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Ezra: With a cherry on top?
Spencer: I don’t like cherries.
Ezra: Goddammit. No cherries then. Extra whipped cream?
I snickered. He was so damn adorable… And I was softening to him.
Spencer: No. I’m sorry, Ezra. But… Dammit. Why are you like this?
Ezra: *wink emoji* Like what?
Spencer: So forward. Blunt. Cocky. Flirty.
Ezra: Because I know what I want, and I go after it. And I want you, Spencer.
Be still, my rapidly beating heart. Ezra was dangerous and no damn good for me. I would just end up hurt in the long run. I had to keep my distance.
Spencer: You’re nothing but trouble, Ezra.
Ezra: I’ll bet I’m worth it.
Spencer: I’m going to bed. You should, too. You have math tomorrow.
Ezra: Fiiiiiine. Goodnight, baby.
I left him on read, unsure how to respond to him, even as butterflies erupted in my belly.
CHAPTER 4
Spencer
MONDAY
I looked up from my textbook when a light knock sounded on the classroom door, surprising me. Most of the time, if anyone was looking for a student or needed to speak to Mrs. Hargrove, they just called the extension for her classroom on the phone. Mrs. Hargrove looked up from her computer, seeming as surprised as I was. “Come in,” she called to whoever was on the other side.
The guidance counselor poked her head in, smiling warmly at my math teacher. “I just need to see Spencer,” she told her. I frowned. As far as I was aware, I hadn’t done anything that might send me to the office, much less the counselor’s office. “As long as he’s not in the middle of a test or anything.”
Mrs. Hargrove shook her head and looked at me. “Make sure to turn that work in to me before the end of the day,” she instructed as I quickly began to pack up my bag. Class was already almost over as it was. I probably wouldn’t make it back before the bell rang for the next period.
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, making a mental note to work on the assignment during my lunch period before standing from my seat and shouldering my bookbag. Once I was out in the hall, the guidance counselor, Mrs. Wright, smiled at me.
“Still adjusting well?” she asked. She’d been up my ass when I first moved here, making sure I was “challenged” enough and that I was fitting in okay and making friends. It’d been a bit annoying, to be honest, but at least she seemed to genuinely care about the students here. It was a lot more than could be said about any of the guidance counselors at my old school.
They’d turned a blind eye to everything unless the principal was hovering over them—grades, bullying, mental health. I was still pretty sure they’d only been there because of the paycheck. Definitely wasn’t because they genuinely cared about the student body.
I nodded and gripped the straps of my bag. Guidance counselors always put me on edge regardless of how kind they were. They pried a lot and asked too many questions. The one at my old school would never leave me alone after my mom died, though she also never did anything about the bullying I endured. And I imagined the only reason she’d pressed me about my mom passing was because my grades dropped a little bit that semester, and the principal hounded her to hound me.
Guidance counselors seemed a little pointless to me in some ways, though I knew they were supposed to be there to help.
“I’m aware you’re already tutoring Ezra Hart in math, but I was hoping you might also have time to tutor another senior as well. He needs help with his English course.”
I mentally scrolled through my planner. I was tutoring Ezra on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He had games on Friday, and Mondays were supposed to be for them to watch replays of their previous game. I could tutor this other guy on Mondays and Wednesdays or even Wednesdays and Fridays.
“I could manage two days a week,” I finally told her. “I’d like to have one of the weekday afternoons to myself.” It was a boundary I had to enforce straight out the door, otherwise the faculty would run all over me to get me to tutor other students. I’d faced that problem at my last school.
“That’s up to you two to work out,” she told me. “I just thought I’d better reach out to you myself and force him to meet you, otherwise he’ll never do it himself. And he needs to graduate. He’s already a year behind.” That was surprising. It was another thing I wasn’t used to—guidance counselors caring whether or not a student who’d already failed one year graduated or not.
She pushed open the door to her office, and I walked in ahead of her when she gestured for me to do so. A guy wearing a plain black, long-sleeved shirt and black, ripped skinny jeans with knee-high combat boots with too many buckles to count was lounging back in one of the chairs in front of Mrs. Wright’s desk, slouching, not seeming to give a fuck about anything. His hair was almost black with wild waves, and the strands almost hung into his eyes, barely obscuring his view. When he turned his head to look at me, my breath caught in my throat.
