WREN BEAUMONT IS PETRIFIED of me.
I knew the moment she shot out of her seat and went to Ms. Skov’s desk that she was trying to get out of working with me. I could tell. Everyone else in the class was shifting into position, pairing up with their project partners, while I sat there by myself and fumed.
She’s making me look like a damn fool, and for what? Because she thinks I’m going to treat her like shit? Doesn’t she realize she’s only making things worse? She’s just too wrapped up in her own worry to realize what she’s done.
Typical behavior.
In tandem, we turn away from Skov’s desk, and Wren goes to hers, about to settle in when I speak up.
“I don’t want to sit in the front.”
A frown mars her pretty face. Because there is no denying it. Wren Beaumont is beautiful. If sheltered little prudes are your thing—which, apparently, they are for me. “Why not?”
“I’d rather sit in the back.” I indicate with a nod toward my desk that sits empty.
She turns her head, studying the empty desks surrounding mine and her shoulders sag in defeat. “Okay.”
Triumph ripples through me as I watch her grab her notebook and her backpack, my gaze dropping to her legs. She wears the skirt at normal length, which is too long in my opinion, and she has white knee-high socks on today, so I don’t get to see much actual flesh. Those stupid fucking Mary Janes are on her feet, but they’re not her usual Docs. They’re another brand and style, sleek and shiny.
Little Miss Virgin is changing it up. Nice.
I follow her to the back of the room, taking in the straight line of her shoulders, the glossy straight brown hair that falls down her back. She’s got the front pieces pulled back in a white bow like a child, and I wonder, yet again, if she’s ever been kissed.
Probably not. She’s as sweet and innocent as they come, with a diamond on her finger, promising her father she will keep herself pure until marriage.
I have no idea why I find that so damn attractive, but I do. I want to mess her up. Fuck her up. Fuck with her, actually fuck her until she’s completely addicted to me and forgets all about her virginal promises. Destroying this sweet, innocent girl feels like sport.
A challenge.
A game.
She daintily settles into the empty chair beside mine, dropping her notebook onto the desk with a loud slap. I sit next to her and lean back, sprawling my legs wide, my foot nudging against hers purely by accident.
Wren immediately jerks her foot away as if I scalded her.
“Are you going to get a notebook out?” she asks.
“For what?”
“To interview me. Ask questions. Take notes.”
“Skov said we’re getting to know each other. It’s the first day of the project. We still have a long time to go.” This chick needs to chill the fuck out.
“I want to do well on this,” she stresses, her gaze fixated on the empty page in front of her. “I want to get a good grade.”
“I do too. We will. Don’t sweat it.”
“Is that how you approach everything?” She lifts her head, mossy green eyes meeting mine. Don’t think I’ve ever sat this close to Wren in the over three years we’ve gone to school together, and I’m taken aback at how gorgeous those eyes are. “No sweat. Don’t worry about it?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Have a problem with that?”
“That’s not how I operate. I work hard to get good grades and maintain my 5.0 grade average.”
She dropped that little tidbit on purpose. A total flex for the virgin, big deal.
“We have something in common,” I tell her, making her frown.
“What?”
“I have a 5.0 grade average too.” We’ve both been in advanced classes since freshman year.
The look of disbelief crossing her face is undeniable. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so skeptical. It’s true.” I shrug.
“I never see you study.”
“We don’t exactly hang in the same areas. I never see you study either.”
Wren says nothing to that because it’s true. We definitely don’t hang with the same crowd in the same places.
“I’m sure the only reason you get good grades is because of your last name,” she retorts.
Whoa. Little Miss Virgin has some bite.
“You think I have a 5.0 grade average because I’m a Lancaster? And I go to Lancaster Prep?” I raise a brow when she dares to look at me.
She drops her gaze, her head bent. “Maybe.”
“I’m offended.” Her head lifts, her expression now full of remorse. “I’m not an idiot, little birdy.”
“Little birdy?”
“Your name is a bird.” My nickname isn’t that original, but that’s what she reminds me of sometimes. A sweet little bird, flitting from branch to branch. Chirping at everyone, the sound light and melodic.
“And your name is a sport. Shall I call you that? What’s up, old sport?” She rolls her eyes.
Huh. She also has a bit of a sense of humor. I didn’t think that was possible. She’s always marching around campus, advocating for her causes. The plight of young rich women, which is totally uninteresting, if you ask me. I don’t care about a bunch of virginal freshmen girls. Not like she does.
“You can call me whatever you want,” I drawl. “Asshole. Fuckhead. Whatever. It doesn’t matter to me.”
There’s no hesitation in her reaction. She’s glaring at me, those narrowed green eyes shooting sparks in my direction. “You’re revolting.”
“Oh, my bad. I forgot you don’t say such foul language.”
