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Monica appeared to be examining her hair for split ends.
And a few rows past that, Becca was watching his interaction with the new girl a little too carefully.
Mr. Beamis cleared his throat again, a bit more emphatically. “Sometime today, if you don’t mind.”
The girl turned and surveyed the room as if the teacher’s impatience didn’t matter one bit. Then, without another glance at Hunter, she slipped between the desks and dropped into the chair two rows over.
He made his way into his own seat and refused to look her way.
Beamis turned toward the board and immediately started droning. Hunter could totally sleep through this class—he’d taken World History last year, at his old school, and even though he’d told them that at registration, they’d still dumped him in here. Monica wasn’t the type to care whether he paid attention or not, so he usually used this class to catch up on homework from his other teachers.
Today, he was keenly aware of the new girl sitting a few rows over.
He should be plotting a way to stop Calla. He should be figuring the best angle to approach the Merricks to get their help.
He just couldn’t think past cinnamon and apples and blond hair.
Then he slammed a door on those thoughts. He’d been burned twice now—once by Clare, a girl who’d been using him for his father’s weapons. And once by Calla, a girl who was using him for his father’s connections.
Before their final trip, Hunter’s father had imparted one last lesson, and death had made it stick: Use them before they use you.
He pulled out his essay for Honors French and pretended the new girl didn’t exist.
A folded triangle of paper landed in the center of his notebook.
Normally he’d unfold it discreetly, but Beamis was so clueless that the note could have hit him in the head and he wouldn’t notice.
Loopy script in purple pen. The paper smelled like her.
What’s your #?
Wow.
Hunter clicked his pen and wrote below her words.
I have a theory about girls who ask for your number before asking for your name.
Then he folded it up and flicked it back.
It took every ounce of self-control to not watch her unfold it.
The paper landed back on his desk in record time.
I have a theory about boys who prefer writing to texting.
He put his pen against the paper.
I have a theory about girls with theories.
Then he waited, not looking, fighting the small smile that wanted to play on his lips.
The paper didn’t reappear.
After a minute, he sighed and went back to his French essay.
When the folded triangle smacked him in the temple, he jumped a mile. His chair scraped the floor, and Beamis paused in his lecture, turning from the board. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” Hunter coughed, covering the note with his hand. “Sorry.”
