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“Bullshit.”
She smirks. “What? I know you think I’m this extraordinary girl capable of basically anything she puts her mind to, but even for me, passing tests intoxicated was a bad idea.”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Kayla,” I rumble from my chest, entertained. She keeps her eyes trained on mine, probably hoping I’m buying her lies. I bet she was able to sway any bloke her way at Stanford, but I’m not any bloke.
I’m also not stupid.
“Why are you lying, babe?”
With a pinched mouth, she leans into her chair like a rebellious teenager.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me ‘babe’?”
We did. But I like to slip one in every now and then.
It feels natural.
“Kayla,” I growl. “Answer the question. Tell me the truth.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“Look, you’re smart. You organized my charity ball better in a week than I did in the last six months. You are not your typical teenager, because there is a drive in your eyes that most kids your age lack. You don’t get kicked out of school.”
Appreciation flashes in her gaze for a nanosecond, before they turn stern again.
“Not smart enough.”
I push out a frustrated groan, resting my elbows on the table. “I know you dropped out. I talked to Dean Fowler.”
“You didn’t,” she calls my bluff.
“I did.”
“You what?” she gasps, her expression darkening in anger. “You have no right, Bodi! Isn’t there some kind of student privacy law or something?”
“I was his favorite student.”
“You went to Stanford?” She looks surprised.
“Berkeley. He transferred to Stanford a few years ago.”
“I wish he didn’t.”
Clearly irked, she holds my gaze, then turns her head to look out of the window with a defiant stance.
“I like to know who’s working for me.”
“Yeah? Do you do a background check on all your editors as well?” she snaps.
“No. Only the one who should be in school getting a degree.”
Her demeanor changes, her fierce attitude being replaced by slumped shoulders and an averting gaze.
“You can feed Rae that bullshit story about you failing your classes, but I’m not buying it. There is something you’re not telling me.”
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“Maybe,” I concede before I continue to tell her she’s full of shit. “But you dropped out of Stanford even though your grades were higher than the average. You weren’t failing. In fact, in most classes, you were top of the class. That tells me you left for a different reason. But I can’t seem to figure out what is important enough to leave your dream. Because that’s what you told me last summer, that Stanford was your dream.”
She shrugs, faking indifference. “Dreams change. I was homesick.”
“You don’t get along with your parents and you were home for two weeks before you jumped on a plane to Atlanta. Tell me the real reason. Tell me what happened.”
Her eyes cut to thin slits in ferocity even though she seems to get smaller by the second. When her phone starts to vibrate on the table, she gives it a quick glance, then closes her eyes in defeat. I’ve seen her do that a few times now when her phone rings and she ignores it. Before she can grab it, I reach out, snatching it from the table to see who’s calling.
Trent.
All of a sudden, the wires in my head connect, and I narrow my eyes at her.
“Unless,” I trail, “you left because of someone, instead of something.” I hold up her phone, and I watch how her usually sparkling face falls to a gloomy expression.
“Maybe I should answer it,” I suggest.
“No!” Terror flashes in her eyes and she lunges over the table, her palm facing up.
I decline the call, then put it in her hand. “You got two minutes to tell me who Trent is and why he keeps calling you, or I’m going to find out myself.”
“No one. Just some guy from Stanford.”
“Yeah?” I eye her, suspicious. “Is that why every time he calls you, your body goes rigid and your mind seems to take off when you see his name popping up on your screen?”
She stays quiet, scowling.
“Let’s trade,” she offers. “I tell you why I dropped out of Stanford, and you tell me why you are so desperate to ignore this chemistry between us.
I let out a pleased grunt, knowing that’s easy. “Sure.”
She sucks in a deep breath, the features on her face relaxing a little as she exhales slowly.
“He’s my ex,” she finally confesses. “I didn’t tell him I was leaving.”
I hold her gaze, looking for the lies, but I can’t really decipher if she’s bullshitting me or not. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“We broke up.” She shrugs. “He wants me back. I knew if I told him, he would try to convince me to stay. I didn’t want him to. He’s the star tennis player on campus and he can be very persuasive.”
“So, why did you drop out?”
She leans back into her chair, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Look, I know this might sound stupid to you, but I didn’t like it there.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like I belonged. I know homesick is a big word, but I didn’t feel at home. I guess I’m not a California girl.”
“So, you dropped out and decided working at Walmart would be good enough?”
She’s not telling me everything.
“No, no. You had your question. My turn.” A playful smirk replaces her gloomy stance. “Why won’t you just give in to this? To us?” She moves her hand back and forth.
“Easy.” I mimic her stance. “One, I’m your boss, and two, you’re ten years younger than I am.”
Her eyes roll.