“Things can be said without having to sprinkle dirty words throughout. They’re completely unnecessary.”
Her prim voice saying the word dirty is a complete turn-on. Meaning something is really fucking wrong with me.
“Sometimes the word fuck is really satisfying to say.” I pause, already knowing the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Have you ever said it before?”
She quickly shakes her head. “No. It’s the worst word of them all, if you ask me.”
“I don’t know about that. I can think of some even more vulgar words to say.” They’re all on the tip of my tongue too, but I restrain myself.
Barely.
She scowls, and it’s adorable. “I’m not surprised. You and your friends are extremely vulgar.”
“Such a judgmental little priss, aren’t you?”
Wren blinks at me, a hurt expression on her face. “You’re the second person to call me judgmental today.”
“Hmm, you should probably take that as a sign.” When she doesn’t say anything, I continue, “Perhaps you are a little judgmental.”
“You don’t even know me,” she retorts, clearly offended.
I don’t say anything—just look at her. It’s a pleasure, watching her squirm, and she’s obviously squirming, though it’s more internal than anything else.
The perfect little princess everyone supposedly adores is getting called out for her faults—multiple times. I’m sure she doesn’t like that.
Who would?
“This isn’t going to work.” She rises to her feet, her entire body shaking. She clenches her hands into fists. “I can’t be your partner.”
I gaze up at her, surprised. “You’re giving up already?”
“I don’t like you. And you don’t like me. What’s the point of working together? I’ll talk to Ms. Skov some more after school. She’ll listen to me.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Damn, it’s fun rattling her. She makes it so easy.
“Wouldn’t you rather work with Natalie?”
“Not at all.” I grimace. “She’s shallow. Rude. Doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.”
The pained look on Wren’s voice at me saying the word shit is almost comical. This girl clearly has issues.
“Sounds familiar.” Her tone is haughty and cool, though I can detect the faintest tremble. “You two should get along perfectly. Didn’t you go out with her?”
“Fucked her a couple of times.” I say that on purpose, and it has the effect I want. The offended look on Wren’s face is so extreme, I’m concerned she might burst into tears. “Nothing serious.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“No, little birdy, it’s perfectly normal. We’re hormonal teenagers. We’re supposed to fuck anything we can get our hands on. Something you don’t have a clue about.” I decide to ask the question that’s been lingering in my mind since we started this absurd conversation. “Have you ever been kissed?”
She lifts her chin. Appears ready to bolt. I wait for her to run, but surprisingly, she stands her ground. “That’s none of your business.”
The obvious answer is no.
My gaze finds Sam Schmidt, who’s currently being tortured by Natalie as she drones on about her meaningless life. Though he doesn’t appear miserable over it. He’s too busy staring at her glossy lips as they keep moving. He’s the guy that took Wren to prom last year. Two boring people who most likely had a boring time together.
Jealousy flickers deep inside and I shove it away. How can I be jealous of Sam? Because he got to dance with her? Put his hands on her? Have her smile at him and want to actually talk to him for an entire evening?
“What about Sam?”
Wren flinches, as if I said something that hurt her. “What about him?”
“He didn’t try to kiss you on prom night?” I’m sure that would’ve met her dreamy, romantic expectations, though I get the sense Sam isn’t particularly romantic. The guy is too in his head for that.
That fucker is scary smart.
“How did you know Sam was my prom date?”
If she really wanted to leave me and this conversation, she would’ve done so already. She almost did.
“It’s a small school, and we’re a small class. Everyone knows everybody.” I hesitate, my gaze drifting down the length of her. The blazer and button-up shirt completely contain her tits, and what I remember from seeing her in the fairly demure dress she wore to the dance, the girl is stacked. “Do you remember who I went with?”
“Ariana Rhodes,” she immediately says, biting her lower lip the moment the words are out.
“See?” I incline my head toward her. “We know what everyone else is doing at all times.”
“I only knew because I was friends with Ariana,” she says.
Poor Ariana. She left the country after our junior year, banished to England to a finishing school in the remote countryside out in the middle of bum fuck nowhere. She was a broken girl with a talented mouth, who had a minor drug problem that blew up into a big one last summer. Her parents got her the hell out of here before it became worse.
“Well, maybe now we could become friends,” I suggest, sounding like a goddamn villain, even to my own ears.
“I don’t think so. Like I said, I’m talking to Ms. Skov after class.” She slings her backpack over her shoulder. “Be prepared. You’ll most likely be partnered with Natalie tomorrow.”
“I’ll miss you, Birdy,” I call after her as she walks away.
She doesn’t bother saying anything. Doesn’t even look back at me.
Whatever she thinks she’s going to say to convince Skov we shouldn’t be partners, isn’t going to work. I know Skov—and deep down, so does Wren. Our teacher’s mind has been made up. This is how it’s going to be.
Whether Wren likes it or not.
