Page 21 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

I close my eyes for a moment, to stop myself from laughing like a hysterical person. When I open them, his gaze scans me and himself.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you okay?”

“Just making sure you weren’t carrying any tea.” Rex raises an eyebrow. “My toe might be a little flatter, too.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble again, as I step around him to get to my seat.

Kill. Me. Now.

I hate myself for it, but as class gets underway, I wonder who the girl is to Dylan and if they’re dating. I mentally scold myself. Why do I even care? And yet, my next thought is to contemplate the fact that the girl doesn’t have a reputation for being rough like Dylan does. The pairing makes little sense but seeing him so focused on her in the hall was surprising. Especially since the girl seemed upset about something. He strikes me as the type of boyfriend who wouldn’t want to get caught up in his girlfriend’s drama.

I drop my chin into my hand and roll my eyes at my own thoughts. Listen to me being an expert on Dylan Scott, or boyfriends for that matter. I’ve never even had a boyfriend. How would I know what it’s like?

During the next passing period, I catch myself looking for Dylan’s floppy brown hair and deep brown eyes in the sea of faces. Maybe I always pass him and just never realized it before. When I make it all the way to my next class without seeing him, I’m disappointed. Then I’m disappointed for being disappointed. Dylan Scott is messing with my shelter sanctuary and my mind.

What is wrong with me? I think, as I turn into the classroom. But regardless of how many times I mentally chew myself out for thinking of him, he remains at the front of my mind. By lunch period, I’ve changed tactics, assuring myself I’m simply curious because I’ve encountered him so unexpectedly. He has a questionable reputation, supposedly doing things I would never do, and it piques my interest. A lot. It's normal and I shouldn’t punish myself for wondering about him. It’s nothing more than simple curiosity. It’s not like I want to date the guy or anything!

Exhausted from battling my whirlwind of thoughts all day, I flop into a seat next to Sam, not at all convinced that my new line of thinking is going to help me move on from Dylan Scott.

“Hey, you seem distracted,” Sam says. “Everything okay?”

I nod. “Yeah, totally!”

I twist the top off a flavored, carbonated water and the contents erupt out of the bottle. I try to jam the top back on, which makes the sticky water spray sideways and drench me. Sam jumps out of her seat, avoiding the spray.

“Did you not hear that fizz?” Sam asks incredulously. “Oh, Ava. You’re soaked!”

I look down at my lunch, which is also drenched and ruined.

“Oh no,” Bek says by way of greeting. “What happened?”

“Ava sprayed herself with flavored water again,” Sam says.

I lift my shirt away from my skin, surprised there isn’t steam lifting from me, I’m so hot with embarrassment. I really need to stop bringing those waters to school.

“Oh, but you always have a change of clothes in your locker, right?” Bek says with a satisfied smile, knowing everything will be alright.

I groan. “I forgot to replace the clothes I ruined last week. Maybe the office has a shirt I can wear in lost and found or something.” But I remember Mrs. Jensen telling me my own stained shirt was the last of the shirts in the pile. Fingers crossed someone left something lying around in the extremely short time since my mud incident.

“I’ll clean this up,” Sam says. “You go take care of that.”

I offer a pathetic smile of thanks as I step carefully away from the table, angling myself so my shirt won’t drip on my pants too badly. I see people laughing at me as I leave the cafeteria, but I’m used to it. I can’t blame them. The first time I did it, people felt bad for me, but I’ve done it so many times now people almost expect it. They probably have a betting pool for what day of the week I’ll wipe out my clothes.

Once I’m in the hallway, I pull the clammy shirt away from my skin as far as I can. I’m not looking forward to the variety of pitiful looks the office ladies will give me.

“That was spectacular.” Dylan jogs up next to me.

I scowl. What is he doing here? He’s never at lunch, is he? “I don’t need you to rub it in. Please go away.”

He shrugs and stuffs his hands into his front pockets. “I was going to offer you a shirt, but if you already have something…”

He spins around and starts to walk back to the cafeteria.

“Wait!” I call after him. I slam my eyes closed so I don’t have to see his smirk. When I don’t hear anything, I peek through my lashes.

He’s slowly turning around, his eyebrow arched. “Yes?”

It’s so hard asking Dylan for help. “You have a shirt I could borrow?”

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