Beating heart.

I’m not short by any means, but he towers over me when I’m finally close enough to touch him, giving him two taps on the arm when his attention is free from onlookers.

The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself or have anyone overhear me.

I would die.

Not sure if he felt me the first time, I tap him again, more firmly.

He turns.

Looks down at me, at my finger, still poised on the tan skin of his arm.

One of his bushy brows rises in question.

“Hi.”

Hi? Is that the best I can do? I’m here to charm the pants off the guy and drag him over to my group of friends.

No, not friends.

Not now, probably not ever—not after tonight.

It’s not too late to leave, Georgia.

“Hi,” he says back.

This already is going horribly—I can’t even engage the poor guy in conversation, briefly wondering what he and the blonde girl were cackling about earlier.

“So, I’m new here and was wondering—”

“Where is here?”

He has an accent I cannot identify, or maybe it’s the crowded house and the music blaring in the background causing me to strain at the sound of his voice.

“Here. This is my first semester here. At this school.”

“Ah. Welcome then.”

His eyes are green—the muddled green you would find in a vintage oil painting—and up close, the gash in his lip has obviously caused it to be swollen. The bruise on his cheek—the entire left side of his face—is about four different colors. Purple, black, yellow, and brown.

Not cute.

Perfect!

“So, I’m new here and was wondering if you’d like to show me around.”

Those green eyes blink. “Now? It’s dark outside.”

Yeah, he definitely has an accent.

Shit, is he…British?

He can’t be.

What would a guy from the UK be doing in Midwestern America?

“No—later. Like as a date maybe?”

“A date?” He glances around. “You’re asking me on a date?”

I nod, affirmative. “Yes.”

“Are you barmy? Is this a jest?”

“First of all, I have no idea what barmy means. But no, this isn’t a jest.”

He sounds fancy—not at all like the Eliza Doolittle cockney British. More like “tea with the queen” British.

“Barmy means…” He searches for the word. “Crazy.”

“Are you calling me crazy?” I blurt out, hating the fact that I’m asking when he clearly wasn’t telling me I’m nuts, he was asking. Big difference.

“You asked me on a date, so you must be.”

Aww, the poor guy! No wonder he called me barmy; he must be wondering why I would randomly walk up to him and ask him on a date when we hadn’t exchanged more than two sentences and the lamest salutation I could think of.

Hi.

Ugh!

“I did ask you on a date.” I hesitate. Can hardly believe I’m standing here doing this. “So what’s your answer?”

“Where are your mates? They must be here somewhere.”

My mates? “You mean my friends?”

“Yeah.” He’s staring at me as if I’m the odd one.

“Um.” I crane my head and look through the crowd. “They’re by the back wall.”

“Lead the way.” He gestures with his free hand—the other one is holding a beer—for me to push my way through the crowd toward my teammates.

Lead the way? That’s a weird way to put it, a strange thing to say, and why did he ask where my friends are? What kind of guy asks that when you ask him on a date?

“Are you going to follow me?” I ask, clarifying.

“The entire way.” His eyes shift toward the back of the room, and I do an internal happy dance.

This was way too easy!

Phew!

I barely had to spend any time groveling or begging!

Granted, I’m cute—I know this. I’m not a brat about it by any means, but even so, I assumed it would take more sweet-talking to get this strapping brute of a guy to agree to my nonsense.

It’s as if he could see straight through me.

Although, he didn’t actually agree…

Did he?

Did he say yes?

Shit, I don’t remember.

Maybe he changed the subject too soon? I’m racking my brain during the short walk to Ronnie and the girls, and they all seem to be uncomfortably looking everywhere but at me.

The wall, the floor.

Tamlin has her back to me, facing the staircase, glancing this way and that. And is Clarissa sneaking off? It looks like she’s crouching, but I can’t be sure…

“Hallo, Ronnie.” The guy’s voice is deep. “Do you think I’m daft?”

“Ash, I am so, so sorry. We, um. We…”

Ash? Is that his name?

I begin wringing my hands—suddenly none of this is going well, and I work overtime to click together pieces of a puzzle that I’m clearly missing.

This guy knows my teammates and they all seem horrified I’ve dragged him over here.

But isn’t that the point?

Wasn’t I supposed to?

“You think we don’t know all about your little hazing pranks?” The guy—Ash they’ve been calling him—crosses his arms, muscles bulking up without even needing to be flexed.

His right bicep is covered with tattoos.

“That’s not…we’re here to party! Wooo,” one of the girls whoops. “We just want to have a good time like everyone else!” She has to practically shout from the back of the group; it’s that loud in here and getting louder.

“You’re going to need an umbrella, ladies, because your bullshite is pissing it down.”

Um.

Okay.

Crap, how do I…

…fix this?

I feel responsible, as if this were all my doing. I’m the one who approached him, I’m the one who asked if he wanted to go out with me, and if he knew about the prank then he knows I asked him on a date because he’s not cute.

Where is that hole I want to crawl into?

“Ash, don’t be mad—we’re so sorry, she’s new. She didn’t know.”

“You think I’m ugly, eh?” His question is directed at me, and for a few seconds, I waffle trying to reply.

Stutter as if I’m just learning how to speak.

“N-no! No! I…I was in a rush and w-wanted to get it done and there you were and you…no. No, I don’t, I…we…”

I sound like I’m pandering. So foolish.

So immature.

It does nothing to smooth his ruffled feathers.

He is steaming mad, glaring down at me. “You don’t come into my house and make me look like a cockwomble under my own roof.”

Cockwomble?

He’s so utterly British-sounding—I want to hear him talk more.

“Is this your roof?” I turn my head. “Y’all live here? It’s a mess.”

Why are boys such slobs?

Everyone’s eyes bug out of their skulls at my audacious inquiry.

“Oh my god, Georgia, you can’t just ask someone if they live here.” Ronnie swats at me, sounding thirty shades of embarrassed, her cheeks blazing red. “No, he doesn’t live here. He’s being rhetorical.” Her gaze finds his again. “We’re sorry, Ash. We’ll leave. We’re going.” Her hand grabs me by the wrist. “Come on, Georgie.”