Page 53 of Robbin’ the Rich

And yet there I was standing in front of my bathroom mirror for the third time. Checking my eyeliner… Again.

"This is embarrassing," I told my reflection.

My reflection wisely offered no opinion.

I leaned closer to the mirror and adjusted some hair that had fallen out of place before rapidly hating myself for caring.

Who was this person?

Certainly not Robbin’ Banks, my roller derby counterpart. Robbin’ Banks routinely left the house with wet hair and enough confidence to compensate for any fashion-related shortcomings. Robbin’ Banks didn't spend fifteen minutes deciding between two nearly identical lip glosses. And she definitely didn't get butterflies over a man.

And yet, I glanced toward my phone sitting on the bathroom counter. The lock screen was empty. No new texts.

God, I had it bad. It was more than a crush, and more than just a hook up. I genuinely liked him.

I liked the nerdy science teacher with the tattoo sleeve and the irritating habit of making me smile at my phone.

A knock sounded at my door before I could spiral any further. My pulse kicked into a higher gear. When did I become so pathetic?

I grabbed my jacket from the couch and headed for the door. When I opened it, I promptly forgot every sarcastic thought I'd been having because Micah stood in the hallway with his hands shoved into the pocket of a dark hoodie, jeans worn soft from use, with black Chucks peeking out. The autumn chill had painted his cheeks faintly pink, and his blond hair looked perfectly tousled in a way that should've been illegal.

Micah smiled the second he saw me like he was genuinely excited to be standing outside my apartment.

"Hey, trouble."

I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms in a last desperate attempt to appear unaffected.

"You're wearing a NASA hoodie."

Micah looked down at himself. "Excellent observation."

"You’re not an astronaut."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I’ve seen your very pretend spaceships."

He laughed softly. God, that laugh. I would do embarrassing things to hear it.

I was in trouble. It was the kind of trouble you didn't see coming because it arrived disguised as comfort, the kind that slipped past your defenses one text message at a time. It was the reason you checked your eyeliner before a pumpkin patch date.

The drive was easy. I stared out the passenger window while autumn trees blurred past in shades of gold and orange, my stomach twisting in a way I didn't particularly appreciate.

This was ridiculous, I didn't get nervous. I was Robbin’ Banks. I could hack into a megachurch, hip-check grown women for fun, and tell off anyone who deserved it without breaking a sweat. Yet somehow a science teacher in a NASA hoodie had me questioning basic motor function.

Before I could spiral any further, Micah reached across the center console and rested his hand lightly on my thigh. The touch was casual. My body relaxed. Without thinking, I laced my fingers through his free hand.

The effect was instant. The tension that had been buzzing beneath my skin eased. My first instinct was to analyze it. I wanted to figure out what was happening in my chest and why this man affected me differently than anyone else.

Instead, I forced myself to stop. For once, maybe I didn't need to understand everything. Maybe I could just enjoy it. Micah squeezed my hand gently and smiled without taking his eyes off the road.

"There she is."

I frowned.

"There who is?"

"The version of you that doesn’t look like she is five seconds away from fleeing from a moving car."