Page 12 of Too Hostile

“Okay, grandpa,” she says and pats my shoulder. I huff, and she goes on, “He seemed to really want this. And he’s smart. I’d be an idiot to pass up an excellent assistant like him. And besides, he seems to need a challenge.” She takes a bite of the salad she’s been picking at while we’re at lunch at our favorite café near campus. I was enjoying the damn lunch, too, until she dropped this bomb on me. “And a challenge I will give him.”

I have no doubt she will, but I can’t believe she told Fletcher yes. I don’t imagine he hears no all that often. “Really? In sociology?”

She frowns at me. “Dick.”

I grin at that, but I’m still angry. Well, not really angry. She can do whatever she wants, but I’m not happy he’s going to be her TA. That it’s very likely I’ll see him in her office—which is right next to mine. And I’ll see him on campus because the sociology building is right next to the economics building. It’s a small damn campus. “Good luck next semester then. Nothing is going to get done.”

“Do you want to talk about why you hate this kid so damn much?” Annie asks, and Nathan rests his chin on his hand, propped up on the table, waiting for my answer.

“I don’t hate him.”

“You do,” they both say, and I bristle.

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I just . . .”

“You had to work hard for every single thing, and he has it easy. Or appears to,” Annie supplies.

I roll my eyes but hate that she’s nailed it. “Can you blame me?” I’ve watched spoiled kids like him my whole life. Taking everything for granted. Lazing around while I was working my ass off just to survive.

She shrugs and takes another bite of her salad. “Yes. I can because you’re a smart man, Ronan. You can’t let this get to you. He’s a good kid who wants to help. There’s nothing wrong with that, and he’s smart as hell.”

“Just because he reads for fun,” I grumble.

She tosses a crouton at me from across the table, and I open my mouth just in time to catch it and chew. She laughs and rolls her eyes at me. “Very nice.” I shrug and swallow before she goes on, “I like the kid. I think you should give him a chance. There’s more to him than what we see in class.”

“There really isn’t,” I say again, being totally petulant, but damn it, she can’t be right about this. “He was finally going to be out of my hair. One week left, and then it’s just a final.”

She doesn’t look sympathetic in the slightest. “And he still is. He’s no longer your student. Not your assistant either. Not your problem, Ronan.”

“But he’ll be around.”

“You sound like a child,” she shoots back at me, and I hate how disappointed she looks at me right now. I know I’m being ridiculous. I know that, but I can’t help it.

There’s something about Fletcher that makes me want him as far away from me as possible.

As soon as possible.

And thanks to my dear friend, Annie, that won’t be so soon now.

FLETCHER

Bree is a high-school graduate. I can’t believe it. I mean, she’s smart as hell, but still, there was a time when I didn’t think any of us would get here. I’m in college. Rhett is a tattoo artist after graduating from high school, and now Bree is a high-school graduate and going to college.

That is, if she’d make up her mind about where she’s going. She’s been awfully dodgy about the question for a while now but especially today. And believe me, a lot of people asked her that very question today.

She always makes some excuse and just walks off. I asked Blair about it, who said she hasn’t officially enrolled anywhere yet. I can tell Blair is getting twitchy about it and can’t blame her.

But the party guests are long gone tonight, and when I sneak down into the kitchen to grab something to eat, I’m surprised to see Bree walking in through the kitchen door. Well, more like stumbling through the door.

“Shit,” she curses when she trips but catches herself before actually falling.

“Bree?”

“Holy fuck,” she gasps and places a hand over her heart. “What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?”

I size her up—she’s wearing the same thing she had on at the party—t-shirt and tattered jeans with her favorite tennis shoes—but her long hair is a little tousled and even in the low light of the kitchen nightlight above the stove, I can see she’s wasted. “I was hungry. Now you.”

She waves me off and closes the door before walking further into the kitchen and closer to me. “I was celebrating.” I can smell the alcohol on her breath but don’t call her on it. It’s not like I didn’t party a little, here and there, in high school.

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