“Class,” the low voice says. Really? That’s his introduction? No ‘Hello, how was your summer’? I assumed the teachers here were all about buttering up their students and rich parents. Guess Teach here didn’t get the memo.
“Most of you know each other, but we have a couple of new faces this year. Let’s get this out of the way, because there’s a lot of work ahead of us. Miss LaFirst?” His tone is clipped and abrupt, and why can’t I look up? Jesus Christ, what is going on, and how do I make it stop?
“Yes?” a hesitant, feminine voice chirps.
“Care to tell us a little about yourself?” I can practically hear his eyes rolling.
“I, uh, just transferred from Asher.”
“Riveting,” he drawls, his footsteps getting closer. “Anything to add?”
“No.” Her voice is small. Fuck him. I’m already over his condescending ass.
“Good. Mister…” he trails off, I assume to check the name on his attendance sheet. “Stringer?”
And it’s my turn to roll my eyes—the correction is on the tip of my tongue—but when I sweep my hair out of my face and get a look at him, the words die on my tongue.
The word handsome does not do him justice, and for the first time in my life, I am rendered speechless.
His jaw and cheekbones look like they’ve been carved in stone, quiff haircut, and his narrowed eyes—a fascinating mixture of gray and blue—are scanning me intently. Luscious lips, the bottom lip so much fuller than the top one, and strong, straight nose fill in his carved face. His slightly wavy, thick, black hair is pushed back off his face in a way that makes him look more like a man than any guy I’ve ever seen before.
Like a young Clint Eastwood, I inwardly muse.
He can’t be the teacher. He just can’t. How the hell are we supposed to concentrate?
Irrational anger fills my gut, twisting around a hot ball of lust that’s growing bigger south of my naval. I have to look at this face all year long and pretend to not be affected? But as I throw my silent tantrum, I realize that he is still waiting for an answer.
“Remington Stringer?” he questions again, his patience hanging by a thread. He’s directly in front of me now, looking right past me. He has one hip propped on his desk, and he is wearing a crisp, white dress shirt—the sleeves rolled to his elbows—elegant, dark denim jeans, and shiny brown shoes. I have to crane my neck to see his face, he’s so close. If nothing else, it snaps me out of my physical reaction to his proximity.
“Here,” I manage to croak out, and I hate how weak it sounds. His eyes dart to me, and he lifts one disbelieving brow.
“You don’t look like a Remington.” The smirk on his face is enough for me to snap out of my trance.
“And you don’t look like a teacher, but here we are.” I hit him with the same sarcasm he so generously serves to everyone else. My eyes grow wide, my classmates snicker, his jaw hardens, and all I want is to reach out and grab those words and stuff them back into my mouth.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He looks me up and down, and I don’t know if it’s disgust or annoyance coloring his gorgeous face. Whatever it is, it tells me that I’ve already landed a spot on his shit list, which is the last place I need to be right now. God, how do I go from sitting at the front row so I don’t miss a word he says to slingin
g insults? I really am a piece of work.
“I apologize that I don’t meet your standards,” he mocks. “While we’re on the subject of standards, West Point has a strict dress code. Sneakers are not acceptable footwear.” He sends a pointed look toward my shoes.
Awesome.
And just like that, things go from bad to worse.
“Headmaster Charles’ office, Miss Stringer.” He tilts his head to the door, his face still perfectly composed, devoid of any emotion. His level of self-control is something I have yet to encounter. “Chop-chop.”
“Please, I can’t…” I clear my throat, hating myself for breaking, and loathing myself even more for my stupid slip of the tongue. Can’t afford shoes. Can’t go home. Can’t fuck this up. But I also can’t say any of that out loud.
“You can’t…?” He crosses his arms over his chest expectantly.
He doesn’t know me or my life. To him, I’m just another preppy, rich kid with an aversion to authority.
“Never mind,” I grind out through gritted teeth.
I gather my shit and hit up Headmaster Charles’ office—good thing I remember how to get there. I had orientation last week, but this school is huge—and plead my case. His secretary informs me that he’s in a meeting, so I wait on one of the oversized leather couches against the wall. After about half an hour, his door opens and a blond boy with dimples for days makes his exit. He looks around my age, maybe younger, but who knows. His eyes don’t have the hardened look about them like I’m sure mine do.