Page 25 of Spin the Damn Bottle

He laughs easily. "Look, I've never hidden the fact that I'm an asshole, but Jason moved you here. That means something. He's in it for the long haul. And, well, over the long haul, say I need to ask a favor—it wouldn't hurt to have a pretty lady reminding him that I helped her pass her math requirements, now, would it?"

I gape, astonished. "Why… Are you guys capable of doing anything at all without treating it like a business decision?"

"I'm not much for planning ahead, actually." Rowan shrugs. "Might as well enjoy ourselves now, since you never know what will happen in the future. I don't do anything unless I want to."

Shit. All of a sudden, I remember that Rowan's parents are dead. I don't know much about them, how old they were, what happened, but I feel like an asshole, so I backtrack. "It's really nice of you to offer. And I do suck at calc. Missing a month didn't help. If you don't mind running me through the derivatives nonsense, I'd be grateful, actually."

He bobs his head, his shoulder-length, impossibly bouncy blond hair moving like he's in a conditioner commercial. "You got it. This afternoon after practice?"

"Thanks. And would you mind letting me know where the dining room is? I should have breakfast." I'm not particularly hungry, after the feast I gorged on last night, but I know I'll regret it before lunch if I don't eat something.

"Heading there myself. Come along, young padawan."

"You're such a nerd." I would have never guessed before I knew him, despite the rockstar-worthy hair. He's a jock, through and through. Quarterback of the football team, always hanging out with cheerleaders, wearing his letter jacket all the time, but the guy can't stop quoting Star Wars.

"What I am is disappointed. You don't even have any scars. Definitely not Vader worthy." He grimaces, leading us to the staircase. "To hear Jason talk, you'd think you were burnt more than marshmallow at a bonfire."

I lift my palm to his eye level. "This is as bad as it gets."

He winces at the sight of the mangled skin at the center of the palms. "That must have hurt."

"Like a bitch." I tried to open my door and the metallic handle was scorching hot. "But the rest of the burns healed up fine, I shouldn't have scars. The worst of the damage was my hair, really."

"I like the new style." His hand threads through my hair and shakes my head affectionately. "Okay, so the ground floor only includes communal areas—your key fob will open any of the doors. On the right, you have entertainment. On the left, you have the essentials: food," he says, pointing to the door closest to the stairs. "Laundry, and the last room goes to security. One of the guards is always on call. If you forget or lose your key, you can contact them at the door by pressing zero four times on the entry keypad. Got it?"

He speaks so fast I only really assimilate half of the information, but before I can double-check anything, he opens the dining hall and strolls inside.

Whatever I expected, it wasn't the vibe of a trendy five-star restaurant with an open kitchen. "What the hell?"

He grins. "Not bad, right?"

"Is that a bar? Why is there a bar in a school dorm?"

I follow him to an oval table covered in pristine white cloth.

"They only serve mocktails, naturally." He winks and sit down.

"Naturally," I echo, completely stunned.

A server appears shortly with a menu.

A freaking menu.

"We're running a little late. Two breakfast burritos to go?" Rowan asks me.

When I nod, he hands both menus back to the server.

I figured I might not find anyone to catch a ride with, so I got up fifteen minutes earlier than usual to account for the walk to the U. I actually thought I was early, for my standards, but that was before I knew I would have breakfast somewhere that deserves a Michelin star.

I notice the room is almost empty. The legacies must eat earlier to take full advantage of this place. "This is ridiculous, you realize that?"

"I mean, sure, I guess, but only when you consider Glass a dorm. It isn't—not really. Glass is directly owned by our parents' club, not by the school. So, it would stand to reason that it’s managed differently."

"Nothing about this stands to reason. We're teenagers. We don't need to eat fancy shit every single day."

Rowan chuckles. "Who said anything about needs?"

Our server's already back with two brown paper bags. "I took the liberty of adding water, sir, miss."