Page 17 of Forget Me Twice

Taking a step forward, I almost run into the back of Rhett. A surprised but happy yelp escapes me as he spins in the open doorway, scooping me up and kissing my neck and jaw, careful to avoid my lips. He drops me back to my feet just as quickly, giving my ass cheeks a firm squeeze before he turns and saunters away.

I watch his own fine set of glutes as they disappear down the hallway before pulling the door shut behind me. There’s still a satisfied smile on my lips as I adjust my heavy-ass book bag, ready to finally hunt down some food.

My mind is firmly occupied by thoughts of pancakes and bacon and Rhett in sweatpants, so it’s very jarring when my gaze accidentally locks with a figure reclining against the the entrance to a room a few doors down and on the opposite side of the hallway.

Fuck.

I was hoping to have at least made it through until lunch before encountering one of the four head-bad-boys-in-charge of Roxborough Academy.

My plan had been to try and get more of an organic feel for the school and its citizens than what my clinically written files could give me. Get a read on the social tapestry and vibe of the place before diving headfirst into a tête-à-tête with one of the main reasons that I’m here at all.

Instead, slouching directly against his doorframe, arms crossed and glaring at me like a disdainful god, is Tristan Sinclair—unofficial head of the Rox Boys.

Standing before me in living color.

At least now I’ve pegged the reason for my Enforcer’s passionate goodbye display.

I quickly shut my expression down, hoping wildly that there hadn’t been an obvious flash of recognition when we made eye contact.

As far as he knows, I have exactly zero idea who he is.

While that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Tristan Marcus Sinclair, 18. Wealthy. Parents still married despite infidelity. Academy Prefect-Captain. Captain of the Roxborough Krakens basketball team. Plays four instruments. Speaks three languages. Slated for Valedictorian and early acceptance for Pre-Med at Rox U.

According to his file, at his full height, he stands at 6’2. His broad shoulders and golden-toned, muscular body—currently wrapped up like a present in a neatly-pressed, academic uniform—speak to his obvious athletic ability. Dark, almost black hair sits artfully tousled atop his head like a crown. His sharp, clean-shaven jaw is set firmly, his ocean-blue eyes tight.

Weeks of making my acquaintance with his photo have not done the actual Tristan Sinclair an iota of justice.

He looks way too good to be an actual real life boy.

I’m cautiously reminded that even the Devil himself was once an angel, and a pretty face is the perfect trap for intrepid travelers.

A pretty face doesn’t always mean pure of heart.

But it’s not just his stupidly good looks. Even relaxed as his posture appears, there is a darkvibrationof power that emanates from him; amagnetism. It’s in his bearing.

He’s evidently a person who considers himself unquestionably in charge. Somebody who wields significant influence over those around him.

Our recon had shown that the Rox Boys have a curious but unshakeable grip on the student population here. That their word islawand that if they pointed to a bridge and said jump, their classmates would be shoving each other out of the way to be the first to show their loyalty.

In other words, they are used to enjoying an unchallenged and easy reign.

I concentrate on keeping my features neutral, but he’s staring me down like someone just whispered in his ear that I’ve personally arrived at Roxborough solely to shit in his cereal.

I suppose I am the quote unquote new kid moving intotheirterritory.

Guess I need to set the tone from the start.

This ought to be fun.

As I near his doorway, he straightens subtly, his presence expanding slowly until he’s positivelylooming.The light overhead glints off the Prefect-Captain badge on his lapel. His expression is dark and frigid.

“Overnight guests are a direct violation of the Academy dorm rules,” he says dispassionately, when he’s sure he has my attention.

His voice is low and sinful, sliding down my spine like a caress.Exactlyhow I imagined him to sound, conjured by my fantasies after all those hours of studying his file.

I blink.Fuck, it packs a punch. A punch straight to my nether regions. Christ, my poor libido has taken some serious hits this morning.

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