Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

I can’t quite figure out why though.

Because yes, I don’t hate this place anymore but I’d still like to graduate and move on with my life.

Besides, things are great. They truly are.

For the first time ever, I’m so content and happy with my life.

Ever since I started to pay attention in classes and do my homework and stuff, my grades have been decent. Nothing crazy like Echo’s or Callie’s and Wyn’s when they were here. But I manage to scrape a B or a B+. Which is more than I did before.

So I guess I’m ready for the future.

Which is more or less set; another good thing.

It includes a city college so I can earn enough credits and transfer to a fashion program. Hopefully somewhere in New York. My future also includes living in my big townhouse that’s been empty for the last four years because it’s super close to the college that I’m gonna go to. I will probably have a few people on my staff for cooking and cleaning and doing all the chores for me. Oh, and a team of lawyers to help with my trust fund and all the estate.

Because investments are important.

They are wise and they will keep my money safe so I can have a nice nest egg for the future that comes after my future.

My guardian is very clear about these things.

He’s very sure and he’s planned everything out. He’s not going to leave any stone unturned until he’s made sure that I’m safe and okay and provided for.

He takes his responsibilities very seriously, see.

He also takes pampering me very seriously; yet another good thing.

Spoiling me, granting me my every wish. Whether big or small.

Like binging on my favorite TV show, Supernatural.

“I think you’d really like it, Alaric,” I tell him one day in his cottage at night, lying on his leather couch, my thighs stretched over the thick armrest, my legs swinging.

Sitting on the armchair adjacent to the couch, my sexy guardian is reading a book. His tie is gone, his top two buttons are undone and his dark curly hair is all mussed up. Courtesy of me, because when I’d arrived at his cottage about an hour ago, I jumped into his arms and kissed the fuck out of him, plowing my fingers in his hair.

My own hair’s all tangled and mussed up too, and my mouth is all swollen and throbbing, courtesy of him kissing me back.

But back to the fact that he hasn’t answered me or looked up from his book.

I’m not deterred though.

Swinging my legs, I keep going. “It has like, demons and angels and leviathans.” No response. “It has purgatory. And heaven and hell, Alaric.” He flips a page. “Okay, fine. Forget all that. It has the Winchester brothers. Dean and Sam. I bet you’d love Dean. He’s like you. All responsible, big brother-y. Being all crazy about his family legacy and all that.”

He scratches his stubbled jaw with his thumb and I just wanna eat him up.

Why is he so sexy?

Why isn’t he listening to me?

Narrowing my eyes and still swinging my legs, I say, “Okay fine, here’s why you should watch Supernatural, Alaric: it has Jeffrey Dean Morgan. And as much as I like Sam and Dean and will pledge my allegiance to them, I will pledge my allegiance harder for Papa Winchester and his dimples.”

Nothing.

But it’s okay.

I have a plan.

“Because let me tell you, Alaric,” I say, drumming my fingers on my stomach, “that his dimples make girls’ panties wet. Yup. They made my panties wet one time. And I’m usually super immune to Hollywood charm and all that. I mean, I grew up with these guys. I know how un-charming they can be in real life. But not Jeffrey Dean Morgan. He was so charming and I swear, the moment he touched me and smiled, I was —”

My words come to a screeching halt along with my swinging legs because his fingers are wrapped around my ankle and his eyes are lifted and on me.

Smiling, I whisper, “Hi.”

His eyes narrow. “He touched you.”

My smile gets bigger. “I thought you weren’t listening.”

His fingers tense around my ankle. “It’s called multitasking.”

My smile turns into a grin. “You’re the best multitasker I know.”

“I was also taking notes.”

“About what?”

“About how a man touched you.”

“Only my hand.” When his fingers tense even further, I explain, “He shook my hand, Alaric.”

“And you needed a change of panties.”

“Hey, I never said that.” Then, “And it wasn’t from his hand per se. It was his —”

“Dimples, yeah. I heard that.”

I bite my lip and a muscle dances on his cheek. “I was kidding though, I swear.”

“Kidding.”

“Yeah.” Then smiling tenderly at him and undulating on the couch, I whisper, “I’d never get wet for dimples.”

“No?”

“No.” I glance at his nose. “I’m partial to bumps on a nose and pinkie rings.”