Badly Behaved

I look from Jules to Cali. “What am I missing?”

“All junior year, Cali was an intern under the guy, her dad’s company had set it up. The guy told her he loved her on Christmas Eve, fucked her Christmas Day, and then left on some business trip, completely cutting her off, not twenty-four hours later.” Jules looks to Cali.

Cali clears her throat. “And came to my parents’ party on Valentine’s Day... announcing he had a fiancée.”

My jaw drops and the girls both laugh.

“Honestly, I’m over it,” Cali swears, sounding as if she’s trying to convince herself rather than us, and we start walking again. “He can choke on his future wife’s cum for all I care, but that doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to him laying eyes on my birthday present.” She wiggles her chest proudly, a boob job, a totally normal gift for an eighteen-year-old high school senior.

“Whatever.” Jules sighs. “I guess we’ll consider the dinner pre-gaming for the real party later that night. Our makeup and hair will already be semi-done, and we’ll get a good buzz on.”

Right, the Senior Kickoff, the first party of the official final year of high school, promising to be ‘all sorts of epic,’ or so the banners suggest.

The lunch bell rings the second we pull into the parking lot, so everyone is already seated or finishing collecting their materials from the kitchen area when I walk into cooking class.

“Look at you, you’ll make a great servant one day.”

Arsen’s glare snaps toward me, but I quickly look away.

Okay, that came out wrong.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I said it. Maybe my guard slipped far too much last night and now I’m on edge, I don’t know, but that was shitty of me.

I focus on hanging my bag on the hook at the edge of the island-like table design, and with jerky movements, he heads toward the back again to gather the pans and utensils we’ll need for today.

In senior cooking class, they leave us alone for the most part. Our grade is determined by how well we execute our menus. I think it’s all a ploy for the teachers to see if we’re completely silver-spooned or capable of problem-solving, ingenuity, and all that so they can laugh at our expense later when many of us are not.

Arsen comes back with a large bowl, a single whisk, and sets them down harder than necessary. He reaches for the menu, but I snag it first. Tilting my head at him.

He glares.

I narrow my eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He crosses his arms.

“I had a bad night,” I try again.

He raises a brow.

Now I cross my arms. Is he really going to try to make me confirm I’m not talking about our little impromptu trip? Because I’m not going to.

I give up, or sort of.

I resort to watching him from the corner of my eye while reading over the menu.

“And today’s terror is... monkey bread. Wow.” I nod. “I would bet this didn’t go through the hovering mother committee for approval.” I lean forward, flipping the thing over, but it’s blank on the other side. “If it had, it would definitely be a sugar-free, gluten-free... god, I can’t even think of anything that could possibly taste good when made in such a way.”

I look to Arsen, who wipes the side grin from his lips as he meets my gaze.

I fight my own, pleased he’s not punishing me for my thoughtless comment. He nods toward the measuring cups, so I move some things over and step closer to his side.

Once we get our ingredients into the bowl, I lift the whisk he brought over between us. “This will snap or get stuck, either way, it’s a no-go. When you work with dough like this, you have to use your hands.”

He eyes me curiously, but I spin on my heels, glancing at the other boys’ table on my way back to the materials wall. They haven’t even gotten past the flour, too busy laughing and joking between themselves.

Dropping the thick plastic item in the sanitization bin, I stretch over the countertop to reach for two pairs of gloves. As I pull out a pair of large ones, a body comes up behind me, pinning me in, and suddenly my hands are empty.

My head snaps to the side, fully expecting an entirely different pair of eyes than the ones I find.

Scott stands there with a grin.

I maneuver myself free of his hips, forcing him a few inches back when I spin to face him.

“What are you doing in here, Mr. Gentry?” I cross my arms, quirking a brow.

His grin widens. “Just passing by on my way to the office, saw you through the door, Ms. Filano.”

“And at the perfect time, too.” I lift my hands out slightly and he chuckles.