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)
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Potato-potahto, whatever. Did you ever learn what his actual name is instead of Dick?”
“Milo Corti.”
“Oh dang.” She sighed. “He even has a hot name.”
Tell me about it.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay, maybe frats don’t need ID checks, but I do. From this point on, before I hook up with someone, I’ll have to ask for identification.”
Whitney giggled. “Hi, I’m Starlet, and I’d like to go to bang town with you. But first, I’ll need to see your license and registration.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“You know what I’ve been thinking about this whole time while you told me the nightmarish story of your life?”
“Do tell.”
“Tacos.”
I smiled.
She always thought about tacos.
Me, on the other hand? I was thinking of everything that could ruin my life forever if, for some reason, Milo got pissed at me one day, went rogue, and told everyone I let him blow out the candles on my birthday cake.
But tacos were the second thought to cross my mind.
I sighed and dropped my hands into my lap. “Taco Tuesday?”
“Taco Tuesday!” she cheered, tossing her hands up in victory.
I arrived at the high school the following day, ready to face my fears. I got there fifteen minutes early and sat in my car, waiting to go inside. My stomach's butterflies felt like they were in an intense war against dragons. My intestines felt as if they were in knots. The idea of seeing Milo again made me feel nauseous, and the fact that I couldn’t simply avoid looking in his direction was driving me crazy, seeing as I was supposed to be the one tutoring him.
I’d considered asking Mr. Slade if I could switch to one of his other classes so I wouldn’t have to see Milo twice a day, but I couldn’t make it work with my college class schedule. Like it or not, I’d have to be around Milo Corti for two hours each weekday for the remainder of the semester.
I walked through the hallways of Brooks with my briefcase pulled tightly to my side. The day I bought the briefcase, I felt empowered and like a total badass for being professional. My dad took me on a shopping spree to buy teacher-appropriate outfits, and I felt as if I were killing the game. I called them my Michelle Obama power suits. When I tried them on, I was almost sure I could take on any room I entered.
The high school corridors were packed with students, all with their eyes glued to their phones, either taking selfies or watching some trending video. They hurried around on the linoleum tiles with backpacks slung on their shoulders and books stuffed under their armpits as their eyes stayed glued to their cell phones. Banners and festive balloons promoting the upcoming theater club’s performance of Hairspray and the senior prom were plastered on the walls. The scents of a high school were very distinct. A mixture of intoxicating perfumes and Axe body spray with dashes of sweaty gym socks.
Maroon lockers lined up in groups of ten, separated by doorways leading to the classrooms. A few lockers had been adorned with stickers and decorations that reflected the students’ personalities and interests. I couldn’t count the number of Harry Styles, Taylor Swift, and Beyoncé decorations I’d encountered. Yet, nothing was louder and prouder than the love of BTS. I couldn’t blame them. I was a proud member of the ARMY myself.
I moved through the high school hallways like a mouse trying to avoid lions. High school was scary when you were a student. I wasn’t cool during my high school years. If anything, I was the awkward straight-A student who kept her head in her books and hardly had a social life. That was the level of nerdhood I’d lived in. But now, high school was fifty times more terrifying as a teacher. A student teacher, but still. Especially when you accidentally slept with one of the students.
“Hi, Ms. Evans,” a deep voice said as I approached the classroom door. Those same shivers were recreated from his intoxicating sound, moving through my body and down my back.
“Stop calling me that,” I whispered, looking up to meet Milo’s stare.
I hated that he still smelled like oak trees and lemonade.
I also hated that he looked better today than he had the day before.
I wondered if he did that to irritate me or just looked better with every passing moment. I bet he’d be a silver fox in his sixties.
I went to walk into the room right as Milo did the same.
We bumped shoulders.
“Move,” I ordered.
He tilted his head at me, seemingly amused. He stepped backward and gestured toward the doorframe with a slight bow. “After you, Ms. Evans.”
I grimaced as I walked through the door, and as I did, I could feel his hot breaths not far behind me. Milo followed very close, pressing his front against my back. His heat saturated my power suit, throwing me completely off my stride. I picked up my pace, darting for my desk, trying to shake off his intensity. How would I survive being around Milo when it only took so little of him to cause such a commotion throughout my entire system?