Page 23 of Overtime
“What? Why?” This may or may not have come out as a whine.
“What I really didn’t want was someone who may start hitting on me or something,” he responds, using that cool inflection that betrays no feeling. It’s like he’s talking aboutthe weather and not saying something that sounds super pretentious.
Except, in his case, it’s not showboating. Dude has a serious fandom in this school. And from what I found online yesterday when I was doing book research, they can be a bit too much.
“Uh, but I’m not what you requested…” I’m grasping at straws.
“A new tutor may be weirder than you, though.”
Aran folds his arms on top of the table, and they distract me. Mom wouldn’t have anything bad to say about them. In fact, she’d be wondering what I’m wondering. What’s the name of that muscle that curves on the outside of his upper arm?
“Are you planning to hit on me?”
“No!” The shout echoes around the library.
Oh my word. Did he catch me checking him out again? Maybe I should’ve said yes. That would’ve convinced him to ask for a new tutor right away. Although I would never! Heat rushes up from my chest. A cocktail of embarrassment and panic churns in my gut.
“B—But I definitely don’t want to make you uncomfortable, you know?” Next argument I prepared: “You deserve the best care, and I’m just not sure I’m the right person for the job.”
“Your rating says otherwise.”
Why is he so good at picking apart my arguments with so few words?
Maybe because they’re flimsy. That’s why. I may have to use the tactic I least wanted to use.
“Listen, I’m going to be fully honest with you.” I draw in a deep breath, and in a solemn way, I say, “I’m absolutely dying of mortification.”
Aran leans forward a little, those intense eyes unwavering. “You should get that checked out.”
The urge to kick him is strong. “C’mon,” I whine.
“Why? Because I saw your room?”
“Not because ofthat,” I mumble with a frown.
“So what? I saw your bra. Everyone has boobs. Half of the boobed people wear bras. It’s no big deal.”
“It’s a big deal for me.” I drop my face into my hands again. “How can I possibly act professional now?”
“Want me to show you my boxers to level the playing field?”
“Aran!”
“Or I can show you my boobs instead.”
“Are you trying to kill me?”
The grin on his face is criminal. It’s a gesture that steals hearts and sanity. He should register that and only use it when he has a valid permit.
“Look, if you hadn’t brought this up, I wouldn’t be thinking about your boobs right now, and we would’ve started the lesson like normal.”
I groan and collapse on the table. He’s right. I’m the one who made it awkward. He had probably forgotten all about it. He’s probably seen countless pieces of lingerie on or off countless girls. There was probably nothing memorable about mine. Why did I have to overreact?
“Can we please forget this conversation happened?”
“Now we can’t, no.”
“Great,” I grumble, my face smooshed against the table. “Is there really no way I can convince you to find someone else whose humiliations you haven’t witnessed?”
