Page 10 of Tutored By the Smart Girl

I freeze in place and my stomach clenches.

Please don’t recognize me from the party.

“You probably have me listed as John Radcliffe.”

I find his name on my list. “Here you are.” I put a checkmark next to his name. “I’ll mark you as present.

He sits in the chair in front of me. “Your days are Wednesday and Friday at four o’clock. Sharp. I don’t accept late arrivals. Noskips. No trades. I expect any work I’ve assigned to you to be completed. No half-ass attempts. No excuses. Got it?”

I can’t and don’t tolerate people who don’t follow through–who either never show up or show up late.

“Damn.” He leans back in the chair and brings the two front legs off the floor.

I glare at him. “Damn what?”

“Tough.”

“You either want my help or you don’t.” I shrug. “I’m tired of people showing up late and expecting me to wait. Or worse yet, not showing up at all.”

“Are you this rude to everyone?” He has a slight grin.

“I’m not rude, Mr. Radcliffe. I’m simply explaining my expectations before we start our sessions. My schedule is ironclad and if you choose to fritter away your time, that’s your business. However, I will not allow you to waste my time. Time that I could be using to help other students.”

He salutes me. Actually,salutesme. “Yes, ma’am.” He still has that stupid grin on his face.

His eyes narrow and he points at me. “I know you.”

Oh no. Please don’t remember. Please don’t remember.

“I don’t think so.” Adrenaline shoots through as my heart throbs in my chest.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

I shake my head.

“Are you in Madison Hall a lot?”

“No. I’m mostly in the STEM Building.”

He taps his finger on his chin that brushes against his delightful scruff. “You on cheer squad?”

“Pfft.” I chuckle. “Not hardly.”

“You play on a team? Tennis? Softball?”

“Nope.” My voice comes out a little harsher than necessary.

John holds his hands up in surrender. “Just trying to figure out where I know you from.”

“Well, you don’t.” I take a deep breath. “Let’s get started. Take out your current book and let’s see where you’re at.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Please stop calling me ma’am.

I’m not sure how I got this guy. Eventually, he’s going to remember I was the one who cooled off his crotch with that beer. If he continues to show up for his tutoring sessions with that scruff and smelling of whatever soap he uses, I’m never going to get through this.

Focus, Adison. Focus.

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