Page 39 of How to Lose at Love

“Really,” I drawl. “Is that why you’re following me? Again?”

He plops all of his crap on the desk next to mine and sits without an invitation.

Not that he needs one, but it would still be polite of him to ask.

“We are in the same class,” he mutters. “Relax.”

My head whips toward him. “Don’t you know it’s a trigger to tell a woman to relax?”

“Is it?” He doesn’t care. “Weird.”

He cracks open his computer and powers it up, oblivious to my ire.

“Why did you sit here? There are a million other seats.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Amillion?”

Oh my God, he is so annoying. “Seriously, why are you sitting here?”

I honestly want to know. And why didn’t I put my book bag on the seat when I got here?

“Because you’re so friendly and welcoming.”

“Yeah, I am—thanks.” Heavy on the sarcasm, light on the genuine gratitude.

We stare toward the front of the room and I try to ignore his existence, but he makes it difficult when he spreads his legs and boxes out his enormous body. One I hadn’t noticed before.

Today he’s wearing joggers—gray ones.

A dark gray hoodie.

No hat.

He’s worn one the other times I’ve bumped into him, and the sight of his shaggy, jet-black hair is startling.

Face the front and don’t look directly at him…

His thighs are thick—anyone with decent sight can see that. Those sweatpants are doing him a lot of favors.

Dammit!

Why are these desks pushed so close together? Aren’t we supposed to be six feet apart?

I try not to notice his jawline.

Try not to notice that he smells like cologne.

Try not to notice his large hands. The big palms.

The fingers that cover his entire laptop keyboard when he spreads them…

Whatever.

I stare straight ahead.

“Do you have a pencil?”

What kind of question is that? He’s using a laptop.

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