Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

3

Summer

Liz gives me nothing to go off of other than his name, not even when I prod her for more. All she tells me is, “I know you have your thing, Summer.”—To which, I scoff.—“But I think you should keep an open mind.”

She says those exact words.

To me.

The one she seeks out for advice on guys. The one who answers all her bashful questions on kissing and sex and dildos and butt stuff. The one who rewarded her first walk of shame with a bagel and a trip to the campus clinic for the morning after pill. If it weren’t for me, then who else would hook her up with birth control? Who else would demonstrate how to put a condom on a banana? Who else would sneak articles on the female orgasm in her backpack when she’s not paying attention?

Really, the nerve of little sisters.

Also, if I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a thousand times. My thing is intelligence gathering. Reconnaissance. My due duty to eke out friend from foe.

Because I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I know everyone on this campus.

From all the sororities. All the frats. Professors and teaching assistants. Student athletes and student workers and student organization members. Counselours and academic advisors and the old biddies in administration and grizzled janitors. I know them all. By their names, faces. Quirky oddities and interesting tidbits. Highlights that make up who a person is.

I keep a thorough mental catalog.

It’s not that hard of an ability to hone. I mean, you try memorizing two-hundred-plus sorority sisters without taking away some capacity to compartmentalize.

Because, really, knowing who you’re dealing with before actually dealing with them…

You’d be surprised how quickly a skill like that becomes essential.

So the fact that I don’t know this Grayson Rowe character, and that my little sis tells me nothing about him, is more than a little irritating. I waste my entire Friday night searching for more information on him.

Only to find two things:

The first, a campus newspaper piece that briefly cites his name in association with the computer engineering department’s creation of a collaborative automated system. From which, I can infer: He’s a nerd. Like, a huge nerd. As in, he built-a-damn-robot nerd.

And the second, that same link to the library’s online tutoring schedule system. With no available openings.

But I’m not one to let a minor scheduling hiccup foil my plans. Which is why I redirect my approach. If I’m forced to seek out Grayson Rowe on his turf without my usual defense—knowing every single thing about him—I need to turn to a different set of tactics.

Meaning, I need to make a good first impression.

It’s a strategy I usually reserve for others. I’ll be the first to admit that, sometimes, my insider knowledge influences my assessment of people. That’s why I like to give at least one meeting. One first impression. One chance for someone to disprove my initial opinions.

Most often, they don’t.

I can’t afford to fail that test with Grayson Rowe. Whoever he is, I need him to have a good opinion of me. And the simplest way of doing that involves do-me shoes, sultry eyeshadow, and a dress that draws far too much attention to the swells of my breasts.

Am I hoping to get his help by appearing entirely too desperate?

Yes. But only because I’m entirely too desperate.

And, well, based on former interactions with library tutors (not to mention, my vast experience with men in general), I figure playing up my more generous attributes could go a long way in Grayson Rowe being generous to me.

Unfortunately, there was one thing I did not take into consideration when choosing such a seductive ensemble.

That it does absolutely nothing to seduce the clerk at the library’s front desk.

Ignoring the dour-eyed inspection she runs over my person, I slide a slip of paper across the laminate counter with one finger. “I need to see him.”

The clerk stares down her nose at the paper, reads the name on it, then frowns. “He’s not currently accepting tutees. We have several other tutors available, however, if you’re looking for help.”

“I don’t want another tutor,” I resist the urge to roll my eyes by tapping the name on the paper again. “I want this guy. Grayson Rowe.”

The clerk sniffs, eyeing my sundress again. I return her stare. Two can play at this game.

I take in her high-collared, shapeless brown dress. First impression? Criminally repressed. Trust me, I hate a stereotype as much as the next girl, but she looks like she could do some emotional damage with one harsh shush.

I’d love to give her the benefit of the doubt. Despite her poor fashion choices, her eyebrows are arched perfection and her posture is nothing short of textbook ergonomics. And I would die to find out how she gets her mahogany hair so sleek and shiny.

But I read someone by their details. By the content of their character and their actions. And hers, well…

Pamela Harper. Part-time library circulation clerk. Full-time graduate student. Once protested the sororities on Greek Row for propagating sexist traditions, while completely ignoring that Kappa Theta Omega hosts an annual wet t-shirt contest in their backyard. Let’s not even get into the hypocrisy of her women’s studies focus.

She takes in my tousled blonde curls, pauses for a third time at my low neckline, and clutches the top of her pea-soup cardigan like an exposed bosom might suddenly start catching. Because while I’ve given the courtesy of reading between her lines, she’s picked up my book, peered at its cover, and already judged it as inappropriate reading material.

