“Love you, too, Fabes.” I hang up and toss the phone onto the mattress beside me, my gaze locked on the ceiling fan circling lazily above my head. Inhaling deep, I recognize the pungent smell of weed and I wrinkle my nose.

No way can I bring a girl into my room with it smelling like this.

You’re not thinking of just any girl. You’re thinking of …

I close my eyes and fight my thoughts about Chelsea. I don’t know her that well. There’s really nothing to know. Within the next few weeks, everything will be over between us and I’ll never see her again. We definitely don’t run in the same social circles.

Resting my hand on my chest, I feel my heartbeat beneath my palm. The steady thud, thud, thud letting me know I’m alive. But I don’t feel alive. Not really. Everything just … happens. I work hard and it’s the same old thing. I work not as hard and it’s still the same thing.

Nothing changes. I go to school, I play football, I work, I get high, sometimes I get drunk, I want to knock Wade and Des’s heads together. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Then Chelsea walks into my life and I’m thinking differently. I think … I want to ask her out. On a bona fide date. And I never want to date anyone. I f**k around and that’s it. Something lasting isn’t what I want. A quick lay? That’s always worked.

But it’s not working when it comes to Chelsea. I want more. And I doubt she wants to give it to me.

Chelsea

I’m nervous. Owen should be here any minute for our meeting and I don’t know what to do, what to say. The last time we saw each other, I’d been so stiff and uncomfortable I hardly said anything to him. Then I bolted out of the room like a frightened chicken without saying goodbye.

He probably hates me.

I pace the classroom, too agitated to sit. Back and forth in front of the whiteboard, my gaze constantly straying to the door no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care when he shows up. I’d prefer he never show up.

I am also a complete liar.

Yet again I dressed with care, wanting to impress him despite myself. Another good pair of jeans; these are old and worn, a little faded and comfortable, yet they make my legs look long. Not that I care about what my legs look like. Or any part of me. I just want to look nice. Not because I’m trying to catch Owen’s eye or whatever.

God, I sound like such a failure even in my own mind. I stop pacing and hang my head, staring at my feet. I’m wearing fake Ugg boots—it was cold this morning—and I have my jeans tucked into them. And a big, slouchy cream-colored sweater that keeps slipping off my shoulder and revealing my pale pink, lacy bra strap.

I withhold the groan that wants to escape. My entire outfit looks calculated. Even Kari asked me earlier this morning when we were both getting ready for class who I was dressing for, and I lied. Told her no one. She doesn’t know about Owen. She never seemed to care what happened that night at The District when I left her with Brad. I told her I found a ride home when she asked. That I saw someone I knew and he offered.

She never questioned me beyond that. Kari’s too wrapped up in her own thing lately. I know she’s been seeing Brad casually but he’s not giving her the attention she wants.

What a surprise.

The door creaks open and my gaze jerks to the door. There he stands, looking like complete male perfection, wearing a blue-and-red plaid flannel unbuttoned shirt over a white T-shirt and dark jeans with boots that are for whatever reason unlaced. His hair is a haphazard mess and that sexy golden-brown scruff still shadows his face.

My God, he’s just … devastating.

“Hey.” He pulls the door shut behind him with a quiet click, then leans against it. “How’s it going?”

Swallowing hard, I flip my hair back, exposing my bare shoulder and the pink bra strap. His gaze drops immediately to it and my skin warms as if he actually touched me. “It’s … going well.” I tug my neckline up but it immediately falls off my shoulder again. I should have worn a tank top.

“You look good,” he says as he pushes away from the door and slowly saunters toward me.

Oh. I hadn’t expected such a quick compliment. Or any sort of compliment. “Thank you.” I clear my throat, pray for strength. Just like that, it comes to me. “You look good, too.”

He smiles crookedly, without revealing any teeth, as he approaches the table I’m standing next to. “So you’re talking to me.”

I have to tilt my head back when he stands so close so I can meet his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be talking to you?”

“Last time we met here, I think you might’ve said fifteen words to me, tops. And every one of them you had to force out.”

“You were counting?” And am I flirting? This is … so unlike me.

“I figured I pissed you—” He presses his lips together, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Made you mad.”

Really? When was I supposedly mad at him? Freaked out? Yes. Embarrassed? Oh yeah.

“You know, when I kept saying that one particular word to you.” It’s as though he can read my mind. Freaky. “You ran out of my house like your shoes were on fire, and then we met here the next day and you hardly talked to me.” His eyes seem to bore into mine. “I figured you might not show up today.”

“Oh, now I am offended. I never, ever ditch my tutoring appointments unless I’m sick. Like on-my-deathbed sick.” And even then, I’ve missed only one session since I started working. I take all of my jobs pretty seriously.