Page 43 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“It’s fine, Rhea,” I hear Connor say, the resignation in his voice like a douse of freezing water. “I’ll see you in class.” He steps away and disappears down the hallway.

Peeved, I turn back to Thatcher and find him looking at me, his smirk intact, his eyes glinting with something I can’t pin down. Satisfaction, maybe?

“Well, that was fun,” Ezra comments, still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a playful grin on his face.

I ignore him and glare at the brunette shirtless asshole, now grinning at me.

Ezra chuckles, clearly amused by the tension. “I think feisty might be Thatcher’s kink.” He shoots a teasing look at Thatcher, who merely rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off, dude,” Thatcher snaps, his voice tinged with annoyance but lacking the usual bite.

Ezra lifts his hands in surrender, “I get it, private conversation.” He moves away from the door and starts down the hallway, in the direction of the stairs. “Fucking off now. Have fun.” He calls over his shoulder as he walks.

I turn my attention back to Thatcher, who’s now leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and that infuriating smirk still plastered across his face. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.

Finally, I say, summoning all the civility I can muster. “We need to talk.”

His smirk grows into a grin, and he steps away from the door, gesturing for me to come in. I can’t shake the feeling as I cross over the threshold, into his den, that my life will never be the same again.

The door slams shut behind me, and I try to brace myself for the painful conversation I know is coming. I can feel his presence so acutely as he moves around me, but I try not to focus on that, instead I try to distract myself by taking in the room.

The walls are bare, save for a few nailed up banners of the frat’s motto, as well as pictures of past presidents. Despite that, the room was oddly clean. The wooden floors are polished and buffed and the leather couches that surrounded a coffee table look new. Even the massive king size bed at the far edge of the room was meticulously laid. The stark contrast between the messiness of the floor below and the almost pristine setup here catches me off guard. This isn’t at all what I’d imagined. Thatcher’s space feels almost curated, like everything has been purposefully arranged to reflect a certain image. Even the faint scent in the room—woodsy and sharp, like sandalwood and spice—seems deliberate.

He moves past me, to the open closet at the corner and unhooks a towel hanging from a pull up bar attached to the doorway before draping it over his bare shoulders. I watch as Thatchercasually drapes the towel over his shoulders, rubbing at his neck and face in a way that feels oddly intimate given the tension between us. His damp hair falls back smoothly, framing his face in a way that accentuates the sharpness of his jaw. He moves with an ease, a quiet confidence that makes it hard to look away, even though I really should.

When he finally glances over, catching me watching him, a flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. “What? Eye fucking me already?” he teases, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I feel oddly flattered, Dove.”

I’m momentarily flustered. How can a guy with such an angelic face have such a shitty attitude? Is it genetic maybe?

His smirk only deepens, clearly noticing my reaction, and it’s infuriating how easily he gets under my skin.

I manage to pull myself together and roll my eyes, folding my arms tightly across my chest in an effort to hide my shaky hands. “Please. I was just trying to figure out how someone like you manages to live in a room this spotless, frat guys are exactly the poster boys for cleanliness.”

He raises a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Gotta keep some standards,” he replies, letting the smirk settle back onto his face. “Speaking about standards, you’re one to talk. You’re practically burning a hole through me with those eyes.”

I swallow, heat rising to my cheeks as I turn away, forcing myself to focus on anything else in the room.

I can feel his gaze lingering on me, that familiar, irritating smirk likely plastered on his face. I force myself to look at anything but him—the meticulously organized shelf, the perfectly made bed, the framed jerseys and team photos on the wall. It all feels so intentional, like each piece was carefully curated to project an image.

The room feels like an extension of Thatcher himself—controlled, put together, almost painfully curated. It’s as thoughhe’s hiding behind all of these perfect details, concealing anything real. The thought annoys me, so I let out a huff.

The silence stretches, thick and charged, as I take in the room with forced interest. I can feel his eyes on me, but Thatcher doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to breathe, as if he’s waiting for me to turn back and meet his eyes. He thrives off this, off making me squirm. And I hate that it’s working.

Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice low and teasing. “If you’re done analyzing my room, I’m all ears. You said you wanted to talk?”

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, debating just leaving and forgetting I ever came. But that would mean Thatcher wins, and I’m not about to give him that satisfaction. Instead, I steel myself, taking a deep breath as I turn to face him directly.

“Yeah, I do. About your offer.”

His eyes glint with interest, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly?” he says, feigning innocence as if he doesn’t know exactly what I’m talking about.

I roll my eyes, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heartbeat quickens as memories of our last conversation flash through my mind. “You know what I mean, Thatcher. The whole…arrangement you proposed. I’m considering it.”

His eyebrow arches, his smirk widening as he takes a casual step closer. “Considering it?”

I want to back away, to escape from this gut-wrenching situation but he seems to read my thoughts and leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat from his skin, close enough that I can see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. It’s almost endearing. “Funny. I thought you might have been a little more…motivated after our last chat.”

I grit my teeth, trying to keep my anger in check. “Motivated? Really, Thatcher? Like when you sent the cops toquestionme?”I can hear the edge in my voice, but I can’t stop it. “Was that part of your idea of persuasion?”

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