Page 2 of Trick Shot
He nods. “For the next two weeks, yes. I’ll be in the lab with Dr. Azarian and helping out with whatever they tell me to. I’ve done this trip a couple times, so if you need anything?—”
“I won’t,” I say, cutting him off. The day I ask Pete Santos for anything—any fucking thing—will be the day the zombies take over. And even then, I’d probably rather have undead corpses snack on my brain than accept help from Bainbridge’s favorite son.
To punctuate my point, I pull up the handle on my suitcase and stride toward the glass-walled building in front of me. I’m in Room 413, so all I need to do is find an elevator or stairway once I get inside.
“Claire,” Pete’s deep voice calls, but I ignore it. I ignore him. He calls my name again and latent manners kick in, so I stop. It takes him two steps to catch up to me, and when he does, he’s smiling. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something wrong with him. I am not nice to him. I’m not even civil, but he’s still pleasant as fuck.
“That’s not your dorm,” he says, shaking his head and pointing at the building I was about to walk into.
“How do you know?” I ask. “I didn’t realize assistant duties came with the fringe benefit of stalking.”
He just rolls his eyes. “I have no clue what dorm you’re actually in, but I can pretty much guarantee you’re not staying in there.”
“Oh, really?” I challenge, cocking my head to the side and letting my hand settle on my hip.
“Yeah,” he confirms, annoyingly unaffected by my attitude. “That’s the dolphin enclosure. No one sleeps there. Except, you know, dolphins.”
I was never the kind of kid who played pretend. I never wanted to live in a fantasy world, or be a princess, or anything like that. I’m a journalist. I deal in facts. But rightnow, I wish to the depths of my soul that I could press a charm on my necklace or blink furiously or utter magic words and turn into a damn dolphin right before Pete’s very eyes.
I can’t of course, because…facts and reality. But I want to.
Instead, I settle for lifting my chin a little higher and shooting an icy glare his way. Because, you know, when you look like an asshole, it’s totally appropriate to take the high road and pretend you don’t look like an asshole. This is, in fact, the opposite of the advice I’d dish out in my weekly column forThe Howler, which is further proof that Pete Santos brings out the worst in me.
“Whose class are you in?” he asks, unearthing a tablet from underneath his bulging bicep.
“Dr. Navarro’s,” I answer. “I’m in Lambert. 413 B. I know that much. I just don’t know where Lambert is.”
“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
My brow furrows. “Does what hurt?”
“Admitting that you don’t know something,” he answers, that infuriating smile back in place.
I take a breath and release it, scratching an imaginary itch on my temple with my middle finger.
The bastard laughs.
“Lambert’s right down there on the left,” he says, pointing to a path filled with a gaggle of sorority girls and twice as many suitcases. “Pro tip: go around back. There’s an elevator there that hardly anyone uses. You’ll be strolling the beach before the Sig Delts unpack their luggage.”
I step toward the path before turning back to Pete. “Thanks,” I tell him. “For the directions and the tip.”
He nods, another smile playing at his lips.
“And before you ask, yes,” I mutter.
“Yes?”
“Yes, it hurt to thank you,” I admit, clutching my chest for dramatic effect.
Pete guffaws. “In that case, the infirmary’s two buildings down from there. You might be making a few visits considering that Dr. Navarro’s classes are on reef duty for the first rotation. And that’s my territory.”
This time, he’s the one who turns and strides away, leaving me to stare at his retreating form. And his thick, delectable ass.
Stupid Pete Santos. If I didn’t hate him, there’s a decent chance I’d be one of his adoring fans.
Luckily, I’ve been holding this grudge for more than three years and there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting it go.
“Hand to god, this room is even smaller than the one we shared freshman year,” I say to my best friend, Holland, as I pan my camera across the tiny space.
