On time was ignoring the call from his mom ten minutes before the meeting because Jenkins had delivered him a look.
He glanced at Darren again.
Yeah, Darren coming in like that was infuriating, all right. Especially how Isaiah’s traitorous body responded every time their gazes clashed.
So, Darren might be hot. Okay, insanely hot. But beneath all that, Isaiah was looking at an aristocratic charmer. The type of man who knew all the right names to drop to get his way.
There was a certain amount of jealousy in that assessment, sure, but his frustration stemmed from something deeper than that. It stemmed from the gnawing worry in his gut.
Winning for him meant being that much closer to giving his mom a break from two jobs just to keep a roof over her and his siblings’ heads.
For that to happen, he needed a chance. A level playing field. Not Darren waltzing in with a smile to make the judges swoon.
Jenkins’s voice developed a terse edge that had Isaiah stilling.
“We had to make a couple of changes to account for there being only two competitors this year.” Isaiah ignored the dig and focused on the folder in front of him. “If you turn to page four of the program, we can begin.”
An hour. Isaiah couldn’t believe Jenkins had spoken for almost an entire hour. The man loved the sound of his voice. “The first task is for the two competitors to work together to come up with a fundraiser for our two annual charities.”
“Darren, why don’t you and Isaiah go into the other room and pick a day and time while I say good night to our guests.” Jenkins pointed toward a side door across the room.
“Yes, sir.”
Darren stood, and those deep brown eyes hit Isaiah with another unwelcome flutter. Isaiah lurched from his seat and beat him through the door.
He found himself in the hallway near the front door to the Harrison Wing. Across from him was a smaller room. The lights were off, but Isaiah spotted more chairs, a couch, and a massive stone fireplace with a bust of President Benjamin Harrison, namesake of the university and close friend of Darren Josiah Gage Sr.
Darren’s presence prickled heat down his back. Isaiah hurried into the room and flicked the switch. Fluorescent lights stuttered to life overhead, and he slid between the fireplace and the back of a polished leather chair. A good buffer between them.
Darren closed the door and strode toward him. He stopped before the chair, sparing it a look. He frowned, and was it Isaiah’s imagination or did Darren’s shoulders drop?
Darren looked at him with a small nod. “Got it. We can make this quick. Want to meet next week, at this time?”
Maybe hiding behind the chair was a bit of a bitch move. Still, he couldn’t pull away from it, clutching the wooden knobs at either side like a security blanket. “Actually, Tuesday nights don’t work. I have a class.”
“You had class tonight? Why’d you agree to meet this evening?”
That frown was frustratingly cute, but God, could he be that clueless? “You think they treat everyone the way they treat you?”
“What does that mean?”
“You want the sugarcoated version?”
“Give it to me straight.”
“Just because they kiss your ass around here doesn’t mean they give two shits about mine.”
“No one’s kissing my ass!”
“They are, and if they’re not, trust me, they want to.”
Darren took a moment to process the stupid innuendo Isaiah had to slip in there.
What could he say? Flirting with hot guys came as second nature to him. More reflex than anything intentional in this case. And wow, the blush crawling up Darren’s throat was . . . interesting.
Isaiah cleared his throat. “Look, this meeting was set at this time to mess with me. Jenkins knew I had a class tonight, but he didn’t want to inconvenience the golden child.” He said the last bit with a wink in an attempt to keep things civil, but Darren tensed.
“Wait. No one asked me when I wanted to meet. I had to cut practice early to make it here on time.”
“On time?” Isaiah couldn’t hold back a laugh. The guy didn’t know the definition. “However do you stand the pressure?”
Darren’s expression hardened, like Isaiah had seen it outside Jenkins’s office, and Isaiah hated how it flexed his jaw and made his eyes spark. “I didn’t do any of this to you.” Under his breath, he muttered, “The fact this is a competition at all is your fault.”
Whoa. Not on Isaiah’s watch.
“My fault? For what? Having the nerve to apply for a scholarship program the university is famous for because this year it’s going to be hand-delivered to the golden child?”
“Stop calling me that. You don’t know crap about me. No one has given me anything. Nothing. I’ve earned every grade I received and my place on the soccer team. What has anyone given me?”