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Snorting in amusement, the girl twists toward me, extending a hand. “I’m Pen. Penelope, actually, but no one calls me that.”
“Luna.” I accept the oddly formal greeting. “You a sophomore too?”
Pen nods, the only response she has time to give before a door creaking open cuts her off, followed by thudding footsteps as a man strides into the room, coming to a stop behind the desk center stage. Who I’m assuming is our professor—Pen’s dad—takes his time setting up his laptop, silent except for the sound of loud, overdramatic typing that every teacher seems to master. When he finally lifts his gaze to scan the room, it snags on Pen, head dipping in the slightest acknowledgement.
Weirdly, I swear it lingers on me too. Just for a second, so quick I definitely could’ve imagined it, as well as the flicker of something I can’t quite name but could be mistaken as recognition. The moment is over before it begins, and I brush it off as my mind playing tricks on me—God knows that’s not a rarity.
“Professor Robert Jacobs,” the man begins with a brusque introduction, and more than one girl in the room sits up a little straighter at his surprisingly husky voice, interest suddenly peaked.
“Remind me to thank the hiring committee,” someone in my vicinity mutters.
“Is it just me,” another voice adds, “or do the staff get hotter every year?”
“Jesus Christ.” Pen groans beside me , twisting to glare at whoever’s eyeing up her dad. I feel her pain—growing up with a young, attractive mom was my own personal hell at times.
Jacobs is objectively good-looking, I guess, if I were into men old enough to be my dad with a very noticeable ring wrapped around his finger. But definitely not my type. Although, these days, I’m not entirely sure what that is.
I never used to be a fan of lean, long-haired men nor the quiet, nice guy yet here I am, mind wandering toward the very epitome.
Jackson.
I like it all on him.
Even the shy thing, I like. I like how nervous I make him. And not in the uncomfortable, harsh way I usually enjoy, the kind that feels like karma for years spent crossing roads or avoiding going out alone after sundown or carrying mace in my purse just in case some entitled asshole got too handsy. That feels like balancing the scales.
This, how Jackson reacts around me, feels different. Nervous in the most lovely way.
He’s like karma but the good kind I’m not sure what I did to deserve. He proved it when he rubbed my back and tied up my hair and, after the entire contents of my stomach were flushed down the toilet, proceeded to scoop me up off the dirty bathroom floor and tuck me in his shirt.
A shirt I still have. I woke up in it the morning after, unsure where it came from but obsessed with the scent wrapped around me. Clean and fresh with a faint hint of grass clinging to the fabric, like laundry hung up to dry outside. I can’t recall a night since that I haven’t spent wrapped in the soft cotton.
I didn’t recall everything right away, just flashes of warm touches and a kind smile. But the moment I walked into that art store and saw him, I remembered but I feigned ignorance because I was too mortified to mention it considering the enormous fucking fool I made out of myself.
I was drunk and fumbling and reeking of vomit yet he called me beautiful.Beautiful. Not hot or sexy, which I firmly believe is the worst compliment in the world/ It makes me cringe every time it’s screamed in my ear over the noise of a club or slurred at me over the counter in Greenies.
No, he called me beautiful in the most endearingly earnest way. Hands fidgeting and cheeks flushed. Unable to look me in the eye. I’m not someone who gets all weak in the knees and weepy at such simple complimentary words but God, I was practically swooning.
I haven’t dwelled on that long enough to figure out why. I don’t plan on it. I plan on waiting for the odd little crush to pass, for my mind to fixate on something else.
I can only hope it happens soon.
* * *
“Assholes,“ I grumble, mentally sticking my tongue out at the retreating backs of the frat boys vacating Greenies. Two hours flirting my ass off and entertaining their advances and flashing my cleavage on purpose—because, you know, feminism on hold when it comes to earning tips—only for them to massively lowball me.
Two dollars. Six of them clad in fucking Ralph Lauren polo shirts and goddamn boat shoes and requesting top-shelf whiskey—because, obviously, Greenies screams high quality liquor—could only spare two goddamn dollars.
Ass. Holes.
Allowing myself a moment longer of bitterness, I stuff their sad tip in my pocket before getting back to work.
It’s busy as hell today, just the way I like it—time goes quicker that way.
Plus, I’m on shift with Amelia, as usual, and I can hardly complain about spending the evening in the company of my best friend. Especially when I have particularly interesting entertainment in the form of the most notorious player on campus simpering at her with puppy-dog eyes.
She’s got the guy spellbound without even trying, and I would only be prouder if she wasn’t still inexplicably in love with a big dumbass.
It’s easier to focus on Nick—Nicolas Silva wasn’t a hard name to source—than his company. Not the young blond guy who reminds me of a puppy but the walking pair of cheekbones beside him. Every time I sneak a glance at Jackson, my amusement fades, replaced by sweaty hands and this weird twisting sensation in my stomach that I’d rather not put a name to.
