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I suppose she is right. For the past two years I’ve been nothing but dedicated to my studies. I think I went out partying once or twice with Gemma’s Fine Arts friends, which ended in me kissing a guy in one of my chemistry classes, then vomiting everywhere. Good times.

“I know that, but this subject…”

Gemma almost drops her chopsticks. “Hang on! I have an idea!”

“A rare occurrence.” She ignores me.

“You need a tutor! Someone who’s done this subject before, who can help you understand everything! I saw this place online advertising tutoring for like every subject the university has! I’m a genius!” Pulling out her phone, she scrolls through the website. “Look, right here. There has to be ten people for you to choose from! Cory Donovan, Heath Carson, Jamil Sutherland. And this one! Oliver James. Twenty years old. Perfect five star rating! Oh, he’s cute—“

“Let me see.”

Gemma rips her phone away before I can get my hands on it. “Oliver. Freelance English and Literature tutor for primary school, high school, and university! Look, he even explicitly mentions that unit you’re doing. This is perfect!”

Only once she is done with her stalking does she hand me her phone. She’s not wrong, he is cute. And smart. Green eyes pierce through the screen, framed by brown curls. There’s a gentle smile on his face that looks warm and inviting. Could be just what I need this semester. Strictly academically, of course.

“Okay. Fine. I’m in,” I groan, feigning reluctance. “But only because I want to do everything in my power not to fail.” Gemma squeals, and before I can regret my decision, she snatches her phone back and sends an inquiry in my name.

2

CHAPTER TWO

Oliver.

From the sunlight streaming through my curtains, it must be past midday when I finally open my eyes. I swear I’m not usually like this, but when your favourite author drops a surprise book it’s basically mandatory to stay up all night reading it. I stretch, feeling the familiar ache in my body from my boxing session last night. Rubbing my eyes, I reach out for my phone, trying to make out the notifications on the screen.

1 missed call from: Dad.

3 missed calls from: Jason.

The usual. My dad and my older brother cannot fathom the idea that anyone could possibly sleep in. Ever. Why sleep-in when you can go to work before the birds are even awake? I’m used to them thumping around at the crack of dawn, which is coincidently the time that I fell asleep today. At least it’s the weekend.

1 new message from: Eden Miller.

Huh, that’s new. I sit up. My fingers stumble along until I find my tutoring app. Considering it’s a week or so out from university starting, I’m surprised to see any messages at all. I usually get bombarded with panicked messages the last week of semester, not the first. I already have all my primary school and secondary school students lined up, so university students usually get slotted in as the weeks progress.

Eden Miller:

Hi there! My name is Eden and I’m a third year Bachelor of Science student who is undertaking Contemporary Literature this semester and I would love your help. When can we meet up for coffee to discuss our plan?

Jesus. Discuss our plan? Usually only first-years are this eager to start the year on a good foot. By the time you’re two years into your degree you’re basically going through the motions. And a third-year science student doing a first-year literature subject? Weird.

I’m still thinking about Eden’s message when I finally go downstairs into the kitchen. I need some food in my stomach before dealing with work. As always, Dad and Jason are more like identical twins than father and son. Tall and broad with short-cropped dark hair, they both take up way too much space in the kitchen.

“Glad you could finally join us, Oliver.”

I mumble a response to my father as I dig in the pantry for a box of cereal. Nudging past Jason—who shoots me one of his many dirty looks—I grab a bowl and set about making my breakfast. Or lunch. Brunch?

“What are you going to do once you’re done with uni?”

Jesus Christ. You think the golden child would wait until I’ve brushed my teeth before starting his shit.

“Don’t know,” I answer through a mouthful of cereal.

“Dad and I have been thinking—“

“And?” I try my hardest to scrape the bowl with my metal spoon to make him stop talking. It doesn’t work.

“This is your final year of study. When are you going to come work for us?”