Page 29 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I must be out of my mind.

My eyes follow him as he moves up the queue. My time is running out.

Do I really just—

I’m on my feet before finishing the thought, my stomach a mix of nerves and fear. Cassidy glances up at me.

“I’m getting another latte,” I manage.

She nods and returns to her paper, blissfully unaware. I force my feet forward, navigating through tables and chairs. The cafe chatter blends into a low hum.

I approach the counter where he now stands waiting for his order. He stares at his phone, oblivious to my presence. The knot in my chest tightens as he shifts. Sandalwood and spice hit my nose.

I try to focus as the barista calls out orders, forcing myself to breathe despite my pounding heart.

“What will you have?” The barista’s question jolts me.

“Coffee black, one sugar,” he replies, his voice a low rumble.

I bite my lip, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

God, I can’t do this.

The barista starts his drink. I try to form words, but they don’t come, even when the barista hands him his order and he turns,glancing at me briefly before heading toward the door. I watch him move, each step pulling him further away.

“Ready to order?” the barista asks.

What do I do? Do I go after him?

“Um…no. Sorry,” I mumble and dash back to the table.

I grab my tote and phone, throwing a quick “bye” over my shoulder to Cassidy. Ignoring her confused call, I run out of the cafe, eyes locked on the brown hair head bobbing through the quad. My steps quicken as I weave through the crowd, determined to catch up with him.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

What am I even going to say?

My pulse races as I trail him, watching as he walks briskly, seemingly unaware of me as an internal storm brews in my chest. A familiar building ahead and I blink up at it. School of Business.

It turns out that Thatcher is on the way to class, and I curse under my breath, knowing my window of opportunity is closing fast. He strides up the stairs to the building and I pick up the pace. If I don’t do this now, I never will.

He disappears through the large glass doors just as I reach the bottom of the steps. My heart is pounding in my throat, but I push myself forward, my legs moving on autopilot as I follow him inside.

The hall is bustling with students–some hurrying to class, others gathered in groups, chatting animatedly–but it all blurs around me. My focus is on Thatcher, who heads towards a corridor on the left, I quicken my pace, slipping through the crowd, my tote bag bouncing against my hip.

I see him slip into a lecture room ahead and hurry towards it, catching the door just before it closes. The door clicks softly behind me, and I survey the room. It’s slightly full, students trickling in from other doors, some scattered across the seats,their heads bent over notes and laptops. I spot Thatcher at the far end of the room, pulling out a laptop, speaking to someone sitting beside him.

My anxiety skyrockets as I stand frozen at the back of the room, watching both of them. They’re deep in conversation. The sight of them together reminds me of the hockey game, how carefree and confident they both seemed on the ice.

I grip the strap of my tote tighter, trying to steady my nerves. I’m not even sure what I’m going to say once I get to him. Confronting Thatcher in front of a classroom full of people? Probably not my smartest move. But I’ve come this far.

Taking a deep breath, I walk down the aisle toward them, my steps slow and measured. The closer I get, the more unsure I feel, but I force myself to keep moving. This may be the only chance I get.

I’m two steps away when the door slams open and a suited man strides in, straight to the podium. I freeze in place as the professor takes command of the room, his presence shifting the atmosphere. The causal chatter dies down and students scramble to their seats, the sounds of seats scraping the tiles and bags rustling filling the silence. I glance at Thatcher, who still hasn’t even noticed me yet—his attention now fixed on the man at the podium.

My stomach twists. Of course, now of all times, the professor decides to make a dramatic entrance. My window to confront Thatcher was quickly closing. I could either back away now, retreat to the anonymity of the back row, or—

“Take your seats, everyone. Today we’re diving into consumer buying behavior,” the professor announces, flipping through his notes.

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