I bite back a series of curses as I run, the rubber soles of my shoes slapping the pavement. I want to turn around and sprint back to Ian and punch him in the jaw. I want to claw at his eyes with my fingernails and pull out his hair. I want a curse to befall him so that the skin melts from his bones. But even worse, I want to save him from all of those things.
My arms pump at my sides. My corduroy skirt is all over the place as I propel myself forward, the cold air of an upcoming winter burning my lungs. The track team no doubt gets quite the view—even with the black tights I wear—because a few of their faces latch onto me as I run, and I get a few whistles and a cat-call I can’t quite make out.
One guy I recognize from Calculus begins, “Hey, Har—” before he shuts his mouth.
Uh, oh.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Fear washes through my veins. His abrupt silence can only mean one thing. The beautiful bane of my existence is behind me.
My legs piston wildly as my arms pump harder. My throat burns as though I’ve just pounded back a glass of crushed ice. My lungs constrict, fighting what I need them to do.
I really should do more cardio. I should have listened to William and started going to the gym years ago.
“If I catch you, Harlow,” Ian’s voice is close and intimate as if we haven’t just run a half mile, “I’m going to do more than trade that favor for a date.”
“Freak!” I hiss, but it comes out nothing more than a wheeze.
He didn’t cash in that favor for a date…He…He…
Oh, no.
I dart inside the girl’s dormitory and shut the glass door behind me, trapping him outside. Ian stands there for a moment, and I swear I see amusement flicker across his face before it’s replaced by the expressionless mask he wears so well.
I flip him the bird, parading my finger around like I’m carrying the Olympic torch. It will probably get me in trouble come Monday morning, but Monday morning seems so far away and I will spend the rest of my weekend locked in my room with the book I accidentally stole from the library.
Ian raises a hand and presses it flat against the glass pane. I can see the lines that run along his palm as he breathes clouds of heat onto the glass. His cheeks are tinged rosy from the cold, and he stares unblinking at me. His eyes are calculating but not cold.
I freeze mid-bird. The glass pane seems oh-so-thin right now. I command my battering heart to calm as I return his stare and step forward, so we are one long jump and a pane of glass apart.
He just stands there, hand pressed flat against the glass like he’s a prisoner and I’m a visitor—or maybe I’ve got that backward—with his steely gaze locked on me. His perfect, bee-stung lips threaten to turn down into a moue, but he wears his mask too well for that.
My reflection looks back at me over the image of him as we stare at each other. My hair is a wild tangle of white, a wind-burned blush reddens my cheeks and creeps down my pale neck, and my eyes are crystal clear, wide saucers.
I am lost in the stark overlay of our images in the glass, his skin bronzed from his time on the field and me a ghostly, fragile vapor in comparison, a head shorter and many pounds of muscle lighter.
When he finally breaks the spell, his words are airy and alluring like they should come with their own candlelit dinner. With each word, his breath fogs the glass.
“I’m giving you one last chance, sweetness, and I don’t do second chances ever, except for you apparently.” Do I detect a side dish of annoyance? “So what will it be? Live up to your end of the deal and go out with me tonight or take your chances?”
I bare my teeth at his arrogance. “How about you use your favor for something normal like help with homework or—I don’t know—a magnifying glass so you can find your di…soul.”
Nice save, Harlow. The girl inside my head rolls her eyes for me.
Ian laughs, nearly guffawing as his shoulders shake. It is deceptively innocuous. He is just a boy in that moment, a carefree, beautiful boy, but the stone man he has grown into returns quickly. “I’m not magnanimous, and you’re testing my patience, Stormy. It’s your call.” Then, like the arrogant prick he is, he winks at me. “Either way, it’s going to be fun.”
He says the words with such conviction, like he is Moses delivering a commandment from God. Irritation sparks inside my chest.
Ian Beckett may be Calvin-Klein-model gorgeous, but ugly things sometimes hide behind pretty packages.
He may be built like he spends hours in the gym, but who needs all those hard, sculpted muscles, anyway?
He may be charming—when he wants to at least—but so are slimy politicians and con-artists.
Ian raises an eyebrow, the left corner of his mouth twitching with the dare. My spark of irritation erupts into an inferno.
“No way, Beckett!” I spit at the glass, screwing my face up with the shout.
“That’s your answer then?” he asks, tilting his head, a whisper of a grin on his lips.
“That’s my answer,” I snap with a huff of air through my nose.
He smirks as he unearths a black keycard from his jacket. It looks remarkably like the cards the Academy staff carry, but I can’t believe it’s real. Boys aren’t allowed in the girls’ dormitory or vice versa. It is strictly forbidden, if I trust the student handbook.
Plus, he has to be bluffing, doesn’t he? The door access machine will beep and blink red when he swipes it, right?
RIGHT???
He keeps his arrogant gaze locked on mine as he lifts the
