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He exhales harshly in annoyance and says, “Someone stuck a paper to your shirt.”
My brows fly up. “What?” Irritated, I frantically try to reach behind me. “That’s what it was…”
“Turn around.” Using sheer stealth, Brandon retrieves the paper without even a slight touch. He crumples it in his fist.
“What did the asshole write?” I fume.
His face remains hard as he tells me, “You should get to class.”
I draw air through my teeth and steer my gaze to Eric. He’s awkwardly shifting in the spot.
It must be something nasty.
Flicking to Brandon again, I urge, “Give it to me.”
He shuffles back out of nervousness when I reach for his hand that’s gripping the crushed paper.
“Don’t,” he warns, chest going up and down heavily. “I don’t know how I’ll react if you touch me again.”
I swallow hard at the severity mixed with fear underneath. He truly doesn’t trust his level of control.
Yikes.
“Then just tell me what it says,” I insist, placing my hands on my hips. “Is it the n-word?”
“No, but it’s still offensive. It’ll upset you.”
I purse my lips. “I’m not a baby, Brandon; I can handle it.”
He falls quiet, watching me, and my tummy flutters as his entrancing blues soften.
Blinking out of it, I snap my head to Eric. “You tell me.”
“No,” Brandon rumbles, drawing back my focus. He shoves the paper into his pocket and nods down the corridor. “Get to class.”
He walks away before I say anything else. Eric sighs and catches up to his friend.
Huffing, I pivot and continue to class, pissed at the asshole who stuck a paper on me, as well as annoyed that Brandon wouldn’t let me read it.
Then again, he didn’t want it to upset me, and that lessens my agitation toward him.
He’s considering my feelings.
Maybe he isn’t so bad.
Leaving school that afternoon, Sam and I enjoy burritos and smoothies in town before she heads to a jaw-dropping, suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of Charleston.
The place is visibly dripping in wealth, from the expansive mansions to the gorgeous, well-kept curb appeal.
Gosh. To be rich.
My eyes bulge when Sam turns into a lavish property. Her two-story contemporary home is stunning and quite massive.
Parking before the three-car garage, she leads me inside, and I gape at the warm interior and eccentric décor. There’s old school music playing somewhere.
“Mom!” Sam bellows after shutting the front door.
An older version of my new friend pops out of the sunroom at the end of the passage, wearing a floral housedress and slippers. She’s just as curvy, short, and has brown hair like Sam that sweeps around her face.
