Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Picturing a gargantuan zit on my forehead or perhaps lipstick that somehow migrated all over my face, I duck my head and hurry to class.
This is my final semester and I’ve taken it easy on myself, saving interesting classes to fill out my requirements for last. This class, History of Classic Film, should be fun.
Should be.
Only . . . as soon as I make my way to an empty seat, everyone—except a girl in back who hasn’t lifted her face from her phone—looks my way. Eyes follow me as I walk. I feel like Tippi Freaking Hedren creeping past a murder of crows in The Birds.
Holy crap, what is the issue?
August’s warning turns over in my head even as I sit and have a quick glance at my face using my phone’s camera. Face clear and the same as always, I know with the certainty of a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake that he’d been right.
A guy takes the desk directly in front of me and promptly turns in his seat to gape. “You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Her?” Playing ignorant will work, right?
“August Luck’s girl.”
Man, that sounds so strange.
“It’s her,” another guy says, holding up his phone like he has proof. I guess he does. I can see the flickers of August and me holding hands in the clip he’s been watching. He gives me a triumphant look. “I recognized you as soon as he said your name.”
This class is made up of seniors and juniors all in similar majors. I recognize most of them too. But I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t know their names. I’ve always simply attended class, listened to the professor, done the work, and left.
Phone guy, with his mop of brown curls and oversize Rams sweatshirt might be Brian or Brad. Definitely a B name. Doesn’t really matter. Mr. B and his friend . . . Dwight? Dwayne?—look at me expectantly.
“I . . . ah . . . I’m Penelope.”
“Ah, yeah, we know.” An eye roll of exasperation followed by another searching look. “So? Is Luck gonna buckle down now?”
“How’s he feeling physically?”
“More like mentally.” Dwight/Dwayne mocks a chicken, arms flapping.
I glare at him, but don’t answer.
“He’s not gonna do shit. First picks always fizzle out,” says a guy at the window with a small sneer.
“No, that’s what the ladies say about you,” Brian—it’s totally Brian!—snaps back.
“Not what your mamma said last night.”
“Boys.” A cute blonde, way more likely to be dating a star quarterback, scoffs at them then leans toward me with wide eyes. “God, August Luck! I can’t believe you . . . I mean, is he, like . . .” She makes a rolling motion with her hand. “You know? Is he?”
I have no earthly idea what the hell she’s talking about. Surely, she’s not asking me about . . . ?
“I mean those eyes! That body just . . . slaps.” She sighs expansively. “He must be transcendent.”
I guess she is. My face flames. I’m part horrified and part outraged.
Thankfully, I don’t have to answer. The professor enters, saving me from further questioning. I like Professor Jackson. He’s always been professional and informative. Dressed in a rumpled brown suit and an argyle sweater vest, he plays the part well.
Rubbing his mop of gray hair, the professor sets down his leather bag, adjusts his wire rim glasses, and immediately starts class. I fall into the familiar comfort of reading lists, expectations, and upcoming assignments. And if the other students keep glancing back at me? I can handle it.
I’m fairly certain the blonde—who I learn via roll call is Jessica—has been texting her friend about me the entire lecture. Her thumbs are tapping away like mad, only paused by intermittent looks my way. Our gazes clash at one point, and she flashes a quick apologetic smile before going back to her phone.
It’s fine. I can handle this.
Class ends, and I tuck away my writing pad. Call it old-fashioned, but if I don’t physically write notes down, I forget them as soon as I’m done. I’ll go back and type them into my laptop, which adds an extra layer of memorization.
As I pass Jackson’s desk, he stops me.
“A word, Ms. Morrow.”
I halt, perplexed. Out of everyone today, I know I actually paid attention.
The chair Professor Jackson sits on creaks as he leans back and surveys me with a stern expression. “Are we going to have a problem here?”
“A problem?” My heart thuds hard and fast within my chest.
Jackson pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose before setting them back on. “Is Mr. Luck going to be a problem?”
“You mean is he going to pop up in class and offer to sign autographs?”
Watery blue eyes narrow in warning. “Don’t get smarmy with me, Ms. Morrow.”
Heat races over my skin and pulls it tight. My mouth goes dry. I hate confrontation. But, on the heels of that comes another thought. How dare he? Drawing in a sharp breath, I steel my spine.