Page 2 of Strike Zone

Wyatt smirks as I attempt to find some semblance of structure. I’m glad I can amuse him. However, we aren’t here for comedy hour. We’re here because he needs a tutor.

“Here.” I slide the student profile paper toward him. “You need to fill this out if I’m going to assist you. What class do you need help with?”

The new semester started a week ago. I was surprised to already have a student assigned to me for tutoring. One could assume he is simply being proactive since he’s an athlete, but that doesn’t line up with my observations of this man in our brief interactions.

The only thing he’s proactive about is using protection. Even that assumption could be a stretch.

Wyatt scans the paper, making grunting noises so often I begin to wonder if he has something caught in his throat.

Then I notice the dimple in his smile peeking out from under the bill of his cap. Which by the way, is absolutely disgusting. It’s soiled in what looks like years of sweat and dirt.

His long hair flips and curls haphazardly covering his neck and ears adding to his lackadaisical attitude towards personal grooming.

“I don’t need your help with any classes,” he says, sliding the paper back toward me. “But this is, ah, very detailed.” His lip curls, mocking me.

My eyes trail from his middle finger, up his forearm, over the green T-shirt stretched tight over his bicep. Pushing my glasses back up on my nose, I stare at him through slanted eyes. I don’t appreciate him wasting my time. “Why did you sign up for a tutoring session then?”

“I wanted to see you.”

I scoff. I can’t imagine a world in which Wyatt Rivers would have a reason or need to seek me out. I think I made myself clear the last time I spent more than five minutes with this man that he is not high ranking on the list of people I like.

“This should be good. Why did you want to see me exactly?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Do I need a reason to see a friend? Maybe I wanted to catch up. How was your holiday break?”

“It was fine,” I reply. I don’t want to be rude. “We both know that we’re not friends.”

“Don’t be like that now. We had a great time at The Armory together.” He flashes a smile that doesn’t feel genuine, but it’s one he’s practiced often. It appears on his face so effortlessly. I wear a similar one when I’m forced to spend time with my father’s business associates.

I shudder thinking back to the night at The Armory. Too many drunk people wearing ridiculous outfits packed in a small space like sardines. As soon as we got inside, I hightailed it straight to the bar. My friend tequila was calling my name.

For whatever reason Wyatt trailed behind me in his Scottish kilt and sporran. If he called me lass one more time, I would have strangled him. He already insulted me once by assuming I was wearing a costume. Like that is something I would do.

I don’t know what part of my tailored blazer, slacks, and sensible blouse screamed Halloween costume to him. It’s a classic look—my go to choice for most social outings.

“We must have different definitions of the phrase great time.”

He shrugs dismissing me. “I didn’t see you running away.”

“I was barricaded in by your mob of fans. There was nowhere for me to go.” Thanks to his little fan club I spent my time that night choking on floral perfume and listening to women jockeying for his attention.

If I took a shot every time someone—male or female—offered to take care of him in the bathroom, I would have been at the hospital getting my stomach pumped within the first ten minutes. Hmm…that might have been a better alternative now that I think about it.

I was counting down the seconds until I could be back in a quiet, controlled environment. I promised Charlie I would stay for thirty minutes, and I did. Once the timer went off on my phone, I paid my tab and left.

“You should consider yourself lucky. Your seat was prime real estate.”

“And to think, I didn’t even have to flash my boobs to get it either,” I snark.

His eyes widen in shock before dipping to my chest. “I didn’t miss much.”

My nostrils flare and my hands clench without warning in my lap. Didn’t miss much. Smug little…

Standing from the chair, I place my palms flat on the table. I lean forward allowing my blouse to dip low enough for him to peer down my shirt.

He holds my stare with curiosity. That’s right. You never know what I’ll do next. It’s easy to assume with my large frame glasses and blazers that I am a quiet wallflower. While I do enjoy a peaceful afternoon, I am not afraid of speaking my mind.

Years spent in the beauty pageant circuit when I was younger has made me confident in my own skin. There is no room to be shy or uncomfortable when you have a limited amount of time to change into your next gown or costume.

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