Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“I hope you’re caught up on the reading, seeing how we have a pop quiz today,” Mr. Slade said as he picked up a stack of papers. The whole room groaned in annoyance. I was almost certain teachers got off on stressing students out with pop quizzes. It was probably the best high of their week.
“Do you even know what book we’re reading, Mr. Corti?” he asked as he stood over my desk.
“Let me guess, See Spot Run?”
A few people snickered.
“I bet your future appreciates those jokes,” Mr. Slade said. “Or lack thereof one.”
I flipped him off when he turned his back to me.
Mr. Slade was a dick, but I was certain he felt the same way about me. I wasn’t the easiest student to deal with, and there was a 99 percent chance I was about to bomb the quiz he’d set on my desk. He knew that to be true, too. I didn’t care about his lack of faith in me, though. I didn’t believe in myself, either. It seemed to be a universal belief pattern.
I went to dig in my backpack for a pen to butcher the exam when a person came rushing into the classroom.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I got turned around, and there was traffic, which isn’t an excuse because I should’ve left earlier, so I’m sorry about that, but I’m here. I’m sorry. Hi.” The voice was packed with nervous energy. I didn’t care enough to see who entered. I still needed a damn pen.
Mr. Slade cleared his throat. “No worries. You’re right on time.”
I huffed to myself, not looking up. Sure, she could be late, but I couldn’t. Hypocrite.
I kept digging in my backpack, unable to find a damn pen. That was when Savannah reached out with an extra. Big sister to the rescue. I wondered if she was sick of my bullshit over the last few years. If she was, she never showed any signs of her annoyance. She kept checking in to make sure I was okay.
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Always,” she replied.
Mr. Slade clapped his hands together like a toddler gathering our attention. “Class, I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Evans. Our new student teacher for this semester. She’ll be shadowing me and taking over lesson plans occasionally,” Mr. Slade said.
As I looked up to the front of the class, shock washed over me when I saw her standing there. Birthday girl.
“Fuck,” I blurted out without any thought at all.
The muscles in my neck and shoulders clenched as all eyes shot in my direction, including hers. Her brown eyes that only a few days ago were locked in on mine. Her full lips that only a few days ago were moaning out for me. Her stunned expression mirrored my own.
My fingers fidgeted as a feeling of restlessness overtook me. I didn’t like the sensation of all eyes on me. Especially hers, because they stared at me in such a distinct way.
I wrung my hands together several times before rubbing them against my pants. She shook her head, quickly averting her eyes from mine. She turned to Mr. Slade and pushed out a tight-lipped smile. It wasn’t her real smile. I’d seen her real smile. It was a beautiful one. Innocent. Rare. It wasn’t every day you saw someone’s real smile. Yet at that moment, her grin was covered in anxiety and nerves. She was mortified.
Me, on the other hand?
Slightly uneased but intrigued.
Really damn intrigued.
“I’m looking forward to working with you all and forming great working relationships with each individual,” she said, gesturing toward all the students.
Mr. Slade instructed us to start our quizzes as he pulled Ms. Evans over to his desk, where he’d talked to her about work or some bullshit. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I could tell her stare was working overtime to avoid glancing my way. Her nerves were somewhat cute, and she was beautiful. There was no getting around that. I knew that the first moment I looked at her, from her long legs to her phenomenal curves. Her hair was straightened that afternoon, unlike when my fingers got tangled up in her curls three days ago. She looked good with straight hair, but I liked the wildness of her curls a little bit more. She wore a navy-blue top with a pencil skirt and tan high heels. She was completely covered from head to toe, but I could still envision what was beneath the fabric resting against her skin.
Her lips were painted crimson, and my eyes couldn’t look away.
I knew this situation was killing her, but she had to remain professional. I had to give her some credit on that front. Most people would’ve run out in panic.
Ms. Evans.
The thought of calling her that in bed might’ve crossed my mind. Even though by the end of our night together, I found myself in the middle of a panic attack, the moments leading up to that had been some of the most satisfying times of my life. The panic attack was probably a once-in-a-blue-moon situation that had nothing to do with her. At least, that was what I was telling myself as I daydreamed about tasting her once more.