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“Work,” I say mildly.
We have to finish Mr. Hit-and-Run. I’m eager to get to it. Being there puts me in a headspace in which I can gather all my thoughts. It’s like meditation for me.
“What’s it like working at a morgue?”
We pass by the front of the class, and my gaze skirts over to where Nathan is sitting. Seeing the yellows and greens of his fading bruises makes laughter bubble to my lips, but I quickly squash it when his eyes narrow on me.
Rowan broke this asshole’s face like a boiled egg.
I wish I could have been there to see that.
“It’s interesting,” I finally answer.
“What exactly is it that you do?”
“I’m the cosmetologist.”
“Makeup?”
Because he sounds skeptical, I give him the side-eye. “A ton of makeup needs to be used to make dead bodies look good.”
“I’m not doubting you, beautiful.”
The word is said with affection, and I believe that he means it, but another voice is in my head, whispering the words “Little Bird,” and they drown out Simon’s voice entirely.
It isn’t until we’re out of the classroom and face to face with the most lethal look that I realize the voice wasn’t in my head at all.
Rowan stands there in the busy hall, looking entirely out of place among the small students. In one hand, he holds a brown bag with aGo Nuts, Donutslogo across the side and an iced coffee in his other hand, all while glaring viciously at Simon and his proximity to me.
I gulp at the gleam I see in his eye.
Rowan Stone would absolutely murder Simon if he was so inclined. Hell, he’d probably even make it fun for himself. He’d fucking enjoy it. I don’t want Simon’s death on my conscience. He’s a nice guy. I’d hate to have to see him on the slab at work.
Simon seems to halt as he takes in Rowan’s enormous stature. He’s taller than the door frame he stands next to. Broader too. We block the classroom entrance, and it feels like a crowd gathers at our backs to stare at all of us. Murmurings begin rising around them. Almost like they’re all waiting for a repeat of what supposedly happened on the ice with Nathan.
I can’t let Rowan rearrange Simon’s face. He’s too pretty and innocent for such violence.
“You have one fucking second to find any other girl in school to bore, Freddie Mercury,” Rowan threatens in a low, casual drawl.
The strange name he calls him distracts me, but I immediately look to Simon. To his credit, or because he’s absolutely stupid or maybe both, Simon stays rooted to the spot.
The poor lamb.
He looks at me sideways. “I thought you said you weren’t dating any big scary hockey player.”
“We aren’t.”
“We are,” said scary hockey player corrects.
Rowan and I glare at each other when we speak simultaneously.
“Wearen’tdating,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear.
I don’t even know what Rowan and I are. How one would even begin to describe our dynamic.
He’s my hired tormentor, turned stalker, turned bodyguard... Yeah, let’s not try to label it.
Rowan shifts his attention back to Simon. “What the fuck are you still doing here?” His knuckles whiten from how tightly he’s gripping that bag of donuts.
