Ms. Edmonds laughs. “I understand it’s difficult. English is ever evolving. We did not start with words like bootylicious or whatever.” She smiles at her own joke and takes a seat on the edge of her desk, staring at us. Her black pencil skirt dusts her knees as she crosses her ankles. “Chaucer’s longest poem is just that—a poem. Not everything can be taken literally.”
“Jensen,” she says, volunteering a poor sap in the front row. “Read the first hundred lines for the class, please.”
The kid butchers it. Ms. Edmonds corrects him every time. She’s not mean about it, but he’s practically in tears by the time he finishes. It’s been going on FOREVER, and I want to shoot myself.
Who knew “k”s weren’t always silent? Well, I fucking know that now.
I begin to play with Stormy’s hair again. I can’t reach that elusive black lock, but I enjoy twirling the silky strands around my index finger all the same. She stills, her shoulders rigid, but she doesn’t stop me.
“Mr. Beckett,” Ms. Edmonds says, snapping my attention to her. Shit. What did she just say? “What do you think?”
There’s no way I am bullshitting my way out of this.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Edmonds,” I say, though I don’t even try to sound sorry. “Ms. Weathersby’s beauty distracted me. Would you repeat the question?”
The class snickers, but Ms. Edmonds just looks at me, her eyes narrowed. Fuck me. It’s always the fresh ones that are a pain in my ass. They still have the maybe-I-can-fix-you mentality.
“What do you think of Troilus and Criseyde?”
“He is pathetic. She is…loose.”
The class snickers again. Ms. Edmonds smiles. Her sharp gaze tells me she disagrees with my assessment, but she enjoys the debate. “Explain.”
“At first, Troilus hates love, despises it even, but when he finally gives in, he loses himself completely to Criseyde, his entire identity. Then when Criseyde can’t keep it in her pants, he chooses the coward’s way out.”
Stormy snaps around in her seat and shakes her head. “You’re wrong.”
“How so, Ms. Weathersby?” Ms. Edmonds pushes.
“Troilus is not weak,” Stormy says. “And Criseyde loves him. Troilus accepts that Criseyde has no option but to betray him, and his acceptance is the ultimate act of love.”
I tilt my head at her.
“No one should be deprived of love without the very best of reasons,” I quote.
“The Art of Courtly Love,” Stormy breathes, staring at me. Her eyes are like endless waves of sea. I’d be content to stay there, drifting along with the tide.
Ms. Edmonds claps her hands. “Andreas Capellanus. Very good, you two! Capellanus was influential in Chaucer’s later works. Ms. Weathersby, what is your reply?”
Stormy hisses her next words, another quote from Capellanus. “A true lover considers nothing good except what he thinks will please his beloved.”
“Good character alone makes any man worthy of love,” I retort.
“Rule 18!” Ms. Edmonds interjects. “Excellent!”
Stormy’s nostrils flare. She’s mad, and I like it. It’s nice to be getting under her skin and not the other way around.
Stormy leans in close, our noses nearly touching. Just a few more inches... “Who says you are a good man?”
“And who says you get to determine that?”
She frowns, indecision furrowing her eyebrows together as the bell rings.
I grin as Ms. Edmonds shuffles papers on her desk and prepares for her next class. That was the most interesting class I’ve had in a while.
I expect Stormy to bolt into the hallway, but she takes her time gathering her books. I follow her out. Students are shuffling about, opening lockers, and waving to their friends. I am focused on Stormy as I continue forward.
She’s got her book bag slung over one shoulder, and I trail her from a distance. A scuffle breaks out at the end of the hall, and I look up to find Ivy already staring at me, her arms crossed over her chest, a single eyebrow raised.
Well, shit.
Ivy stares at Stormy before she raises her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s texting Aurora every detail.
Fuck!
I don’t want to touch Stormy. I don’t want to do any of the shit they expect, which I agreed to long before I knew her, but I have to do something or both of us will be in for a world of hurt.
My mind races, disregarding ideas as soon as they materialize in my head, but I have to do something. I have to do something. I have to...
I dart ahead, shoving a lower classman aside as I step to walk alongside Stormy. I shove her against the lockers, the metal doors clanking with the hit.
I plant my palms flat on either side of her face, lean in close, and freeze, lost in her. Apple mother-fucking pie.
Stormy looks up at me, her eyes wide. The pulse point at the base of her neck is going wild. Something sparks and passes between us before sinking low in my belly.
She’s not looking at my eyes. She’s staring at my lips, and the realization makes me grin. Then, like the good girl she is, she shuts that shit down, her face a veneer of annoyance.
I lean in close because I don’t want anyone else to hear. My brothers will have my back, but the girls would not approve. And if they call me out, then it’s over. For the both of us.
My lips brush over her ear as I say, “I want to bury myself inside you and stay there forever.”
Her breath hitches, and I pull back just enough to watch the struggle behind her eyes. She wants to hate me. It would be easier for the both of us if she did.
Her mouth opens, and she is so close, I can smell the tea she drank in class this morning. What is it? Earl gray? Lemon zest? Something citrusy. I want to dip my head and get a taste.
Stormy shakes her head, her blonde hair gently swaying with the
