Gucci
I freeze, my heart running wild as NotJames NotJames NotJames runs through my head like a mantra on overdrive. I mean, seriously. Don’t I have enough on my plate right now? Do I really need some jerk trying to make me his afternoon snack as well?
But before I can figure out what to say, the guy leans forward and—in a low, rich voice—asks, “Want a piggyback ride?”
And just like that, the tension dissolves, leaving nothing but a cautious joy in its place. “Flint!” I whirl around to find him grinning at me, amber eyes dancing wickedly.
“Hey there, New Girl,” he drawls. “Having fun?”
“Absolutely.” I hold up my Dr Pepper. “Doesn’t it look like I’m having a good time?”
“It looks like someone can’t take a hint, so I thought I’d lend a hand.” As one, we shift to watch James—who, as it turns out, did follow me to the drink table—sulkily make his way back to Cam and Macy, who are still wrapped up in each other.
“Thanks for that. I appreciate it.”
“Gratitude is so last year.” He says it in a fake, high- pitched voice that sounds remarkably like every mean girl
everywhere.
The voice, along with the ridiculous hand gesture he uses to accompany it, has me laughing so hard, I nearly snort. And that’s when I realize that half the room is still staring at me—while the other half is very deliberately not staring at me. Their disregard would be a relief if I didn’t know they were doing it to make sure I understand how insignificant I really am to them.
Which, duh.
“So do you want to grab something to eat?” Flint asks, nodding behind us.
Before I can answer, both of the room’s heavy wooden doors fly open. They slam against the wall with a bang that makes everyone in the room jump. And then turn to look.
On the plus side, that means no one is paying attention to me anymore. Because they’re all looking at him. At Jaxon. And really, who could blame them when he walks in like he owns the place—and everybody in it.
Dressed all in Gucci black—silk V-neck sweater, wool pinstripe pants, shiny leather dress shoes—with his scarred eyebrow furrowed and his dark gaze as cold as the snow- covered ground outside, he shouldn’t look sexy at all. But he does. God, he really, really does.
On the negative side, all that coldness—all that darkness
—is focused directly on me. And Flint, whose arm has somehow found its way around my shoulders.
I try to glance away, but it’s impossible. Try not to look Jaxon in the eyes. But he’s just as captivating—just as mesmerizing—today as he was last night. And that’s before he starts to move, all languid grace, all rolling shoulders and
leading hips and legs that go on for freaking ever.
It’s overwhelming.
He’s overwhelming.
He’s just a guy, I remind myself even as my mouth turns desert dry. Just a regular guy like everyone else here. But even as I tell myself that, I know it’s a lie. Jaxon is anything but regular. Anything but ordinary, even here, among the blatantly extraordinary.
Next to me, Flint chuckles a little, and I want to ask him what’s so funny when I notice Jaxon heading straight toward us, with an icy blankness in his eyes that makes a shiver run straight through me. But I can’t get the words out, can’t get anything out of a throat that has closed up tight.
I take a strangled breath, hoping it will chill me out a little.
It doesn’t work, but then I never really thought it would.
Not when all I can see is how he looked last night, sucking my blood off his thumb.
Not when all I can hear is his voice—low, wicked, wild— warning me to lock my door.
Not when all I can think about is kissing that mouth, running my tongue along the perfect bow of his upper lip, dragging his lower lip between my teeth and biting down just a little bit.
I don’t know where the thoughts are coming from—this isn’t like me. I’ve never thought about a guy like this before, not even my old boyfriend from back home. Even before we went out, I never stood around imagining what it would be like to kiss him.
To wrap my arms around him.
To press my body tightly against his.
Because I can almost feel him—almost taste him. I try to make myself think of anything else. Snow. Tomorrow’s classes. My uncle, who is supposed to be here but is currently MIA.
None of it works, because all I can see is him.
My skin heats up under his gaze, my cheeks burning with embarrassment at the thoughts flitting through my head. And at the way he’s looking at me, like he can read every single one of them.
It’s impossible; I know it is. But the idea terrifies me enough that I jerk my gaze from his and lift my Dr Pepper to my mouth, trying hard to look unconcerned.
All of which leads to the carbonated drink going straight down the wrong pipe.
My abused lungs revolt as I cover my mouth and cough hard, eyes watering and humiliation burning in my belly. I pretend he isn’t watching, pretend Flint isn’t pounding on my back, pretend that I don’t even notice the weight of all those cold stares as my new classmates watch me trying to suck air into lungs that just won’t cooperate.
I need to get away from Flint’s overzealous help, from Jaxon’s threatening, all-encompassing gaze. At least if I find the nearest restroom, I can die in peace.
I start to move—I think I saw a bathroom marked in the hallway a couple of doors down—but I’ve taken only a few steps when Jaxon’s suddenly right next to me. He doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t even look at me as he passes, but just like at the top of the stairs yesterday, our shoulders brush as he walks by.
My choking fit disappears as quickly as it started. Fresh air
floods my lungs.
If I didn’t know it was impossible, I would think he had something to do with it. Not just the choking but the stopping of it, as well.
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. The whole idea is absurd.
Knowing that doesn’t keep me from turning around and watching him walk away, even though it’s the worst thing I can do—for my sanity and my reputation—if the snark and giggles behind me are any indication.
He doesn’t look back. In fact, he doesn’t look at anyone as he walks along the edges of the buffet table, surveying its bounty. Doesn’t so much as glance up as he eventually swipes one large, perfect strawberry from a bowl.
I expect him to pop it in his mouth then and there, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he walks to the center of the room—and the huge red velvet wingback chair positioned under the chandelier like a throne, with several other chairs in a half circle in front of it. Once there, he slouches down into the chair, legs spread out in front of him as he says something to the five guys—all dark, all gorgeous, all stunning—sitting in the other chairs.
It’s the first time I realize there’s anyone in those chairs.
By now, nearly everyone in the room is watching Jaxon, trying to catch his eye. But he ignores them all, deliberately studying the strawberry he is pinching between his thumb and index finger.
Eventually he lifts his gaze and looks straight at me. Then he raises the strawberry to his lips—and bites it clean in
half.
It’s a warning if I’ve ever seen one—and a violent one at that—as a drop of red juice hangs for a second on his bottom lip.
I know I should stay, know I should face him down. But as his tongue darts out and licks up the strawberry juice in a very obvious screw you to Flint and me and everyone else in the room, I do the only thing I can.
I turn to Flint and blurt out, “I’m sorry. I need to go.”
Then I make a beeline for the doors, moving as quickly as I can without appearing too desperate, eager to escape before I crumble under the weight of Jaxon’s blatant disdain.
One thing is clear—his display was meant to highlight just how insignificant I am to everyone in that room. I just wish I understood why…
