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“You’re in my seat, Baker.”
There’s surprise on Harrison’s face when he glances up at Holden, who’s suddenly standing next to the chair opposite me. I’m sure there’s some on mine as well. I really wasn’t sure if he would show up. And despite everything I said yesterday, I think he knows Iwouldlie for him.
“Your seat, huh?” Harrison replies. “You could just find another table, Adams.”
“Cassia’s helping me with something.”
Harrison glances at me, seemingly for confirmation. I give him a small smile but say nothing to endorse or deny Holden’s story.
I’m surprised Holden admitted to that much. Linked us together in some way, when he’s tried to separate us as far as possible ever since we started high school.
“All right, I’ll leave you guys to it. Good luck with those integrals, Cassia.” Harrison smiles, surprising me again.
I manage a “Thanks” before he stands and walks away. Immediately, the seat is filled again.
Unlike Harrison, Holden doesn’t bother with any small talk. He rifles through his backpack and pulls out a few crumpled papers, placing them on the table between us.
I study his face, trying to catch one emotion in the shifting kaleidoscope. Holden is hard to read. He always has been, and it’s made the few times I’ve caught a definitive glimpse seem more meaningful.
We stare at each other.
Holden speaks first. “You into him?”
“He was just being nice.”
That response earns me an eye roll. “Don’t be naïve, Cassia.”
“I’m not. Besides, I wouldn’t do that to—” I cut myself off, remember who I’m talking to.
Sydney and Holden aren’t close. Not in a confrontational or resentful way, but a distant one. They’re just two very different people, despite sharing DNA. When we were younger, it often felt like I was the strongest connection pulling them together. That string was severed a long time ago—by the boy sitting across from me.
“I know Sydney has a thing for him.” Holden leans back in his chair and stretches. His shirt rides up a few inches, revealing the dusting of brown hair below his naval and the distinctive V thatmakes my mouth go dry every time I see it. Ridiculously ripped isn’t even a quality I’d look for in a guy. It’s that they’rehisabs.
His arms drop, and so does his shirt.
I quickly avert my eyes back to the papers. “You actually wrote the outline?”
“Yup.” He pops the P, leans forward, and shoves the papers closer to me. The spicy tang of cinnamon fills the air between us.
I skim the first couple of pages. Holden was right; he doesn’t need a tutor. Not that I thought he did. His lackadaisical attitude about school has never been because he’s incapable or daunted by the work. He’s just indifferent.
I jot a few comments in the margins, then shove it back toward him. “Did Mrs. Golden give you a deadline for the rewrite?”
“Nope.” He pops the P again, and I grit my molars in response to the irritating sound.
“How long will it take you?”
“An hour, probably.”
I scoff. “Yeah, right.”
“Start a stopwatch,” he tells me. Then pulls his laptop out of his backpack and opens it.
I drop my gaze back to my Calculus homework, trying to refocus on the derivatives I was working on before. But I keep stealing glances at Holden. At the piece of hair that continuously flops onto his forehead. The focused expression on his face. The way his nose wrinkles and his mouth quirks while he types.
We work in silence. The library is mostly cleared out by the time Holden closes his laptop. I look up as he stands and walks over to the printers. He returns with a neatly stapled stack he drops in front of me. The pages are still warm when I pull them closer.
“Here you go.”