“You really should have checked online to secure the tutor you needed,” is the only help she offers me.

Now I do roll my eyes because, um, duh.

I passed on two booty calls last night only to find out he’s unavailable. Whyelse would I be here? But such a response might cause her to faint, and I don’t have the time nor the smelling salts to revive an incapacitated clerk.

“It’s just for a couple of classes. Science and math. If there’s any time at all he could squeeze me in—”

“I’m sorry, his schedule’s full,” she taps on her computer screen. “If you’re looking for science help, however, Michael is a fantastic tutor and he has openings…”

I make a noise of disgust. Michael Callahan was the tutor I’d been given last year when I’d originally taken the classes. Microbiology major. Chess club member. A mouth-breather with a near-constant dependence on his inhaler due to rampant asthmatic allergies. During my first meeting with him, he’d made a comment about tutoring me for free if I introduced him to Nolan. Or let him jizz on my tits.

It was a first and last meeting.

Every other tutor I tried to replace him with had been varying degrees of the same. An accounting major obsessed with magical card games. Then, a molecular physics student with a germ phobia. I gave up after the computer science geek with “social anxiety” told me all studying must take place in his single-occupancy dorm room.

With slim pickings like that, is it any wonder, really, that I failed my classes?

I drum my fingers on the countertop. Think, Summer. Think.

“Listen, Pam,” I wave my hand quickly at the area behind the desk before she realizes she’s not wearing a name tag. There’s a door leading to a secret room only accessible by library employees. I imagine Pamela has Grayson tied up back there, forging the appointments on his calendar and thwarting any students in need of his superior tutoring abilities. “Is Grayson Rowe here? In the library?”

“Grayson is on staff today,” Pamela pouts. “If you want to leave your name and email, I can pass it along to him.”

I immediately turn her down. I thought about doing that during last night’s internet sleuthing. Just a quick, short message to his school inbox—Hey, Grayson Rowe, who the hell are you? Also, please tutor me.

But I knew to stop myself before hitting send. No way was I about to let a guy who built a robot see that Summer Prescott, daughter of a billionaire technological mogul, needs his help. Not before I could meet him in person, anyway.

Besides, I’m pretty sure Pamela will just toss my info in a trash bin the moment I leave. Nope. I don’t think so, Pam. I’m on to your nefarious ways.

“Can I at least speak with him?”

“He’s with another student right now.”

“Perfect, I’ll wait here ‘til he’s done.” I fold my hands politely on the counter. Showing I came here for a reason. And I’m not budging until I get what I want.

My pleasant, yet determined, smile makes her frown deeper. With one last annoyed look, she finally says, “I’ll go look for him.”

I thank her with my sorority voice, tone saccharine and totally fake. She disappears behind the employees-only door, and I lean against the counter.

The library lobby’s pretty quiet, the only students meandering about either the ones that work here or those picking up textbooks. Unless it’s for fulfilling philanthropy hours, I don’t come here often. I did spend a good chunk of last semester meeting with a staff writer for an article in the Lakewood Weekly on ABB’s spring fundraiser. Barring my interviews with Walsh, however, I don’t make it a point to visit this side of campus.

No wonder I didn’t have a clue to Grayson Rowe’s existence until now. If he’s building robots and tutoring co-eds and hanging out in the library…

I should have known, when Liz was being so squirrely about him, that it was because he’s exactly the kind of guy I avoid at all costs.

Still, I trust Liz. Even more, I trust the A-plus she got in O-chem. This guy must be the genuine article, then. Especially if his schedule’s filled and the new semester hasn’t even begun. It’s irksome that his unavailability only convinces me more that I need him.

I glance over my shoulder. Nothing from behind that employees-only door. With a sigh, I check my phone, only to find several texts from my sisters, all at the Gamma Lambda bbq. Katie questions where I am. Monica misses me. Zoe taunts me with a pic of an ice-cold beer. And Liz—oh thank the bonds of sisterhood for Liz—sends me a snap of a shirtless brother, holding a plate of burgers.

Ugh, how much longer until you set Grayson free, Pamela?

Impatience growing, I click a dating app to distract myself. If I have to miss day-drinking and sweaty beefcakes for this, I may as well make up for it with some afternoon delight. Sorting through my matches, I make hasty appraisals. That guy’s a dick. He’s too weird. Another dick. Too clingy. Dick. Dick. An actual dick.

I scroll back to that last one and tilt my head, considering it. It’s not the most unappealing dick pic I’ve seen.

