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And I’m late for my tutoring session with Lane in the Brainy Bean.
My legs carry me across campus with long, agitated strides, my satchel banging against my hip. All around me, students sun themselves in the watery spring sunshine. They have no troubles on this cool Thursday.
The sky is calm: not a cloud or a single gust of wind. There’s no sign at all of the storm that raged over the weekend—nothingexcept for the broken branches still strewn across campus, dropped on grassy verges and swept against walls.
That, and the memory of lightning flashing outside Lane’s open window, strobing her bare body with light. The rattle of rain against her windowpane; the smell of wet cement and sea brine. The way her moans mingled with thunder.
Fuck.
A pigeon hops out of my way, cooing, and I shake my head and walk faster. There’s no use daydreaming about my foolish mistakes now. I need to get to the Brainy Bean before Lane thinks I blew her off.
Fifteen minutes late. I’mneverlate, and I have no excuse today except that I was wrestling with myself endlessly, debating about whether it was more honorable to stay away or turn up. I still haven’t decided, but in the end I couldn’t bear the thought of Lane sitting there, alone. Waiting.
“Shit.” My heart drums in my chest, but not because of the race across campus. No, my heart’s been working overtime since the first day I met Lane Rhodes in this very coffee shop. “Shit, shit, shit.”
The Brainy Bean’s automatic door whooshes open, and I’m hit with a coffee-scented wall of steam. The old caffeine addiction rears its head, squeezes my temples hopefully, but frankly, I have bigger addictions now.
The coffee shop is full, with every table occupied and cluttered with mugs and plates. I scan for a head of blonde curls, barely breathing.
There.
Lane is slumped at a table in the back corner, fiddling sadly with the corner of a napkin. Her shoulders are curved over, and her mouth is down-turned. Even her bouncy hair is limp.
When she glances up and spots me weaving between tables toward her, it’s like the goddamn sun comes out. Blue eyes lightup; color glows on her cheeks. Lane sits up straight and hits me with a wide, joyful smile, and—what am I doing? Seriously, what am I doing?
It’s been four days since I saw her last. Since we did…that.
Why did I wait so long to see this girl again? Who am I fucking kidding?
Chairs scrape as their occupants help shuffle out of my way, and I murmur my thanks but don’t look away from Lane. As if I ever could. She’s spinning a mug between her palms—something frothy and sweet—but for once I’m not jealous of her drink. I’m jealous of the touch of her hands.
I love her. This new hypothesis rolls through my brain, and finds no evidence to contradict the statement. Not a single damn thing.
I love Lane Rhodes. Obviously.
It’s an inconvenient discovery to make in the Brainy Bean, especially when this place is packed with chatting students and rushed professors and college athletes in gym gear, stretching their long limbs in the line at the counter. It’s busy and loud in here, filled with an over-caffeinated crowd, but at least it’s hot enough to hide the flush on my cheeks.
“Hi.” Lane sounds breathless as she shuffles her notebook and coffee mug over to make room. I sink into the chair opposite her, my tongue too leaden to speak.
I’m in love with this girl.
In love with my tutoring student.
In love with someone who’s been using me forpractice.
Christ.
“Did you forget we had a session?” Lane’s smiling brightly, not offended at all by my rocking up fifteen minutes late without a word of excuse—though there’s an undercurrent of anxiety beneath her words. “I do that sometimes. Mix up the days of theweek, I mean. Last month I sat in an empty lecture hall and it took me way too long to realize it was Sunday, not Monday.”
Her pen taps nervously on her notepad. Lane nudges my foot with her own beneath the table.
And—hell. I don’t deserve this girl. Don’t deserve her trying to make me feel better, afterIwas late. Don’t deserve her assuming the best of me, and telling an anecdote that makes her seem absent-minded, even when her parents constantly think she’s an airhead.
“I…” Clearing my throat, I try again. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”
Lane’s smile falls. Her foot moves away from mine under the table, and I’m left feeling cold.
She’s wearing another sundress—yellow this time, with little embroidered daisies. Her shoulders are bare and lightly freckled, and her pulse thuds at the base of her throat.
