Page 5 of A Little Tempting

From the corner of my eye, I catch his mouth lifting as he unfolds the paper and chuckles under his breath.

I have no idea what he read. Was it their numbers? An offer to meet them in the bathroom for a quickie? A compliment on how good the guy looks in his dark jeans and olive green henley? Honestly, I should envy the girls for their boldness, but I’m kind of swimming in secondhand embarrassment. Because if it was me? I would probably fall off my seat while passing said paper and split my head open or something instead of coming off as smooth and confident.

I wish I was kidding, but I’m not.

Seriously, though. Who just hands their number to a guy? Who does that? Man, even the idea of attempting something so daring makes me want to melt into the walls and disappear entirely.

Nope. No, thank you.

Reeves leans toward me, resting his forearm on the space separating us as he drops his voice low. “There a problem, Thorne?”

Thorne?

Seriously? Did he forget my name?

I mean, it’s not like we’re close, but he’s my brother’s roommate, teammate,andfriend. He seriously doesn’t even remember my first name?

I shake my head but don’t look at him, keeping my attention glued to the teacher in front of me as he writes his name on the whiteboard. Mr. Broderick. Yup. The trusty schedule was right.

Noted.

Reeves leans even closer, and the same low breath of amusement causes goosebumps to race along my skin. “You look like you’re sunburned,” he murmurs. “Spend too much time outdoors this weekend?”

Is this guy baiting me?

I’m blushing because he’s talking to me. It’s a sick, twisted bodily response I suffer from when anyone even remotely attractive looks at me, let alone talks to me. Add it to the fact I was already drowning in secondhand embarrassment while imagining passing my number to a random dude, and I have no doubt I look like a ripe tomato thanks to my pale complexion. Why, oh, why didn’t I inherit my dad’s olive skin like my brothers? Oh, wait. Because I’m unlucky, that’s why. I blame my mom. Blonde hair. Pale skin. But, where she’s absolutely gorgeous, I’m…well, what am I? Cute. Yup. I’m cute. And let’s be honest. There isn’t anything wrong with cute. Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. And me? I’m cute. Forgettable, yes, but cute all the same. Then again, when you’re a girl like me, there isn’t anything wrong with being forgettable. It helps you stay out of the spotlight, which is precisely what I need if I want to get through this semester.

Please stop looking at me, I silently beg as my thumb finds the end of my pen, and I click it over and over again.

“You’re cute when you blush,” Reeves notes. Giving me some space, he stretches his long, muscular legs out beneath the table.

I force my lungs to expand, grateful for the reprieve.

“Look around,” the teacher announces. Mr. Broderick.Right.“The person next to you will be your partner for your first project this semester.”

I squeeze my eyes shut as the words wash over me.

I hate projects. And I hate partners. And Ireallyhate projects with partners, especially when said partner is my brother’s friend who, apparently, doesn’t even remember my name.

Untucking my hair from behind my ear, I use it as a shield while attempting to focus on the project’s guidelines and how I can get out of it without pissing off my new teacher.

“Emotion,” Dr. Broderick announces. “It’s what I want you to capture in your portfolio for this project. Happiness. Sadness. Desire. Discomfort. Peace. Surprise. The options are endless.” He rubs his hands together. “I want you and your partner to each choose two emotions. They can be the same. They can be different. I don’t care. What I do care about is how you capture those emotions and ensure the viewer of your work feels the same depth of said emotion as your model in the photograph. You and your partner will have the opportunity to take photos and star in them. I expect examples of each to be turned in. The first piece is due in one month. Any questions?”

The girl in front of me raises her hand. “What if our partner sucks at modeling? It isn’t our fault?—”

“You’ll be graded together on this project. Both in front of and behind the lens. As you’re all aware, you presented a portfolio to be accepted into this class, so I know you all understand how to use a camera. Today, we’re looking at examples of how to show those emotions through photographs.” He walks toward the edge of the room and flicks off the light. Images flash on the massive whiteboard at the front of the room from the projector at the back.

It’s hard to focus on Dr. Broderick’s examples. I’m too busy attempting to steady my breathing so I don’t hyperventilate. There’s a reason I like holding a camera, and it isn’t because I want to be in front of it, that’s for sure. I’m not particularly in love with photography, but it’s fun, and the class is way better than some other electives. Or at least, it was until Reeves sat next to me.

“Thorne?” Reeves prods. His voice is still low as he leans closer to me. “You okay? You look like you’re about to puke.”

“Why do you call me Thorne?” I ask, surprising us both with my boldness. I’m not bold. Hell, I’m the furthest thing from it. But he’s right about the puking part, and I’m desperate for a distraction, even if it means fraternizing with the Greek god beside me.

Reeves pulls back, clarifying, “It’s your last name.”

“So?”

“So?” he repeats, looking as lost as I feel.

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