A giggle snaps me out of it. Two people approach the circulation desk. A girl and a guy. I close out of the app. It’s for nothing, though. Probably neither would have noticed the phallic imagery on my screen, since they’re too busy smiling at each other.

“—interested in learning more about algorithmic bias, there’s this great series you have to watch on Netflix,” the guy says, adjusting his glasses.

The girl giggles again. “I don’t have a subscription.”

Oh. Oh, no. Please god, no.

Nothing discomfits me more than witnessing other people flirt. Because most other people are so bad at it.

A little light banter, some playful ribbing, a touch or two. What’s so complicated about all of that? It’s like people’s brains cease functioning in the wake of someone they find attractive. They build it up in their heads. Maximize all that anxiety and anticipation. Try so hard at locking down a potential bed partner that, inevitably, they crash and burn, when the surest way of reaching said goal is as easy as asking, Your place or mine?

Really. It’s that simple. Yet still, people treat it like the social equivalent of advanced rocket science. Making it that much more excruciating for someone who is actually good at flirting (case in point, me) to watch others fail so atrociously.

And nerd flirting?

It’s the worst.

Give me an actual freaking train wreck. But please, please, spare me the second-hand embarrassment that is two socially uncoordinated people, awkwardly bumbling their way into one another’s pants.

Knowing this will be painful to listen to, let alone watch, I keep my eyes on my phone. Distract myself with emails, turning my body away from them like I’m not a third-party spectator to what I’m sure is a humiliating disaster waiting to unfold.

You don’t see me. I’m not here. Carry on and don’t acknowledge my presence.

Too bad pretending to be invisible only works when you’re not wearing stripper heels and a dress that is one well-timed accident away from a nip slip.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy’s footsteps stutter when they near the check-out counter.

“Be right with you,” he says, and I know, without lifting my head, that he’s speaking to me.

I wave him off, gaze locked on a message from one of my sorority sisters asking to switch volunteer hours. “All set, thanks.”

The girl clears her throat, effectively dismissing me once more—Yes, thank you!—and the guy takes the small pile of books that she holds out to him. He replies, “I’m sure a friend can let you use theirs.”

Her face falls flat, but she doesn’t let it deter her. She follows him to the counter, where he rounds to the employee side of the desk. “My friends don’t really watch Netflix, either. Can you think of another way to see it?”

I know her, of course. Rochelle Anderson. An engineering student and a member of the academic sorority two houses down from Alpha Beta Beta. We’ve had mixers with them, and Rochelle was a member of a committee between our sororities for a joint Twister tournament charity drive. So I’ve seen her around Greek Row.

As for Nerd Boy Wonder over there…

In the mirror of my phone screen, my muddled frown stares back at me.

“There’s always the free trial.”

Ugh. I bite down on my bottom lip before I openly cringe. See what I mean? So. Painful.

Are those glasses for decoration purposes only? Does he even see the way Rochelle drapes herself over the counter? With that low-cut top? This shouldn’t be this difficult. From short encounters with her at frat parties, I’ve seen for myself just how easy Rochelle can be.

And I should know, I spare a brief glance at my own showy cleavage. Being someone who’s even easier.

“Well, where’s the fun in watching it alone?” Rochelle perks up, sure that that will get Nerd Boy’s attention once and for all.

It doesn’t.

Because he boots up another library staff computer, then off-handedly asks for her student ID. Once again, totally missing the open invitation in her words, her tone, and her body language.

Really.

Smart guys can be so dumb.

“Did you know,” he asks after a minute. “A worker bee lives for about seven weeks, and in that time, flies a distance equal to one and a half times Earth’s circumference?”

What?I think, at the same time Rochelle says aloud, “What?”

We ask the same question, but for two completely different reasons.

Because while her flirty smile drops and she stares at Nerd Boy in confusion, my gaze snaps to him with affronted displeasure.

He frowns at his computer screen before telling Rochelle, “You have a two-dollar late fine.”

I turn my head before he lifts his, tapping the toe of my heel on the floor.

It doesn’t involve you.

What are the odds, though, really? Of all things.

Bees.

“Do I have to pay now?” Rochelle asks.

Leave it alone, Sum—

“You’re wrong.”

They both turn, but my eyes are straight on his.

Chemistry, statistics, algorithmic bias—those things might leave me in the dark, but if there’s one subject near and dear to my heart, one I know everything about…

It’s bees.

“It’s the diameter,” I correct him, patting my hand on the counter. “Worker bees can fly distances equal to one-and-a-half times the Earth’s diameter.”

