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It doesn’t matter if Trent’s my type, if I want him, if his kisses make me feel anything. I chose him because he’sgoodfor me. Maybe I’m using him, but he also gets what he wants out of the deal, too: me.
At least, parts of me.
ChapterFifteen
I crash for an hour before getting ready for my first class.
I’ve signed up for two classes: natural science on Tuesday, and English on Friday.
I expect a light introduction, but the professor has other ideas. He jumps in with both feet, and I spend the entire two hours scribbling away notes.
The student enrollment is diverse, and older than I expected; out of the four dozen students around me, only half seem around my age. The others must have returned to school after jumping into professional life, or taken their time to complete courses while working, like I'll have to.
Professor Warner closes the natural science class by dividing us into groups for an upcoming assignment, and lets us go. I linger to meet my group, and exchange phone numbers.
Ashley Turner is a wannabe actress, Tylor Verve, a stunt man, and Brittany Frank has to work to support herself, like me. We set up a group chat and promise to keep in touch.
My oversized red boho bag slung over my shoulder, I check my messages while walking down the stairs and heading out of the building.
The campus is a good ten miles from my place, so the commute would take an hour by bus or on foot. I plan on skating here when I can, but I didn’t bring Pauline’s rollerblades tonight, as Trent invited me on a date nearby, to celebrate my first class.
My last text is from him: he wants to know if I'm still up for dinner. I'm about to confirmwhen I hear my name, clear as day, and from too close.
“Morgan.”
I freeze.
I know that deep, suave voice. I now recognize it as easily as I would Willow’s or Erica’s.I hear it every day in my mind.
I pinch my eyes shut, willing the auditory illusion away. I'm daydreaming, as always. That's all. Camden Hunt can't be here. Public schools aren't his purview. He's off somewhere fancy, like Harvard or Stanford—or more likely, Rothford.
"So, community college, hm?"
The amused, light question takes me aback, because I’ve heard this voice say many things over the last few weeks, but college talk was never in the cards until now.
I open my eyes and see him walk right to me, gorgeous in a black T-shirt showing off his deep tan that makes him look Mediterranean—maybe Italian. He is, if possible, hotter than he was before summer.
Unless I’m completely insane, he's here, mere paces away, and closing the distance between us with every step.
I shouldn’t question why I was so captivated for years. He’s turning every head in his path. They stop and stare openly, wondering if he’s a celebrity. He’s too airbrushed, too perfect, compared to the rest of us mere mortals.
Those golden eyes don’t bother to look at anyone else, focused only on me.
Which is terrifying.
"What are you doing here, princess?”
That’s rich, coming from him.Heshouldn’t be here, in LA, in front of my school. Anywhere near me.
“I’ve seen your transcript. You could do better."
If I’d doubted it, his words confirm I’m not hallucinating. He’s nothing like the man I see in my dreams or my nightmares. This version of Camden’s too casual, too comfortable in my presence. The figment of my imagination would never talk to me about my transcript. Somehow, it’s more ludicrous than any of the twisted things I could have come up with.
I part my lips, but can’t form words, my throat too dry. My brain’s still not done processing the fact that Camden Hunt is right in front of me.
I should run. I should scream. I find myself capable of neither, my feet firmly anchored to the ground, and my legs the consistency of Jell-O.
At long last, I manage to remember how to use my mouth and vocal cords. “The question is why areyouhere.”
