Bloody imbeciles, the entire lot of them.

That girl—whoever she is—can kiss my giant British arse. And the look on her face says she probably would have; she seemed that humiliated.

I was the one who was supposed to be humiliated, but guess what? It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart.

You have to wake up pretty goddamn early to toss one over on Ashley Jones.

Still.

It’s her wide-eyed expression I see when I close my eyes. Toss and turn throughout the night, grateful I never have to see that pretty, perfect face again.

Tuesday

I lift the water bottle to my lips and chug, hungry as a mother as I forgot breakfast—usually I toss a bar or two in my bag, but this morning I ran out the door too quick.

My stomach growls as I shift in my seat.

I barely fit in the thing. It’s made for people like…everyone else.

Normal-sized humans.

Someone grunts as they bump into me in an attempt to head down the aisle I’m blocking.

Not intentionally, that’s just how things work when you’re a hundred and eighty-seven centimeters.

Legs. Everywhere.

“Oh.”

At the sound of the gasp, I glance up.

It’s the girl from Friday night.

Georgia.

She’s startled to see me, stopping in her tracks, my knees pressed against the seat in front of me, blocking her passage and preventing her from getting down the row of seats.

We’re in a lecture hall for this class, much like an auditorium. About twenty rows look down at a miniature stage where the professor stands holding a laser pointer in one hand, her glasses in another.

She’s wiping her eyes and looks tired. Must not have gotten to bed early for the first day of the term.

Semester they call it here.

I keep forgetting.

“Are you lost?” I ask her, slightly annoyed that she’s still standing above me, staring like a deer caught in headlights.

“Um, no? This is Business Communication, isn’t it?”

Yeah, but it’s a 400-level class. “This is a class for upperclassmen, not freshmen.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice and wonder what the hell my problem is. “You need an academic advisor or another professor to sign off before you can register for it.”

I was in a perfectly jovial mood five seconds ago before she rammed her knees into my legs.

“I am an upperclassman.”

“Then why were they giving you shite Friday night?” Don’t they normally just haze underclassmen?

“Because I’m new. I…just transferred here. This is my first semester here, but I’m a senior.”

That makes no sense.

“That’s weird. Is that normal?” I’ll never figure out the wonky shite they do here in the States.

Never.

“Not really, no.” She shifts on her heels, books clutched in her arms. “Only a lunatic would transfer their senior year, but I had no choice.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say ‘We all have a choice,’ but I bite it back.

“Listen, uh—Ash. I just want to apologize for Friday night. I…it wasn’t at all what you thought. I didn’t walk up to you because…because…”

She can’t say it, and I don’t blame her.

Ugly is an ugly word.

“It’s fine.” It’s not fine, but I let her off the hook, wanting her to walk away. “You don’t have to stand here chatting me up.”

“Oh. Right. Um…okay, sorry.” She glances over her shoulder. “I’ll just go sit, um. Somewhere else.”

“Brilliant. You do that.”

She looks me over for a few extra seconds before shuffling away, weaving down the row and plopping down five seats away just as the professor at the front of the room introduces herself—and her teaching assistant, Kelly—and fires up the screen hanging on the wall like a giant billboard.

I refuse to glance down the aisle to see if she’s looking at me.

That would be a total rookie thing to do, and I’ll not be led around by my cock for a girl with a stunning face but a cruel heart.

“…every fifth person will be in your group,” the professor is saying as her TA hands around the syllabus. “Go ahead and start counting off, starting in this first row, then reorganize yourselves into your new groups.”

I begin mentally counting seats to see who’ll be in my study group, glancing down the row to find the girl glancing back at me—she jerks her head forward to avoid my gaze.

Bollocks.

The last thing I want is to be stuck in a fucking group with her for an entire semester.

She thinks I’m ugly.

Thing is, I know I’m not friggin’ ugly. Plenty of women hit on me. She wasn’t the first—though hers was a jest—and she won’t be the last. And it’s not like I’m a choir boy. I’ve had plenty of fucks.

I guarantee you none of them were out of pity.

The point is, I don’t suffer from self-esteem issues, and the last thing I would have expected was for some naff of a girl to single me out at a party to make fun of me.

“Once you’re in your groups, turn to page four of your syllabus and go from there. Today will just be a warm-up and introductions, then we’ll begin coursework on Thursday.”

I flip to page four of the stapled leaflet and groan.

Introduce yourself.

Give a fun fact.

Major, city you call home, hobbies.

Bloody hell, what is this—a playdate? I have to be stuck in a class where we grab arse the entire time? When will we be doing actual work?

The teacher’s assistant is now pointing out spots around the room for the new groups to gather—ones go here, twos go there, and so on and so forth, until everyone is standing and collecting their things to shuffle about the lecture hall.

I stay put, rooted in my spot.

They want me to join their group, the fives can come to me.

I can tell who the fives are because the four of them that congregated in the spot where the TA put them are whispering and pointing my direction; clearly they recognize me, and clearly they’re having a debate about how to proceed.

The girl still hasn’t risen either; that would require her to squeeze past me to get down front, and she looks determined to avoid me.

Good.

Let her stay trapped there.

Below us, the fives seem to have reached a consensus and are once again gathering up their things, filing up the steps toward me one at a time.

Reluctantly, the girl at the front of the line says, “Are you a five?”

“Yeah.”

She glances over at the girl, Georgia. “Is she?”

I nod. “Pretty sure.”

If she has questions, she doesn’t ask them, instead plopping down in a seat next to mine, leaving one spot in between, the other three doing much of the same. The two blokes go to the row in front of me, sitting and twisting their bodies around to face me.

Georgia rises and shuffles over, dragging her feet.

Literally.

I can hear the soles of her sneakers scraping the hard concrete floor.

“Hi guys.”

Her hair is in a low ponytail today, large gold hoop earrings twinkling from each lobe.