Now that I have their attention, there’s no backing out of this. I stand my ground, regarding Nerd Boy with a bold lift of my chin. A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows, as an unblinking stare behind black-rimmed glasses narrows in concentration. On me.

For a moment, I forget that, technically, I’m the interloper in a conversation that doesn’t concern me. All my determination to stay invisible shies away. Or, rather, with those eyes so clearly focused on me—well, it’d be impossible to remain unseen under their assessment.

Which is why I refuse to take my own gaze off them.

Finally, he gives one slight nod of his head. Conceding defeat. I roll my shoulders, my mouth spreading in triumph—

“Five bucks says you’re wrong.”

My pleased smile deflates as he leans a hip against the desk. Crossing his arms over his chest, he nods again, indicating the phone in my hand.

I’m met again with his stare. And I recognize what’s behind those glasses, that fraction of a nod. A certain poise that steps right up to confront my assured stance. Confidence, to rival my own. He stands on the other side of the desk, waiting on my next move. An undaunted challenger, looking for all the world so very…

Cocky.

My mouth lowers in a deeper frown. Now’s not the time to be thinking about cocks, Summer.

Without a word, I send him a snarky look and make a show of holding up my phone. Unlocking the screen. Typing into the web browser search bar.

“Um,” Rochelle says. “I actually have somewhere… to be. I’ll pick these up later.”

Neither of us respond, and right after she leaves, I find what I’m looking for. When I display the article to my opponent, he waves a hand. Granting me to proceed with proof of his error. Tapping my screen with a fingernail, I boast, “Says right here. ‘In a worker bee’s short, yet hardworking, lifespan, they travel as far as one-point-five times the Earth’s cir…”

I glare at him.

Nerd Boy unfolds his arms and grabs one of Rochelle’s discarded books, rapping its spine on the counter. That gaze reaches mine again. And his mouth unfurls into a grin that is wide and beaming and, and—

Downright smug.

To add insult to injury, the next words to leave that self-satisfied upturn of his lips are, “I am never wrong.”

I stuff my phone in my dress pocket, miffed at it failing me. Nerd Boy snorts, that stupidly arrogant look lording his win over me. Jeez, that’s annoying. I want to wipe it right off his stupid face.

So, I point in the direction Rochelle left. “You know she was trying to sleep with you, right?”

That grin falls. He stares where my finger points, mouth agape. Then, covering his shock, it flattens to a thin line, and he sweeps another look over me. Tense silence stretches between us as we size each other up. When he opens his mouth to speak again, I brace myself. For him to tell me off for blowing his chances of getting laid. To call me an idiot for not knowing what a circumference is.

“Did you know a bee’s favorite color is violet?”

Again: What?

Quickly following that reaction comes another grudging one: No.

And after even that: How do you know?

But with that dumb smug smile, there’s no way I’m giving him the satisfaction of such a response. Brushing a curl off my shoulder, I play it off like what he’s said is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. “Of course. They also have five eyes, fly twenty miles per hour, and produce up to one hundred pounds of honey a year.”

For good measure, I roll my eyes. Come on, don’t waste my time. What is this, Honeybees for Dummies?

But I settle my hands on the edge of the counter. Steadying myself as I rise on the tip of my toes. Waiting. Hooked on whatever he’ll say next.

He steps over slowly, leaning with his elbows on the desk counter across from me. The smug smile of a moment ago disappears, replaced with a smaller one as he turns over the book in his hands. He’s close enough now I can read the title as his fingers skirt along it. In-Depth Analysis of Greek Mythology and Traditions.

He catches me reading it, then sets it down. “Ancient Greeks offered honey to the gods because they thought it was similar to ambrosia, which granted immortality.”

“Makes sense, though. Honey does have all the necessary nutrients we need to live. Water, minerals, vitamins, enzymes…” I mimic his pose, leaning on the counter to reach over and run my fingers over the path his had traced on the book’s cover. “With health benefits like that, who wouldn’t believe it has some mystical properties?”

Awareness sparks behind those glasses. That small smile grows with open, boyish delight at my response.

And that sparks awareness in me. Something much less innocent than a smile. I shuffle in my heels, twining a curl around my finger in the hopes the slight tug will take my mind off the all-too-familiar twinge between my legs.

This is… unexpected. Blindsiding, really. If you asked me to rate the most appealing traits in a man, ‘glasses’ would be far, far, far down that list. ‘Combative’ would be right above it. No, when it comes to guys, I have a pretty clear and consistent type: Pretty faces. Big muscles. Smaller brains.

This guy, with his slight frame and contentious attitude and those hopeless glasses and that brazen smile—he shouldn’t be doing anything for me.

