Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
I know that isn’t true, otherwise we would have hooked up by now.
What? It isn’t bragging if it’s true.
She wouldn’t be the first professor I’ve hooked up with.
Doubt she’d be the last.
“He’s real pretty.”
“He needs to be if he’s into drama,” I push out through the gag I’m struggling to hold back.
Professor Ren laughs before she hits me where it hurts. “If you’re a true warrior, Milo, competition shouldn’t bother you. It should inspire you.”
She gives a moment for her saying to be absorbed before farewelling me with a wave, then she disappears into a sea of students eager for the weekend within seconds of leaving her room.
Although I’d rather join the hype of the weekend, I can’t. School doesn’t pay for itself, and unlike Vivienne, my ex, and her tribe of friends, I can’t flash a bit of cleavage to come up with the funds needed for my final year.
I must bring my grades up.
Failure is not an option.
With that in mind, I head for the one part of South Harmon Institute I’ve never ventured to previously.
The drama department.
“Hey.” A lady with aquamarine braces on her teeth and bright red hair greets me with a big grin when I approach. “I’m looking for McKayla Jones. Have you seen her?”
Red curls topple from her messy bun when she shakes her head, so I thank her with a smile before approaching the next person exiting the props room.
He’s more knowledgeable than my first helper. “She usually floats toward the back.” He scans the crowd that is almost as heavy as the ones that fill the stands during training. “There she is.”
I turn my head with barely a moment to spare. A nanosecond after noticing the direction of the dark-haired man’s point, McKayla races for the closest exit.
Her outfit isn’t the Amish getup I imagined twenty minutes ago, but it is baggy, bland, and matches the dull paint on the walls of the university so well, it conceals her when she darts away from me as if her ass is on fire.
“Thanks.” I clap my hand on my helper’s back, toss my skateboard under my arm, then take off after McKayla.
I’ll give it to her, for a woman with short legs and even tinier stature, she sure can move fast. I train four times a week, run six miles each morning, and play the entire forty minutes of every game, yet my endurance has nothing on McKayla’s.
She must run track.
My theory flies out the window when McKayla trips over her feet when I spot her in the shadows of an outdoor awning. She has that unco never-ran-a-day-in-her-life fumble down pat. Her chest rises and falls like she’s on the verge of passing out, her cheeks hue, and sweat dribbles down her cheeks from her wavy light brown locks.
“Hey…” My one-word greeting is breathless since I had to break into a sweat to catch up with her. “Professor—”
A feminine scent wafts up my nostrils when she sidesteps me like a pro. “I’m not interested.”
I hinder her chance to evade me again by circling the hand not clutching my board around her arm and spinning her to face me.
Hot.
Fucking.
Damn.
Is this how love at first sight feels?
McKayla is far more attractive when my shitty vision doesn’t blur her petite nose, ruddy lips, and cheekbones that hue more the longer I stare at her. She has an innocent yet complex look that’s most likely overlooked since she camouflages herself with the background of every frame instead of demanding the front row she deserves.
The heat on her cheeks creeps down to her neck when I mutter, “How do you know you’re not interested if I haven’t even said what I want you for?”
When her teeth graze her lower lip, the truth smacks into me. She’s aware of her appeal, but for some reason, she hides it.
I don’t know why. If you have it, flaunt it is one of my favorite mottos.
When she remains quiet, I try to spark a conversation. “Professor Ren—”
“Told you I have a 6-point GPA average, so she suggested I’d be a good tutor for you?”
I somewhat agree with her. My response is more a shrug, head wobble than a straight-up nod, but still a yes, nonetheless. “Although she kept Einstein’s twin out of her praise.”
I’m striving for a compliment but clearly nosedive when McKayla rolls her eyes before she continues down the hall. “GPAs didn’t exist when Einstein was in school.” While pushing out a breathy sigh, she climbs the stairs of a dated building. “And since he lacked authority, his grades were below average.” She stops at the top of the stairs before pivoting back to face me. “So maybe you should take that as a sign that your grades are fine how they are, so you don’t need a tutor. If Einstein can overcome a below-average test score, so can you.”