happens?"
Really?
Is he pretending not to notice, or is he so used to being watched that it doesn’t register anymore? I’m practically being picked apart by his fans over here.
I scoff under my breath. "Nothing."
He glances at me, but I shake my head and fold my hands on the table.
Whatever. I’m here to tutor him. People will get bored of my plain face eventually.
Trey finishes arranging his things, then nudges my arm. "Get closer."
My heart gives one hard thump.
"W-what?"
"Come closer," he repeats.
I heard him the first time. The problem is, we’re already sitting close enough that his cologne has been invading my nose since I sat down. Any closer and—
Actually, I don’t know what happens any closer.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I’ve never done this before. Not in public. Ezra barely wanted anyone knowing we spoke, so I learned to leave space between us whenever other people were around. Being this close to someone where everyone can see feels intimate.
Trey looks at me expectantly.
I wet my lips. "The chair is—"
Whatever I was going to say disappears with the gasp that leaves me when he grabs the edge of my chair and drags the whole thing toward him.
"Whoa!"
I sway with the sudden movement, one hand shooting toward the table, but his other hand catches my arm and steadies me.
Then, everything stops. Or, well, it feels like it.
His hand is still around my arm, and suddenly I’m aware of every single place we’re too close. My knee near his. His shoulder almost against mine. His fingers warm against my skin. Even my heartbeat has decided to make itself embarrassingly noticeable.
A hand around my arm should not be doing all this.
"I don’t want to strain my ears trying to hear you." He lets go of me and opens his laptop.
Oh. So this is about acoustics.
I swallow and try to ignore that removing his hand from mine didn’t fix much. We’re still close enough that every small shift has his arm or knee brushing against my skin.
"She could at least try not to look so desperate," someone mutters behind me.
"Bitch’s been here five minutes and she’s already practically sitting on him."
I close my eyes briefly.
Really?
Trey dragged my chair across the floor. What exactly was I supposed to do, throw myself off it midway?
Good Goddess. And I thought Justin Bieber fans were insufferable.
Actually, aren’t most of these girls here with other athletes? I glance around. Yep. One has been sitting between some poor guy’s legs this entire time while keeping a running inventory of everything Trey does.
I tune them out just as Trey starts typing something into his laptop, completely unaffected by any of this.
I should probably be looking at the screen. Instead, my eyes somehow end up on the side of his face. His jaw, mostly. There’s a sharp little movement there whenever he swallows, and after the second time, I catch my own throat moving with his.
What the—
I jerk my attention to the laptop.
What was that?
Okay, I can look at a handsome guy. I have eyes. That’s allowed. No feelings involved.
But not here. Not right now. And maybe not today, Sadie.
I feel like we should give ourselves at least twenty-four hours after being emotionally pulverized by one Mercer before we start staring at another one’s jaw.
"It’s hot in here." I fan my face, then pull out my handkerchief and dab at my forehead.
"Do you have a print copy of your schedule?"
He leans closer as he asks, his mouth suddenly near enough to my ear that I feel his breath against my skin.
My hand stops mid-fan.
Oh, this is not helping.
And because my brain has given up being useful altogether, it supplies another completely unnecessary observation.
Trey Mercer smells really good.
"Here’s mine," he says.
I blink at him, then at the paper between his fingers.
Right. Schedule.
My hand moves to take it, but my fingers do a stupid little dance around the edge before finally cooperating.
Trey’s eyes follow the entire performance before lifting to mine.
I quickly tuck my hand beneath the table.
"Here." I dig my own out of my bag and hand it to him.
His brows furrow almost immediately. "What’s with all the red circles?"
"Tho...those?"
Obviously those, Sadie. There are no other red circles.
"They’re just...other things I have to do."
His eyes move over the page. "How many courses are you taking?"
"Five. The circles aren’t classes." I lean closer and point to one. "Wednesday evenings are Quiz Bowl. We meet at the student center, and sometimes there are extra practices when we have a competition coming up." My finger moves to another. "This one was my work schedule."
"And Monday?"
"Study group. Six to eight."
His finger lands on another circle. "Saturday?"
"Usually errands. Laundry, groceries, anything I didn’t get done during the week."
He looks at the page for another second. "When do you do nothing?"
I blink. "What?"
"Nothing." He gestures at the schedule. "When do you sit around and do absolutely nothing?"
"Why would I schedule that?"
His eyes lift to mine. "You do too much."
"I do not," I counter.
He turns the paper around and points at it.
Okay. Presented with physical evidence, perhaps I do a reasonable amount.
"We need days we’re both consistently free," he pulls my schedule beside his. "Not an hour here and there."
I lean closer despite myself as he places the two sheets side by side.
His is somehow worse.
Classes are wedged between practice, conditioning, team meetings and several blocks marked film. Friday is practically swallowed by hockey, and one look at Saturday and Sunday tells me his weekends don’t belong to him either.
I look at the schedule. Then at him.
"Do you actually go to class?"
Trey slowly turns his head toward me.
"Just checking," I mutter.
We spend the next ten minutes crossing things out and finally, two days survive.
I tap both with my pen. "Tuesday and Thursday."
"Works."
"Both?"
"Both."
I look between our schedules again. "So Tuesdays and Thursdays are our regular sessions, and if you have extra time somewhere else—"
"I’ll tell you. Fridays and weekends depend on games. If I get time, we use it."
"Cool."
I circle Tuesday and Thursday on my sheet, then reach over and do the same on his.
He takes the pen from me and reaches into his bag. "One more thing."
He pulls out an envelope and a small box, then slides both toward me.
"Your employment letter," he says. "And your new phone."