When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

Goddamn…

He leaned his tall frame against the entry languidly, like he owned the damn place. Despite the warm day, he wore a gray wool coat over a green shirt that was the same color as his eyes. His silvery hair was swept off his face in thick waves.

He was fucking beautiful. Heart-stoppingly, jaw-droppingly hot. There was no way around it. My eyes, mind, and body all came to the same conclusion and I was helpless to deny it.

Holden scanned the classroom intently until his gaze landed on me. As if a current ran from me to him, the connection instantly zipped down my spine to my groin.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Reynolds asked, smiling warmly. “The class has already begun…”

“Every hallway on this godforsaken campus looks the same,” Holden griped and slipped Mr. Reynolds a piece of paper. “I’m transferring.”

Reynolds scanned the paper and frowned. “You’re dropping French to be here? Any particular reason?”

“Cela ne m’apportait plus rien,” he said in a flawless accent. “I doubt this class has anything to teach me either, frankly, but…” His gaze on me softened slightly. “It’s possible I have a few things left to learn.”

“We’re happy to have you.” Reynolds glanced at Holden’s outfit with a perplexed smile. “Take off your coat and stay awhile,” he teased.

“No, thanks.” Holden strode through the class, ignoring the curious stares that followed. Half the desks were empty so, naturally, he sat beside me.

Shit…

I faced forward, intent on the lesson, but my heart was beating too fast. Holden lounged sideways in his seat, making no pretense about staring me down; I could feel his gaze move over my skin, sending icy-hot shivers over my arm and neck.

Finally, I turned to face him. “Can I help you?” I whispered.

“I need to talk to you,” he whispered back.

“You transferred into an advanced calculus class just to talk to me?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I learned this stuff years ago. My intentions are benevolent.”

“Uh huh.” I crossed my arms, fighting my gaze that kept drifting toward his mouth. “You totally ruined the Blaylock’s dining room table. Chance is grounded for two weeks. He was almost banned from playing at the Homecoming game next week.”

Holden rolled his eyes. “A tragedy, I’m sure.”

I tilted my head. “Are you always this much of an asshole to total strangers?”

“I’m never always anything,” he replied. “And don’t get your jockstrap in a twist. Mr. Blaylock phoned my uncle and they had a delightful conversation in which it was agreed that I’d pay for a brand-new table. And not from the local Crate & Barrel, either.”

“So you made a big mess and used your money to clean it up.”

He frowned, confused. “Isn’t that what it’s for?”

A laugh nearly burst out of me. “Does personal responsibility mean anything to you?”

“I’m vaguely familiar with the term,” he said, his angular expression softening. “It’s why I’m here, actually. For you.”

My pulse quickened and I tightened my crossed arms at those words, though I couldn’t tell if I were keeping them out or holding them in. “Say again?”

“I want to talk to you about the night of the party. What I said in the closet—”

“Forget it,” I said and whipped forward, suddenly paranoid that the entire class were listening in.

“But I—”

“I said, forget it. Nothing happened. I was drunk as shit. I don’t remember anything, so just fucking drop it.”