Page 2 of Overtime

Wrapped around my dick would be awesome.

Ooh, sucking my dick in between insults. Why does that turn me on so much? God, I love when she puts people in their place in class. Her sharp mind gets me hotter than an oven. There is clearly something wrong with me.

My dirty thoughts derail with the sound of a tray clattering to the floor nearby.

The whole cafeteria quiets until a pin drop could be heard as all eyes turn toward the disaster.

In the walkway just beside our lunch table, pieces of pasta decorate the floor like streamers, and the object of my fantasies is sprawled out on her stomach, her skirt just barely covering her ass.

Time comes to a halt as I hold my breath and wait to see if anyone will rush to her rescue.

Nope.

I watch Mike, waiting on him to do something. He’s one of her oldest friends after all.

Nope.

He just stares back at me.

The entire sophomore class seems frozen, the very air a sudden blanket over the whole cafeteria. As seconds stretch into eternity, not even any of her friends come to her aid.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Drawing a deep breath, I get up from my seat on shaky legs. The idea of interacting with Evie outside of our shared classes terrifies me, but I can’t just leave her there for everyone to gawk at. I’d like that ass to stay hidden, especially from the eyes of the douchebags who can’t be bothered to help her. What if she smacked her pretty head on the floor? It’s like no one even cares to see if she’s hurt, let alone to help her clean up.

This is exactly why not a single guy in here deserves her. Hell, her friends aren’t real high on my awesome-people list right now either.

“Hey.” I crouch beside her, fighting the urge to tug her skirt down. If my fingers make accidental contact with her skin, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop touching her. “Are you…okay? Did you, um, hit your head?”

She slowly raises her face from the floor to look at me. Her blue eyes swim with tears, and she has a nice red mark on her forehead. She blinks at me a few times then pulls her lips between her teeth, clearly trying not to cry.

“Can I, uh… Can I help you…somehow?” God, I’m such an idiot.

I have no fucking clue what to do here. If she cries, I’ll really lose my shit. This girl should never be allowed to cry. It’s a crime against all mankind for there to be anything but a smile on her gorgeous face.

She sucks in a deep breath and peels herself away from the floor to sit back on her knees, tucking her skirt underneath her. “No, thanks. I’m… I’ll be okay.”

“You’re wearing your lunch on your nice shirt. Can I maybe…buy you a new one?”

Her deep-blue eyes cut to me as her chest heaves. She violently shakes her head.

Fuck. Did she just bust me checking out her tits? “Uh…I meant lunch. Can I buy you another lunch? Not another shirt. Because…I don’t know what size you wear and, uh, I’d probably get it wrong. But if you tell me, I could buy you a new shirt, too. If that’s what you need. I mean…if you want. Um…”

Shit, I suck. Why do I suck?

“I’m just going to go clean up in the bathroom, I think.” She sniffles, still trying not to break down in front of all our classmates, who’ve gone on with their own lives. “Thanks though. I’m sorry I interrupted your meal.”

“Oh, no. That’s okay. I don’t really care about lunch. I wasn’t eating anyway. The food here sucks, right? Except the spaghetti though. Spaghetti is the best.”

She arches an eyebrow at me, probably confused at the bullshit spewing out of my mouth. Hell, I’m confused by the bullshit spewing out of my mouth. Every time I’m anywhere near this girl, it’s like my brain takes a hike. All I can see, smell, hear is her.

She’s everything.

She studies me for a few quiet seconds. “Um, you should maybe rethink not eating at lunch since you’re the backup QB this year. I’m sure you need to eat to keep up your strength.”

She hauls herself to her feet, wobbling a little and smoothing her skirt down. I pick her tray up and try to think of something, anything, to say. She’s going to bolt, and God knows when I’ll have another chance to talk to her. Opportunities like this have been few and far between since we met on the first day of school last year.

“Damn wedges,” she mutters. “Who invented these stupid things anyway?”

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