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“Which part of the assignment do you want to do?” he demands, as soon as he sits down.
“Well . . . I . . .”
I haven’t thought it over, because I wasn’t listening.
Dean looks at my open notebook, at the nesting dolls and the rainclouds. He scowls.
“Do you even know what we’re doing?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Don’t forget, I’ve got the best grade in this class.”
Only as of last week, because I beat Dean on our most recent exam by a measly two points.
I can almost hear Dean’s teeth grinding together behind his full bottom lip.
The softness of Dean’s features does not at all match his personality. His white-blond hair, porcelain skin, long lashes, and pouting mouth are completely at odds with his constant sneer and a body carved out of marble.
I bet he hates being pretty.
I can sort of identify with that—I don’t look on the outside how I feel on the inside.
I look like I should be sweet and delicate. But I could slit a throat without flinching.
For that reason, I would never underestimate Dean.
He spits, “You won’t beat me at anything by end of term.”
I shrug. “I guess we’ll see. We’ll both be getting the same grade on this project, so you might as well tell me how you want to divvy it up.”
Dean lets out a slow exhalation of annoyance, then explains the assignment to me over again, each of us marking down the parts we intend to handle.
“It’s an analysis of Caribbean versus Swiss banks,” he says. “We’ll have to present together, so we can’t do all the work separately.”
“That’s fine.”Not fine, but I can make it work.“We can get the books from the library after class.”
It’s strange sitting side by side with Dean as the professor finishes the lecture. I haven’t been this close to him since we collided in the changing room.
He smells clean like he did then, like soap and fresh shampoo, even though he hadn’t showered yet. It brings back our first meeting vividly.
I keep my eyes rigidly fixed on the blackboard, hoping he doesn’t notice the color in my cheeks. I don’t know why I still feel embarrassed about that—it’s not like me to hold onto some silly, insignificant mistake.
When the professor dismisses us, Dean snatches up his books again and starts walking in the direction of the library without checking to see if I’m following him.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, taking long strides to catch up with him.
Dean hears my boots hitting the flagstone floor, and glances down at my feet.
“Did you draw all that too?”
I doodled all over my docs with white pen. Moons, stars, dragons, vines, rivers, flowers, and birds.
“Yup.”
“Drawing and dancing,” Dean says. “Maybe you should have gone to art school.”
“I’m right where I want to be,” I tell him coldly. “I’m an Heir. Isn’t your father a bookkeeper?”
If looks could kill, I’d shrivel and die on the spot from the glare Dean throws at me.
