He was fucking beautiful. Heart-stoppingly, jaw-droppingly hot. There was no way around it. My eyes, mind, and body all came to the same conclusion and I was helpless to deny it.
Holden scanned the classroom intently until his gaze landed on me. As if a current ran from me to him, the connection instantly zipped down my spine to my groin.
“Can I help you?” Mr. Reynolds asked, smiling warmly. “The class has already begun…”
“Every hallway on this godforsaken campus looks the same,” Holden griped and slipped Mr. Reynolds a piece of paper. “I’m transferring.”
Reynolds scanned the paper and frowned. “You’re dropping French to be here? Any particular reason?”
“Cela ne m’apportait plus rien,” he said in a flawless accent. “I doubt this class has anything to teach me either, frankly, but…” His gaze on me softened slightly. “It’s possible I have a few things left to learn.”
“We’re happy to have you.” Reynolds glanced at Holden’s outfit with a perplexed smile. “Take off your coat and stay awhile,” he teased.
“No, thanks.” Holden strode through the class, ignoring the curious stares that followed. Half the desks were empty so, naturally, he sat beside me.
Shit…
I faced forward, intent on the lesson, but my heart was beating too fast. Holden lounged sideways in his seat, making no pretense about staring me down; I could feel his gaze move over my skin, sending icy-hot shivers over my arm and neck.
Finally, I turned to face him. “Can I help you?” I whispered.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispered back.
“You transferred into an advanced calculus class just to talk to me?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “I learned this stuff years ago. My intentions are benevolent.”
“Uh huh.” I crossed my arms, fighting my gaze that kept drifting toward his mouth. “You totally ruined the Blaylock’s dining room table. Chance is grounded for two weeks. He was almost banned from playing at the Homecoming game next week.”
Holden rolled his eyes. “A tragedy, I’m sure.”
I tilted my head. “Are you always this much of an asshole to total strangers?”
“I’m never always anything,” he replied. “And don’t get your jockstrap in a twist. Mr. Blaylock phoned my uncle and they had a delightful conversation in which it was agreed that I’d pay for a brand-new table. And not from the local Crate & Barrel, either.”
“So you made a big mess and used your money to clean it up.”
He frowned, confused. “Isn’t that what it’s for?”
A laugh nearly burst out of me. “Does personal responsibility mean anything to you?”
“I’m vaguely familiar with the term,” he said, his angular expression softening. “It’s why I’m here, actually. For you.”
My pulse quickened and I tightened my crossed arms at those words, though I couldn’t tell if I were keeping them out or holding them in. “Say again?”
“I want to talk to you about the night of the party. What I said in the closet—”
“Forget it,” I said and whipped forward, suddenly paranoid that the entire class were listening in.
“But I—”
“I said, forget it. Nothing happened. I was drunk as shit. I don’t remember anything, so just fucking drop it.”
“Mr. Whitmore,” Reynolds called from the whiteboard. “Since you’re so chatty, perhaps you can share with the class. Can you please give me all values of x at which f is continuous but not differentiable?”
Holden leaned back in his chair, an infuriating smile on his lips. I tore my angry glare off him and studied the small graph with its curved and V-shaped tangent lines and worked out a few factors in my notebook. Solid answers that would never change.
“Negative two and zero,” I said.
Mr. Reynolds beamed. “Excellent.”
Many students in the class beamed at me too. The girls appreciatively, the guys worshipful.
“Hail to the King,” Holden muttered. “I’m surprised the class doesn’t break out into applause.”
“They do,” I said. “When I’m on the field.”
Holden arched a brow. “Touché, Whitmore.”
“And Mr. Parish,” Mr. Reynolds said loudly. “What rule do you think helped River arrive at that answer?”
Holden didn’t reply and I didn’t look away. We couldn’t take our eyes off of each other if our lives depended on it, and for a few precious moments, I didn’t care what anyone thought. The self-consciousness fled, and we just observed each other, smiles touching our lips and something foreign unfolding in my heart.
“Mr. Parish?”
Holden’s eyes never left mine. “A continuous function fails to be differentiable at a point in its domain.”
“Very good! We’re off to a great start this year. You two are a dynamic duo.”
I glanced quickly down at my notebook, the self-consciousness swooping back in, constricting my heart and slamming doors that wanted to open.
“Hear that?” Holden mused. “We’re a duo.”
“No,” I said, low and cold. “We’re not.”
Like the calculus formula. We can’t be made into something different.
I said nothing more for the duration of class, half of me feeling like shit for ignoring Holden and the other half denying that I gave a fuck. He trashed my best friend’s house. He was a pompous asshole who thought he knew me. I didn’t owe him anything.
I repeated the thoughts to drown out other unwanted feelings. Like my body’s hyperawareness of Holden’s proximity and the constant urge to look at him. To soak him up. As if he were a classic painting with a thousand details waiting to be discovered under all those layers…
Stop.
When the bell rang, I gathered my stuff and tried to hurry out, wondering how I was going to get through the semester with Holden sitting
