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Ms. Scott, the librarian, gives me a warm smile as I walk past her to the conference room I usually use. I find being out in the open is distracting and most of the times friends would stop by and interrupt my sessions. And that shit is annoying. So, I sign up to use a private room for fewer distractions.
The door to my room is cracked open and I take a deep breath and pray to the stars that this doesn’t go horribly wrong. Dammit Nick, I should have never told him.
Rubbing my arrow charm on my necklace, I push the door open and stop dead in my tracks. He wasn’t lying when he said be careful. This man in front of me, tapping away on his phone, is trouble in the flesh. Taking in his smooth, light mocha skin, lean built frame, I swallow. A white t-shirt clings to his broad chest and toned tattooed arms, a thin gold chain hangs from his neck. Light, distressed jeans clad his long legs that stop at some very expensive white sneakers.
“Bliss?” A smooth voice brings my eyes up. Oh god. He’s speaking. The chair scrapes back, and my eyes follow as he stands to his full height. Now I get the basketball rule. He has to be six five, at least. His strong jawbone ticks, and his hazel, almond shaped eyes squint at me.
Blinking, I fumble with the flap to my messenger bag, pulling out the paper with all his information on it. “Um, Cuba?” I look back to him. “Yeah, I’m Bliss.” I hate my hippie name. Why my dad agreed is beyond me.
He smirks and I almost swoon. “They sent some Coachella chick to tutor me?”
Swoon stop. What the hell did he just say?
I jerk my head back. “Excuse me?”
Cuba shakes his head and grabs his book bag. “Are you seriously a tutor or just some groupie? I told them I wanted someone who didn’t know me.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “First of all, I’m not a groupie. So, thank you for insulting me. Second, I don’t know who the hell you are or why you feel entitled to speak to me that way, and third, I have never been to Coachella. So, do you want to learn about Alexander the Great or not, because I hate to waste my time.”
Swoon is completely over. Who the hell does he think he is? I search his eyes but they are clear as day. Unfortunately, he is a real asshole and not under the influence.
Placing a hand on my jean shorts covered hip, I narrow my eyes and stare him down. His eyes stare right back at me, and I raise an eyebrow.
“So, what is going to be?” I press. My other hand tightens around my coffee, and I take a deep breath to calm down and loosen my hold, because if I spill this, I’m going to be crabby.
He pulls his head back and tilts it, his eyes no longer narrowing at me. “You really don’t know who I am?”
“No,” I huff out. “And I’m really not in the mood. I just caught my boyfriend cheating and my coffee is diluting by the minute. I need this caffeine strong.” I move past him, setting my coffee and now wet paper on the table.
Pulling my messenger strap over my head, I fall onto the wood chair. I look up to see Cuba staring at me with wide eyes, his book bag drops to the floor, and he takes the seat across the table from me.
“Want me to beat his ass?” he asks casually, as he pulls out his MacBook from his bag along with his history book, note pad, and pen.
I almost smile but shake my head. “Not worth it.” I pull my things out my bag, opening my MacBook and turning it on. “So, your parents said it was up to you on how many times we meet.” I look up over the edge on my laptop.
He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. “Um, I’m not sure. Maybe twice a week?”
I nod. “Sure, whatever is better for you. How about you go over the workbook and let me know if you have any questions.”
He nods and starts flipping through the book as I pull out my phone. Dex has been texting nonstop, and I end up blocking his calls and texts. Next, I text India, letting her know that Dex is dead to us.
I don't wait for her reply and slip my phone back in my bag. I try not to have it out during my sessions because it's rude.
Pulling up Google on my browser, I debate whether to look up Cuba. Apparently, he wanted someone who didn't know him, but why. Was he really such a big deal to think I would be some groupie? Would looking him up be an invasion of privacy? I mean, if it's public knowledge, it should be okay right? Then I think back to the rules. If I read something, then it will make me want to ask questions. Questions I'm probably not supposed to ask. Curiosity killed the cat and all.
“What's up with all the arrows?” Cuba asks, and my eyes fly to his. It's like he knew my fingers were itching to type in his name.
Confused I tilt my head, “What?”
He nods to my laptop, then me. “You have arrows everywhere. Your necklace looks as if you never take it off the way you keep rubbing it. You have them on your laptop, your bag, and there's a small tattoo behind your right ear.
How the hell? Self-consciously my hand flies to my neck and rubs the small charm at the base. Swallowing, I clear my throat.
“For someone that asked that I don’t ask any personal questions, you sure can't follow your own rules.” I arch an eyebrow.
His full lips pull into a sexy smirk. “Touché, Arrow.”
“Did you just call me Arrow?”
