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Not to mention it would satisfy a question that’s been weighing on my mind for more than a decade now. Just what does Samantha’s smart little mouth taste like?
I clench my jaw tighter, trying—but failing—to dismiss the thought from my mind.
Eyeing me closely, unblinkingly, Samantha straightens her spine and shoulders. “What we’ve always done.”
“Battle to the death?”
Her lips twitch, and I can’t help but smirk. I almost got her to laugh there. It’s almost as satisfying as making her rage-sing in her car.
“I was thinking something more along the lines of dividing the library into two halves.”
I frown. “What for?”
“So you can stay on your side, and I can stay on mine. That way we don’t end up killing each other.”
I chuckle at that. I’m not the only one who has had murder on my mind throughout this whole exchange.
“Okay.” I motion for her to begin. “Let’s hear your starting offer on how to split the territory.”
If her negotiations now are anything like they were in high school, I’m in for an annoying—though, exciting—half an hour. Oddly enough, I’m looking forward to it.
FIVE
SAMANTHA
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I tear my eyes away from the YA fantasy novel I’ve been skimming to search for the source of the sudden noise. I hope the library’s ceiling hasn’t suddenly sprung a leak. Or that—worse—some sort of critter hasn’t snuck its way into the air ducts.
We have enough problems on our hands without having to deal with another disaster.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
With a sigh, I close the book and set it aside. I can’t see anything from my vantage point, tucked behind a bookshelf. So I rise to my feet and pop my head over the stacks.
Thump.
My gaze lasers in on the source of the noise. Zack. Of course, it’s Zack.
“What are you doing?”
He turns toward me from where he’s sprawled on the ground, facing the wall of windows. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”
I press my lips together and take a deep breath in through my nose. We still have twelve more hours left stuck in here. Alone. If I spend every second of it furious with him, I’m going to give myself an ulcer.
“I mean”—I say slowly, through clenched teeth and a fake smile that I’m desperately trying to keep in place—“what are you doing to make that noise?”
“What noise?”
My eye twitches. “The thumping noise.”
“Oh. That.” He holds up a tennis ball. “I found this in the teacher’s desk in the little classroom. Want to play?”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.”
He goes back to bouncing the ball against the window. I stand there staring at him, not sure what bothers me more. The noise, or his blatant disrespect for property that isn’t his.
