Page 33 of The Charlie Method

I mean, if it’snothis name, it is now.

I slip my phone into my bag, a small smile playing on my lips. Then I look over to find Will watching me.

“Who was that?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Nobody. Just a friend.”

“Just a friend who makes you smile like that?”

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Boyfriend?” he guesses.

“No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Your face is bright red.”

“Whatever. Get back to our scaffolds, or I’ll ask to work with George again.”

He laughs. “All right, I’ll drop it.”

We return to our work. It’s quiet for a while, until Will breaks the silence.

“So…if a plant is depressed, do you think its other leaves photosympathize with it?” he asks with a straight face.

I groan. “Oh my God. That was atrocious.”

“Hey, just trying to keep up with the queen.”

After class, we walk out of the lab together into the usual buzz of chatter filling the hallway. We won’t be able to seed the cells until tomorrow, since the process we’re using for scaffold fabrication takes up to a day for the solvent to evaporate and everything to solidify.

As we head out of the building, we make plans for Will to pop in to check on the scaffold in the morning. It’s windy outside, and the late-afternoon breeze snakes underneath my hair and whips it into my face.

I shove it away in time to catch sight of a few hockey guys at the bottom of the front steps. One of them calls out to Will, and I stifle a groan when I realize it’s Beckett from my morning class. Ugh, I hope he doesn’t notice me.

Sadly, any hopes of flying under his radar are squashed when another gust of wind buffets into me and lifts up my skirt.

I smack the gray wool skirt back down, but not before I’m subjected to an exaggerated wolf whistle from Ice Boy and a few grins from his friends.

“Control your dogs,” I grumble to Will.

He gives a sheepish look. “I mean…your skirt just flew up.”

“Not that you noticed,” I say dryly.

“Of course not. I would never notice the color underwear you’re wearing.” As he ambles down the stairs, I hear him coughing, “Pink.”

I’m pretty sure I’m blushing again, but I manage to keep my composure as I pass the group of hockey players at the base of the stairs.

“Later, sugar puff,” comes Beckett’s drawl, followed by chuckles from his friends.

I keep walking without turning around.

Dear Dr. Eckhart,

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