Page 17 of Cheater and the Saint
I made a gagging noise. “You’re nasty.”
“Nobody said you had to like it,” he countered in a snippy tone.
“Did you just get out of class, too?” I asked, not affected by his obvious irritation.
“Yeah. Sociology.” Saint took another drink of his latte before adjusting his glasses and focusing back on the screen. “My next class isn’t until noon.”
“Cool. Mine’s at eleven.”
Saint blinked before lifting his gaze. “It’s almost ten-thirty. Shouldn’t you be on your way?”
“Ah, I see what you’re doing.” I sat back in the chair and crossed my arms. “Doing that subtle dismissal shit. Like ‘Leo, you’ll be late for class if you don’t leave now’ when youreallymean ‘hey, fuckface. Get away from me.’ Right?”
His lips twitched. “If you say so.”
It was then I noticed the name on his coffee cup: Winter.
“Why does your cup sayWinter?”
The haughty look in his eyes faded and he adjusted his glasses. “Um. It’s my middle name. A kid I went to high school with works there, and he didn’t really give me a choice.”
I sat there in stunned silence before saying, “So your name is Saint Winter.”
“Saint Winter King, actually.”
My lips stretched into a grin. “Wow. And I thought Leonardo Vince Cartwright was bad.”
Saint returned my smile. “I actually like that. Not bad at all. It sounds… artsy.”
“Yeah, well, my mom named me after Leonardo Da Vinci in hopes that I’d be an amazing artist and renaissance man when I grew up. Joke’s on her. I can’t paint for shit or design. But I do like science, kind of.”
“It’s ten-thirty-six now,” Saint pointed out with an unabashed smirk.
“Fuck, you’re an ass,” I said with a laugh before scooting back the chair and standing. I heaved my backpack over one shoulder and quirked a brow at him. “See ya later, Frosty.”
“What the hell did you just call me?”
“Frosty. It suits you. Ya know, with your middle name being Winter and all.” I was having way too much fun with him. “Enjoy your nasty ass bagel, Frosty. I gotta get to class.”
***
Saint didn’t find his new nickname nearly as awesome as I did. For the following days after I dubbed him Sir Frosty of the Saintly Realm, he glared daggers at me and snarled every time I addressed him by his—not to be conceited, but—amazing title.
“I should’ve just lied when you asked me about the damn cup,” Saint said after I greeted him that Friday morning.
“There’s no fun in that.” I motioned to the coffee machine. “I made some for you, too. Just be careful.”
His brow scrunched. “Why should I be careful?”
“Oh, no reason,” I said before taking a sip out of my mug. “The coffee’s just really hot and you might melt.”
“I think I hate you,” Saint said with a sigh.
“What? No you don’t.”
You rubbing one out to me in the shower is proof of that, I wanted to say. Not sure I’d ever tell him I knew about that, certain he’d die of embarrassment, but it was still fun to think about.
He poured his coffee and went to sit on the loveseat by the window. Other than one window each in our bedrooms, there was only one in the living room. It got dark sometimes and felt like a depressing cave if the blinds were closed. I’d opened them that morning to bring some life into the place.
