“Stop making sense with your stupid logic.”
“Just keepin’ it real, baby girl. But I do think he cares for you. Call me crazy, but I don’t think he’d risk that for a piece of ass.”
“Or maybe he realized he made a mistake, and now he’s trying to do the bare minimum to keep me quiet.”
Christian snorts.
“Come on, Remington. I’m gay, and even I’m a little in love with you.”
“What?” I laugh.
“You’re hot.” He shrugs. “Not to mention cool as shit and intelligent. The perfect trifecta.”
“Well, thanks, but I think I’ll go back to dating fictional characters. Everyone knows boys in books are better.”
Christian rolls his eyes and dumps a stack of dishes into the sink. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says, staring out the window.
“I’m serious. He’s made it pretty clear that he regrets it.”
“Is that why he’s creeping outside your house right now?”
What?!
I whip around so fast that my ponytail smacks my face. I look out the window, and sure enough, there’s Mr. James, pulling away from my house.
I don’t know why, but this has me feeling both triumphant and irrationally angry. He wants me to forget where he lives, but he can show up at my house whenever he pleases?
I snatch my backpack off the kitchen table and dig out my phone. It died over the weekend, so I plug it in near the counter and wait for it to turn on. Once it lights up, I ignore the onslaught of incoming texts from Ryan from the past two days and shoot off a quick message to Pierce.
Me: Are you spying on me now, Teach?
My phone pings not even ten seconds later.
Pierce: Yes. I figured our relationship wasn’t dramatic enough, so I’ve decided to add stalking to the list.
Reluctantly, I crack a smile at that.
Me: What relationship? You’re just my teacher, remember?
Pierce: The fact that I can still smell you on my fingers says differently.
Oh holy Jesus. I feel my cheeks heat at the memory of those talented hands on my body just an hour ago.
Me: Go home, Mr. James.
Pierce: Just making sure you’re safe. Boathouse is still all yours.
Me: Won’t be necessary.
I toss my phone onto the counter, ignoring Christian’s knowing smirk.
“Yeah, you’re totally right. He doesn’t care about you at all. In fact, I think he hates you,” he says sarcastically. I chuck an empty beer can at him, but he dodges it.
“Less talking. More cleaning.”
“I can’t believe you talked me into ditching again,” Christian complains. “You know, you’re kind of a bad infl
uence.”