Page 10 of The Surprise Play
He shakes his head, looking completely unabashed by this.
What is wrong with this man?
“It’s… it’s due in less than a week,” I sputter, having internal conniptions at the idea of trying to complete an assignment like this in such a short timeframe. “Have you even read the book?”
His bottom lip pokes out as he shakes his head again. Then he grins at me. “I bet you’ve read the book, though. An old classic like that is probably on your bookshelf already, amiright?” He winks.
I recoil from that flirtatious smile of his.
He doesn’t seem fazed, dialing it up to full beam as he leans toward me. “So, you think you can help me out?”
My lips part—it’s impossible not to gape at this guy. He’s expecting me to help him work on an assignment for a book he hasn’t even read that’s due on Monday?
Forget it!
Shaking my head, I stand from my chair. “I can’t help you.”
“Oh, come on. I’ll do anything. Buy you anything. Pay you anything.”
“I don’t want your money,” I hiss in desperation. “I can’t help you, okay? I won’t. It’s not worth the stress.”
Hitching my bag, I spin on my heel, crossing my arms and getting away from Wily Wilson as fast as I can.
I don’t need some jock completely doing my head in days before my next semester starts. Like I want that kind of aggravation in my life.
He’s just going to have to cope on his own.
And yes, I feel a little bad about that, but he seems charming. I’m sure he can talk someone else into doing his work for him. He’ll probably find some gullible little freshman, flash his pearly whites at her, and she’ll be eating out of his palm by the end of the weekend, handing him a beautifully crafted essay so he can get a degree he doesn’t deserve.
Honestly!
I have better things to do with my time.
CHAPTER 4
WILY
I can’t believe Miss High and Mighty won’t help me out.
What the actual fuck is wrong with her?
She’s readMoby Dick, I know she fucking has. I could tell by the flicker in her eyes when I called her on it. But she’s still not willing to help me.
She could probably write this fucking essay in her sleep, but no, she has to assume that I’m some teachable asshole who’s just too lazy to do my own work.
What a bitch!
I huff, feeling kind of bad for thinking that.
I don’t like insulting women. Most of them are everything that’s good about this world.
But then you get the Elizabeth Satchwells.
You mean, the kind of woman who didn’t want to take your money because she genuinely wanted to teach you something?
The kind with integrity?
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, hating my own arguments and wishing I could just stay fucking mad!
