“Anyway, she's a violent one,” he says, cutting me off as he shovels popcorn into his mouth, still watching the TV. He swallows, dusting the crumbs off his shirt, adding, “I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”
“I just don’t get it,” I mutter, turning off the cooker completely, rounding the wall into the living room, taking a seat across from them. “What is there not to like about me?”
Miles doesn’t miss a beat as he says, “You think you’re better than everyone else.”That’s because most times, I am.“You’re always calling people out on their mistakes.”It’s important to do so.“And you care too much about stupid things like school and money.”
I snort. “Miles, those are two very important things.”
“See,” he says, gesturing to me as he gets up, wandering into the kitchen. “That’s what I mean about you thinking you know everything.” Then he mumbles something about how money and school won’t matter when he’s in the NHL.
Great.
So, I’m back at square one. I still don’t know why Scarlett doesn’t like me and I don’t know how I’m going to get her to trust me and open up to me.
It’s easy enough to use the project as a front to talk to her, but she’s stubborn enough as it is. I need to think of a plan, and I need to think of one fast. Finding out what happened to her dad needs to be my main priority.
If she cracks in the process, I can pick up the pieces afterwards.
5
Scarlett
It’s all fun and games when you go to a party on a Thursday night, forgetting you have a lecture the next morning and you have to turn up hungover. It’s already one thing to be hungover – my head is throbbing; my back is sore, and my thighs are aching for reasons it hurts too much to explain. It’s another thing to be hungoverandlisten to Evan Branson talk shit all morning.
Friday morning lectures are the one time of the week where I decide to switch my brain off for two hours. It’s the seminars where I am more interested in arguing with this fool, but today he’s been trying to get on everyone’s nerves for reasons I can’t find. He’s been arguing back and forth with the lecturer for the last five minutes about different marketing techniques that huge cities use to increase sales. It’s a topic that interests me as much as a jar of peanut butter. A total snoozefest.
I’m not the only one who has had enough of his bullshit. Everyone in the room is sighing quietly, scribbling aimlessly and Evan doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care. The old professor, one of the most experienced and interesting teachers we have on the course, is reluctantly trying to change the slides, but Evan doesn’t give him a minute of leeway.
I finally try to put an end to it and raise my hand. “I actually have a question for Evan, if that’s okay, professor,” I say, a bored expression falling across my face. Evan turns around from his seat in the row below, the top of his cheeks a tiny shade of red, his green-ish-blue eyes rolling as he looks at me.
“Go ahead,” the professor murmurs, probably giving up on teaching. I give him a sympathetic smile before locking my gaze with Evan’s displeasing face.
“Is your head really that far up your ass that you think people will be dying to buy products just because a half-decent male is on the cover of a billboard?” I ask in the most serious tone I can muster. A few snickers scatter around the room and I cross my arms against my chest, titling my head to the side in challenge.
Despite the insult, he smirks. “It’s classic. Old school. It’s what works.”
I scoff. “Yes, fifty years ago when you’d have to sell your lung to afford a cell phone. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but technology has advanced since then. And if your family’s business knew that you’d be getting a lot more monthly sales than you are now.”
It’s a low blow and embarrassing to admit that I constantly check B&Co’s statistics. They’re almost too easy to access and sometimes when I’m having a bad day, it makes me feel better that they’re also doing just as bad.
Evan opens his mouth to speak, his eyebrows knitted in confusion, but the lecturer cuts him off, shaking his head. “You make a valid point, Scarlett. What would you suggest is a better marketing tool?”
“That’s easy,” I say to him. “Video advertising. It’s the best-”
“Of course,” Evan mutters under his breath, cutting me off.
I roll my eyes. “Think about it for one second before cutting me off, you moron. You’ve already had your moment,” I bite out. His eyes widen at the sharpness in my tone before another mischievous smirk spreads across his face. I swear he just loves to piss me off.
“Language,” the professor warns.
I take in a deep breath. “Right. Sorry. All I’m saying is that no matter how annoying they can be, a good commercial, a funny one, draws people in more than a billboard you pass by on the way to your grandparent’s house upstate. I’m sure everyone has those adverts from their childhood that they’ll never forget. It’s all about being memorable, something that’ll draw you into a particular brand.”
The room fills with hums of agreement, and I feel satisfied with my answer. Everyone except Evan seems to agree with my answer as he just frowns at me.
“And you don’t think a billboard could do that? Be memorable, I mean,” he argues, and I shake my head. “Not even with a naked man on the cover?”
“Something so in my face just puts me off more than anything,” I say with a shudder, remembering the amount of posters and billboards I’ve seen with huge men on them. I can admit it draws you in, but not in the way you want to be drawn into a brand or product.
Evan tilts his head, leaning his forearms on the desk, the skin on his arms a golden and weirdly intriguing colour. He catches me looking at his arms and I snap my eyes up to his face. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t want to see Chris Evans in an underwear campaign on a huge poster that you could see from your apartment window?”
