A laugh burst out of me against my will, and the guy almost smiled. Every one of his hard angles softened.
“Economics,” he said. “But I don’t know what I’m doing with it.”
“That feels like the most honest thing you’ve said to me so far,” I said.
“And that’s important to you?”
“Yes,” I said, my laughter dying away as I remembered Mark and that girl, naked in his bed… “Honesty is very important.”
He lifted one shoulder.
“You don’t agree?” I asked.
“Being honest is sometimes mistaken for being rude.”
“You must be really honest,” I said.
Again, he almost smiled. “Must be.”
Satisfied that I’d held my own against this beautiful, but hostile member of the opposite sex, I went back to my book…for eight entire seconds before my skin started prickling again. The electric hum of his attention was impossible to ignore.
When I looked up this time, he didn’t look away but cleared his throat.
“I’m Weston Turner.”
Weston
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen this girl. She was in my Econ class this morning. Her hair caught my eye; a coppery red tendril had escaped the bun she wore and curled against the porcelain skin of her neck. Now, she sat across from me.
Leaning on her elbow, chin on her hand and a little smile on her lips, she replied, “Autumn Caldwell.”
My thoughts took off the same way I did at the starting gun of a race.
Her name was Autumn.
Of course it was. As if her parents knew she’d grow up to be a living embodiment of the season. Coppery hair, like an October forest of turning leaves. Hazel eyes that were mostly rich brown, but flecked with gold, green and amber, and weighted with sadness. A petite girl—I guessed five-foot-nothing to my six-one—passionate and unafraid. I liked toying with people to get them riled up, and she’d seemed an easy mark. But instead of walking away, she’d met me head on. I liked that.
I liked her.
And I didn’t like anyone.
A silence caught and held between us, our eyes locked. Then she shifted in her chair.
“I’m not dating right now,” she said, subtle as a fifty-pound bowling ball dumped onto my crotch.
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“Shit, sorry,” she said, the color in her cheeks deepening. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. I just meant that it’s nice to meet you, but I need to focus on my classes. I have a lot of work to do. Double-major and a scholarship to maintain.” She waved her hands. “God, I’m rambling…”
I squirmed inside. At first glance, in her expensive-looking dress and carefully-matched cardigan, I’d pegged her as a stiff and prissy trust fund baby.
Wrong, Turner. Just sit here in your wrongness and be wrong.
“I’m on a scholarship too,” I said.
“Oh?” Her smile was tinged with relief that we were on the same team, financially speaking. “For what?”
“NCAA. Track and field,” I said. “Your double major is in…?”