Page 14 of How to Win the Girl

For real. How many times is he going to complain about the teacher? Professor Randall’s boasting is nothing new. The guy behind me is acting personally victimized by him, and in a hot second, I may no longer have the willpower. I may turn around and say something.

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Dating is basically avoiding people who have seen you naked while trying to find new people to see you naked.

Who doesthis blowhard think he is?

Ten minutes into class, the professor has announced no less than three times that he wrote the textbook; it’s in its ninth edition, so he updates it annually.

“I bet you update it annually, asshole, to force everyone to buy the new version,”I mutter, irritated.

Dick.

“Are you even gonna talk about marketing?” I say to myself since zero people are paying me any mind, most of them down closer to the stage.

Drew hadn’t warned me about this mega douche of a professor; all he told me was not to disappear after the break. The guy is notorious for pop quizzes, and he didn’t want to fail because I’d bailed.

A shitty grade was better than the zero he’d get for going home.

Drew and I are no stranger to trading places, a hazard of having identical faces and features. Test-taking and standing in for one another is just another perk of having a twin sibling. We used to do it all the time in high school. Drew was always a stronger mathematician, so every so often, he’d take my math exams, and in exchange, I would do his speeches and presentations.

Shit, I even tried out for the football team as him once in high school when he had the flu. No one suspected, not even our folks; Dad even showed up to watch.

Yeah, we’re no strangers to swapping classes. I only agreed to tonight ’cause I didn’t think it’d be so fucking boring, and I didn’t think the professor was going to be such an egotistical ass.

“I am learning nothing.” My head tips back, and I stare at the alcove for the mezzanine seats overhead. The gilded crown molding is impressive for a campus auditorium.

Must be old as fuck.

A teacher’s assistant walks across the stage; at least, I’m assuming that’s who this is? She’s young, probably a student, holding a stack of papers. She sets them on the table on the stage, then exits stage right.

“Dang, Professor Higgins, she’s snatched.”I wonder if he’s boning her or if it’s strictly professional or if—

“You need to stop.”

The girl in front of me—the one wearing the ball cap—has her head craned around and eyes narrowed. Lips pursed.

This feels very much like the other day when that other chick in my actual class was pissing and moaning because of my pen twirling.

“Stop what?

“Talking.”

“I’m not.”

I mean, I am—but not to her.

Mind your business.

She glares a few more seconds before turning back toward the front, and now I find myself staring at the back of her head at the clasp of her ball cap where you adjust the size.

The dark hair against her white hoodie.

I scan the stage for the hot TA (tits and ass, get it), but she doesn’t reappear no matter how hard I conjure her. Professor Randall continues yammering about the invention of television and copyrights and how the dude got his idea stolen because he didn’t patent itand what the hell this has to do with marketing, I have no idea.

I lean forward.“When is the break for this class?”

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