Against all my instincts, I agreed to sneak off campus with him, to get in the car with him, to go somewhere unspecified with him. I discreetly check the GPS tracker on my phone, because seriously, if this were an elaborate ruse to get me somewhere isolated and do shitty things to me, it just might be the most normal thing to happen this month.
Hamilton doesn’t answer but pulls into a parking lot ablaze with light. It’s the 24-hour print shop. He takes the clipboard off my lap and a spark rushes through my body when his fingers graze my legs.
Nope.
No.
That is not what this is about.
He unbuckles and I do the same, but then he reaches across me suddenly, and my heart lunges into my throat. I can’t help but think that this is it. He’s going to do something to me—hurt me.
I flinch.
I know he sees it when he freezes, our gazes meeting just long enough for the strange, shocked look in his eyes to register. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say he looks guilty when his long fingers pull at my door lever, opening it from the inside. While I’m processing the gesture, he exits the car.
He stops to lean back in. “Look, they wanted to be assholes,” he says in explanation. “We’re just going to give them what they asked for. That’s all.”
Payback?
Well, that’s something I can get behind.
I follow two steps behind him through the parking lot toward the shop, and I only gawk at him a little bit when he holds the door open for me as I enter.
“How can I help you?” the guy at the counter asks, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Hamilton pushes the clipboard toward him, looking annoyingly self-assured as he leans against the counter. “We’re going to need sixty custom shirts with these names on the back. Black shirt. Red print. Preston Prep Devil logo on the front. I’m sure you have it on file.” Hamilton speaks with absolute authority as though what he’s just asked for is completely reasonable. “Oh, and I need it tomorrow by four.”
“By four?” the guy says, already shaking his head. “That’s not possible.”
Hamilton slaps a black credit card on the counter, sliding it forward with one long finger. “I think you’ll probably find it is.”
The guy makes a complicated face—one part sour, one part weary, two parts exasperated—and finally concedes, “Let’s see what we can do for you, Mr. Bates.”
I’m dumbfounded as I watch him negotiate size and a final price, all for an elaborate prank for the team he’s supposed to be leading—all to get them back for being jerks to me. This is way beyond what’s required.
“You shouldn’t have to pay for all that,” I say when we’re back in the car.
“I’ll turn in the receipt.”
I worry my lip between my teeth. “I’m not sure that’s what the team budget is for…”
“Adams,” he says, voice deep with exasperation.
“What?”
“Would you just chill out? It’s going to be fine. This doesn’t even rank in my top thirty stunts.”
The truth slips out. “What if they just hate me more?”
He looks at me, mouth turning down. “Trust me. They won’t. This is exactly the kind of thing that’ll show them you’re more than an overachieving, badly dressed, buzzkill of a goody-goody with a stick up her ass.”
“Hey!” I squawk. “Fuck you, you—”
He leans over and pushes his mouth against mine, effectively shutting me up. The kiss is warm and gentle, his jaw strong, and despite myself I sink into him, letting all the nerves and worry dissipate with every stroke of his tongue.
I don’t know what’s happening, or why it keeps happening.
But I know I don’t want to stop.