Page 9 of Make Me Mean It

“Nope.”

I hook my fingers beneath the bottom of my tank and drag the clammy thing over my head, tossing it towards the growing pile of shit by the chair. When I glance back at the bed, Connor’s eyes are already on me.

More specifically, at my chest.

By the time my brain catches up with what I’m seeing, his attention is already buried in the notebook again.

I stare at the top of his bowed head, tank forgotten in my hand.

Oh, Princess.

That was definitely not nothing.

Connor’s fingers tighten around the notebook, twisting together while colour creeps steadily into his cheeks. He’s still glaring at me, which is impressive considering he’s the one sitting in the wrong bedroom.

“Marcus said second floor, first door on the right,” he grits out.

My eyes flick to Marcus’s door across the hall.

“Left.”

Connor’s eyes flick towards the hallway, and his expression falls.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and turn back to the drawer before the look on his face gets me. I manage to find a clean t-shirt buried beneath two hoodies and tug it over my head, giving Connor enough time to come to terms with the fact he’s been lying in the wrong bed.

I glance back at him, tipping my chin towards the door across the hall.

“That one.”

Connor’s eyes narrow on the open doorway, and I almost feel sorry for Marcus. Almost. He grabs his notebook, snapping it shut with enough force to make his feelings on the whole thing pretty fucking clear.

“I’m going to kill him,” he mutters under his breath.

I laugh under my breath as I head for the mini fridge beside my desk. He makes it almost embarrassingly easy, trying so hard to act unaffected, but he’s fucking terrible at it.

Makes it difficult not to keep pushing.

“You really think he keeps his room this clean?” I ask, crouching in front of the fridge and pulling it open. Cold air washes over my skin while I grab a sports drink, reaching automatically for one of the waters beside it before nudging the door shut with my knee.

I toss the water towards Connor.

He fumbles it against his chest, staring down at the bottle with enough surprise that a laugh works its way out of me.

“Relax, princess. It’s water.”

His eyes lift slowly to mine, and I raise a brow. Christ, anyone would think I’d just handed him the keys to my bike instead of a bottle of water.

“I wasn’t exactly inspecting the decor,” he huffs, twisting the cap from the bottle before bringing it to his mouth.

I take a drink of my own, watching him over the rim.

His head tips back. His throat stretches, exposing the long line of it. I watch the muscles move beneath his skin, the small bob of his Adam’s apple marking each swallow before he lowers the bottle.

My eyes jump back to his face.

His eyes lift to mine, and the moment they meet, his fingers flex around the bottle, colour working its way back into his cheeks. They fall away, finding the label very interesting.

I bite the inside of my cheek.