Page 53 of Ruthless Court

They stop.

I look around the dining hall.

Athletes occupy most of the tables near us. Red hoodies. Training gear. Ice packs strapped to knees beneath the table. Every third conversation seems devoted to who kissed whom, who left whose room, or which couple might become important enough to earn a merged nickname.

“Are we here to get an education,” I ask, “or did I accidentally enroll in an episode of TMZ?”

Jules gives me a flat look. “You’re such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude. I’m bored.”

“With hot people?”

“With people discussing hot people as if that counts as a personality.”

Kenzie points her fork at me. “You could always go back to your books.”

There’s a bite beneath it.

Small, but clear.

I grip my tray.

“Maybe I should.”

I push away from the table.

My glasses slide down my nose when I stand, and I shove them back into place with one finger.

I tried wearing contacts this morning. Something had gotten trapped under the right one—dust, hair, a microscopic shard of broken glass. Whatever it was, my eye turned red and began burning before I reached class.

So the tortoiseshell frames are back.

My right eye still looks irritated behind the lens, which completes the exhausted librarian effect.

I turn too fast.

A solid chest stops me.

My tray tilts.

Iced tea, salad dressing, and half a bowl of tomato soup hit a black Stanford shirt.

“Shit.”

The dining hall quiets around us.

Kane Haverhill looks down at the mess spreading across his chest.

A tall girl beside him covers her mouth, failing to hide her laugh. She has long, sculpted legs beneath tiny running shorts and the sleek build of someone who treats five miles as a warm-up.

Kane lifts his eyes to mine.

“Aunt Gina,,,.”

“Who did you call me?”

His gaze flicks over my tortoiseshell glasses.