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And he’s not the only one.

I don’t finish the sentence, because it would break the invisible rules between us. The ones that feel sturdy but, I’m realizing with every second we’re close enough to touch, are actually fragile.

I glance at the next page in the textbook, decide we’ve covered this one.

“Being the second son was hard on him, especially when my—our—mom left,” I hear myself say. “Things were always a little easier for me. I wanted him to stay focused so he could have the things he wanted.”

She leans in. “What if they’re the same things you want? Like the seat. Maybe there’s a one-in-a-million chance someday you’ll both race for ARI, but not at the same time. Not next year. You can’t both have it.”

It sounds stupid but I’d never really thought much about it. Competitiveness has always been a part of my life, so it never sank in how he’d feel if I got it and he came up short. Or if he got it but I didn’t. I don’t love the idea of going head-to-head with my little brother, especially with stakes high enough we might hold it against one another, but there’s no other option.

That’s our world. Our fate. Always has been.

I start to put the book away, but it catches on the edge of the table. She grabs for it at the same time, my hand bracketing hers on top while hers is over mine beneath.

A jolt runs straight up my arm. It’s childish, how much I feel it, how fast my body reacts.

But it doesn’t seem childish at all.

Her gaze flicks to mine, her eyes a thousand miles deep.

I don’t have to wonder if she’s feeling it. I fucking know.

Before I can answer, her phone buzzes with a text. She lets go of the book first.

“I have to cover for my friend at the diner.”

“The Junction?” I ask, surprised. “They have those fifties outfits. Skirts up to here.” I motion.

Shay throws her pen at me. “Stop picturing them.”

I duck easily. “Probably the only way to see you in a skirt.”

“I didn’t know that was on your bucket list.” Shay reaches past me to retrieve her pen, but I hold it away.

She’s leaning across my body. With her pressed against me, her breathing shallow, I suddenly can’t decide where to look. Her eyes, lashes half-lowered. Her tits, warm and soft through the thin layers of clothing. Her lips, full and parted.

She smells sweet and a little spicy, and I want to drop my mouth to her throat and see if she tastes like it, too.

“Sick of staring at your ass in jeans every day,” I manage.

Her grip closes around the pen, and my fingers. “At least you’re finally admitting you stare at me all day.”

Heat barrels down my spine. My dick presses against my zipper as if it’s been waiting for exactly this opportunity.

She’s looking at my mouth. I know because I’m looking at hers, and she’s not pulling back.

We’re an inch apart. Millimeters, really.

I brush my thumb along her knuckles because I need to touch her, and if I don’t do that, I’ll do something worse, something I can’t take back.

In my head, the library’s gone. Except the table. That can stay while I push her down on it, shut her smart mouth up with mine. The students can leave too—just fucking evaporate into nothing so her sounds echo off the walls.

A breath trembles out of her lips, and for a wild second I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.

Buzz. My phone vibrates on the table.

Buzz.