Page 47 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus as I stare into my coffee, trying to calm my racing mind before class starts.

I need to pull my shit together.

Cassidy’s voice snaps me back to the present as she reclaims her seat beside me, eyeing me with a mixture of concern and curiosity. She had stepped out for a second to grab a donut from the cafe, leaving me to wallow in my thoughts.

“Late night?” she asks, and I see her gaze flick down to my half empty coffee cup, brow furrowing. She’s always been able to read me a little too well.

My eyes glance down to the sugary pastry she holds, my stomach growling in response. That looks good.

“Yeah, just couldn’t sleep,” I mutter, taking a long sip of my coffee, letting the bitter liquid try to fill my stomach. But even as I try to settle myself, flashes of last night keep intruding, my thoughts like static I can’t tune out.

She raises an eyebrow. “Must’ve been something pretty intense keeping you up.” There’s a playful glint in her eyes, but I don’t have the energy to play along. She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, studying me closely. “Eat. You look like you need it more than I do,” she says, her voice soft.

I hesitate but take it, grateful for the distraction as I nibble on the donut. The sweetness does nothing to settle the unrest churning inside me, but at least it’s something.

I finish the donut and down the rest of my coffee, feeling infinitely better than before. Students swarm in, hurrying to their seats as the minutes tick by. Professor Jennings said he was going to be a bit late this morning, so I took the time to look over my notes from the previous classes, my attention only straying when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey.”

I glance up and find familiar hazel eyes smiling down at me.

I smile in response. “Hey, Connor.”

He hikes up his backpack, shifting slightly as he scratches the back of his neck. “How did it go yesterday? You left so quick I didn’t get a chance to say bye.”

I try to ignore Cassidy’s curious gaze and reply, swallowing down the unease swirling up in my chest. “It went as well as I could hope, but I’m fine, no need to worry.”

Connor narrows his eyes slightly, as if he can sense the lie behind my shaky assurance but he doesn’t push, gratefully. He just nods and cracks another small smile, his voice low that only I could hear. “Well, with Thatcher, that’s the best outcome.”

I can feel my heart rate quicken at the mention of Thatcher’s name, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I reply, trying to keep my tone casual, but my voice betrays me, tinged with an edge of uncertainty.

Connor’s smile falters for just a moment as he assesses my reaction but he decides not to ask about it and instead asks, a sheepish smile on his face. “So, um…I was wondering if you’re free for lunch. We could grab some tacos and talk about you tutoring me,” he finishes, his expression a mix of hope and hesitation.

I can’t help but feel a flicker of relief at the distraction. “Sure, I can do that,” I reply, forcing my smile to seem genuine despite the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my head.

“Great! Let’s meet at El Camino’s then,” he suggests, glancing at the clock before shifting back to me. “Just let me know when you’re free.”

“Sounds good,” I say, feeling a strange mix of excitement and anxiety at the prospect. He smiles again before looping away, waving to me as he exits to the aisle and starts climbing to his seat.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Cassidy teases.

I shake my head at her, a smile tugging at my lips as I turn back to my notes. That really was unexpected but not unwelcome. Connor’s cute and he seems nice. Cassidy was right when she said I needed to get over Wesley and start dating again.

But an uneasy feeling in my stomach starts to grow.

What does this mean for Thatcher’s proposal?

The memory of his intense gaze and that electric kiss floods my mind, and I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the memories. I should focus on the present.

The door creaks open and I’m watching it, waiting for Professor Jennings.

It’s not.

Thatcher strides in, his gaze sweeping the room until it lands directly on me, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. My heart lurches, my stomach dropping to my knees.

What is he doing here?

I swallow as I take him in. He is wearing a soft looking, obviously expensive, white and gray striped sweater, a plain white shirt underneath, jeans that seem to cling to his long limbs and white sneakers that add an effortless charm to his ensemble. He looks like he stepped right out of a fashion magazine, and for a moment, it makes my heart race in a way I don’t want to acknowledge.

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