Page 30 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

My heart pounds in my ears. I have to make a decision now.

I glance at Thatcher as I retreat to the back row. His gaze was fixed on the professor as he launches into the lecture.

I slip into the back row, my pulse still racing. Thatcher’s attention stays on the professor, completely oblivious to how close I was. My fingers tap restlessly on my tote as I stare blankly at the front of the room, trying to calm my nerves.

Why did I hesitate? Why couldn’t I just walk up to him and say something?

Am I really so chicken shit?

The professor drones on about marketing strategies and consumer behavior, but I can’t focus. My thoughts spiral back to the party. Why hasn’t he reported me yet? Does he want something from me? If he recognized me at the party like I think he did, wouldn’t he have already made his move? Or is this some kind of twisted game, and he’s waiting for the right moment to drop the hammer?

Does he want something from me?

That idea gnaws at me. Maybe that’s it—he’s toying with me, waiting to see how long it’ll take for me to crack. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as the thought takes hold, frustration bubbling under the surface. I have to get a grip, figure out what his angle is.

No more chickening out.

I shift in my seat, my eyes locked on the back of his head. Determination settles in my chest, steadying my pulse. After class, I’ll find a way to corner him, ask him what the hell is going on. No more dancing around the issue. It’s time to get answers.

After class came sooner than I expected. The brain numbing lecture ends with the professor giving out an assignment––a three-thousand-word paper on the effect of social media on consumer behavior.

Groans ripple through the room as students start packing up, eager to escape. I watch as Thatcher stands, casually slipping his laptop into his bag, his movements unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.

My heart picks up again, the decision pressing in on me. Now or never.

I stand too, my feet carrying me toward him almost on autopilot. His friend says something to him, and Thatcher flips him off, already halfway out the door. I speed up, weaving through the trickling crowd, my pulse quickening with each step.

As I push through the last few stragglers in the aisle, Thatcher steps into the hallway. His friend heads in the opposite direction, thankfully leaving Thatcher alone. My window of opportunity is shrinking, and with each step he takes, my nerves coil tighter.

I rush out the door, spotting him by the exit. Swallowing, I follow him, slipping out the same door he did. The cold air outside hits me, sharp and biting, but it barely registers. Thatcher slips his phone out of his pocket as he strides towards the parking lot.

I try to keep up with him as he walks towards a gray Tesla parked at the edge of the lot, my pulse racing in sync with my hurried footsteps. The cold air feels sharp in my lungs, but I push through it, determination overriding the chill. Just as he reaches for the door handle, he suddenly pauses and whirls around, his gaze pinning me in place.

I freeze as he leans against the car door, studying me. His bottle green eyes trail over me with an intensity that sends a shiver down the spine. Finally, he smirks, folding his arms across his chest

“You’ve been following me, dove,” he pauses, letting the nickname hang in the air between us, his voice low and amused.

My breath catches in my throat at the sound of it—dove. It feels both familiar and unsettling, like a whispered secret in the night.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words seem to evaporate.

His smirk deepens as he watches me struggle.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, pushing off the car and stepping closer to me.

Once again, his scent assails my senses––sandalwood and spice. I look up at him, trying not to shrink beneath his sharp green gaze.

“You didn’t think I noticed, huh? All those sideways glances, standing behind me at the café, and then here…trailing me like a little shadow.”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to hold his gaze. His presence is overwhelming as he towers over me, his gaze unflinching.

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were,” he interrupts, his smirk growing into a grin. “So, what is it? You follow me all over campus and then into an abandoned parking lot.” His eyes darken with an edge of curiosity. “Wanna kill me too, so I don’t go to the cops?”

His words hit me like a punch. I take a step back, stunned. “I–I…it’s n-not like that,” I stammer, my heart racing.

His widening grin reveals a dimple on his right cheek. “Then what is it like? Shouldn’t I be scared for my life? You did murder someone.”

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