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We meet for our second session on a picnic blanket in the local park. It’s a bright, sunny day, with a strong breeze that keeps tugging on the blanket edges and flipping the pages of my textbook. The park bustles with college students napping off hangovers and playing hacky sack; young families trundling strollers along the paths; old folks chatting on benches. Seagulls shriek overhead, and this close to the sea, the air tastes like salt.
Don’t judge me too much, but: I got here early. Came here twenty minutes ago, all so I could drape myself over the picnic blanket and tuck my lilac dress gracefully beneath my legs so it doesn’t flap in the breeze. I wanted to check my makeup in my compact mirror and pop a breath mint, then draw in a deep breath and hold it for the count of five, my heart tip-tapping madly in my chest.
See, Ambrose Brent has lived rent free in my brain for the last seven days, and… I’mnervous.I’m actually nervous to see the cranky grad student; so on edge that I barely slept last night. I spent hours and hours tossing and turning, more restless andwired than when I took the SATs, with Ambrose’s deep voice reverberating in my brain.
I know you understand this. I know you understand this. I know you understand this.
Did he email my parents?
Did he hate our last session?
Did he ever get another coffee? I need to know!
Sighing, I shift on the pink and white checked blanket and squint at the park entrance. Food packets crinkle beside me, and I bite my lip, second guessing the grapes and mini cupcakes.
Is this too date-like? What if I scare Ambrose off? Mom and Dad would have a field day. They’d finally have their evidence: Lane Rhodes caught attempting toromanceher tutor, shamelessly using her body instead of pretending to have a brain. Busted.
“You look how I feel.”
Appearing from nowhere, Ambrose settles on the blanket beside me. His frown skims over the snacks and two bottles of pink lemonade I brought, and his leather satchel thumps on the grass beside him, straining with books and his fancy laptop.
“And how do you feel?” I ask.
“Irritated.” A faint smile passes over his handsome face—a private one, just for me.
“Did anything annoy you in particular?” My eyebrows raise as Ambrose tosses a grape easily into his mouth. There’s barely any room with both of us on this picnic blanket, like a life raft in a sea of green grass. “Or is grumpy your standard setting?”
“Both.” There’s that smile again, here and gone quicker than a blink, before Ambrose sobers. “I emailed your parents and told them you don’t need assistance. They insisted that I keep tutoring you every week anyway.”
Yup.
I knew that’s what they’d say, knew it down to my bones, and it still makes my throat tighten. Swallowing hard, I fight to keep my voice even. “Told ya.”
Scowling, Ambrose tosses another grape into his mouth. He chews slowly, thoughtfully, the breeze tousling his dark hair, gazing across the park at a young family playing on the swings. The kid is squealing, begging to be pushed higher, while the parents laugh together over some shared joke. Sunlight sparkles on my tutor’s glasses.
Ambrose sighs. “It’s bullshit.”
My pink lemonade hisses, the lid cracking open. I sip before I speak, tart sweetness spreading over my tongue. “It definitely is.”
“But…” Ambrose glances over at me quickly, his expression unhappy. “I’m a grad student, Lane. I know you don’t need the help, but if your parents are insisting… I could use the money.”
Yeah, I get that. I’m a student too, after all, with a work-study job in the science library and a diet heavier in instant noodles than nature intended. There’s no need for Ambrose to be embarrassed, not about this. If my parents want to waste their money, let them.
Still, my shrug is more casual than I feel. “So keep tutoring me. I’m sure we can figure outsomethingyou can teach me, Ambrose Brent.”
Oh my god, is that a blush?
It is!
My stern tutorblushes,looking away while his fingers pluck at the blanket. An answering warmth tingles low in my belly, and I push myself to sit up, inspiration striking like lightning.
Ambrose busies himself with my textbook, flicking through to find us a chapter, his hands lean and strong and so much bigger than mine. The breeze flaps his shirt against his body—amoss green button-down that plasters against his muscles with each press of wind. Watching him, my mouth is so, so dry.
And oh, I have a plan, and it’s too perfect. Too delicious.
I knowexactlywhat Ambrose Brent can teach me.
* * *