He ducks his head, hiding that smile from me to flip through the book’s pages. “Did you know in Ancient Greece, blonde hair was associated with prostitution?”

I blink, untangling my hand from my curls. My blonde curls.

Excuse me?

Pushing back from the desk, I cross my arms over my chest. “Are you calling me a slut?”

“What? No, I—”

“Did you know,” I sneer. “Guys who wear shirts with science puns are one hundred percent more likely to spend their whole lives jerking off their own dicks?”

His eyes dip down to his front, which, sure enough, displays a giant atom that claims I make up everything. “That’s not a fact. It needs provable evidence.”

“Oh, I’m looking at it.”

Gone is his smile, smug or otherwise. We’re back to our standoff, faces hard and uncompromising.

Before he can speak again, the door to the employees-only room opens. Pamela steps back out, then pauses.

Glancing between us, she says, “I see you’ve found—”

“Grayson Rowe,” I plainly state.

My eyes never leave his. The library clerk’s provided the final shred of evidence I’ve needed to confirm the thought in my head. A singular thread of a realization that’s been tying itself together for the past several minutes. Ever since Nerd Boy stepped behind the desk and the little voice in my mind— which knows everything about everyone—remained resolutely silent.

This is the elusive tutor I’ve never met. The one I don’t know anything about. The one I need.

And I essentially just demanded he go fuck himself.

“Grayson,” Pamela continues. “This young lady wanted to talk to you.”

He doesn’t react, but I see a flash behind those glasses. A glint of interest.

“About?” he asks.

“She needs help with some science courses.”

“Math,” I reluctantly add. “Math and science.”

Collecting the rest of Rochelle’s discarded texts, Grayson steps away from the desk. And again, that smug grin makes an appearance.

In an instant, I know. I know what he’s going to say.

“Sorry, schedule’s full.” He finally tears his gaze from me to squint at his computer screen. “Looks like Michael’s open, though.”

With that, Grayson Rowe takes his books and leaves me in the dust.

Pamela’s eyes dip to Grayson’s backside as he retreats into the holds shelves. I’d been joking about her rope-tying activities before, but now I’m almost positive there’s nothing more she’d rather do than follow him into the stacks.

I clear my throat, forcing her to acknowledge my presence. She asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

She looks all too cat-who-got-the-canary when I say no. Now that I’ve been completely dismissed, she returns to the back room. No doubt to work on her Fifty Shades of Grayson fanfiction.

As soon as she’s gone, I flatten my palms on the check-out counter. Hoist my butt onto it. Swing my legs over and plant my heels on the other side. Reflexively smoothing my dress, I stare down at my front. At the tiny purple flowers printed on the material.

Violets.

Did he… Did he just…?

No. He couldn’t. They’re too small. Just purple dots, really. There’s no way he noticed such a tiny detail.

With a curious frown, I dismiss that thought and stride to the row of bookshelves he disappeared down. I find him standing next to a cart of returns. When he reaches to shelve one book, the hem of that dumb shirt rides higher.

A brief flash of smooth skin almost trips me up.

Again, no way. I shake my head. A trick of the light. That’s what that was. Awful fluorescent lighting casting shadows where there shouldn’t be. Because how would a nerd like Grayson Rowe have such a well-defined cut of hip muscle?

I ignore that glimpse. Just like I ignore how much those lines happen to be my second favorite part of a guy’s body. Only because they form that oh-so-delicious vee that points to my most favorite part…

Focus!

Grayson keeps his eyes on the spine of a book as I make my way over to him. “Non-employees aren’t allowed back here. You should probably go before Pamela gets back, uh—” He glances over at me. “Who are you again?”

“I could ask the same,” I say under my breath.

“What?”

“Summer,” I introduce myself.

The book cart between us, I prop my elbows on a towering stack of thick texts and clasp my hands together. The gesture squeezes my arms to my sides. Just a little trick I’ve mastered over the years. It does wonders to my breasts.

He turns back to shelving.

“And I can’t leave, Rowe. Not until you agree to tutor me. I know your schedule’s…” I send a wry look to the objects on the cart. “Booked. But surely, we can come to an agreement.”

I squeeze my arms tighter. Push up the goods.

“Even if I wanted to—and I don’t—I can’t,” he skims Dewey decimals.

Full. Round. Plump. There for the staring.

He slides one book between two others.

Look at my damn tits, Grayson Rowe!

Hands empty, he faces me, eyes dropping to the cart.

Finally!

That wrinkle reappears between his eyebrows. With an irritated frown, he reaches forward…

And tugs out the topmost book from under my arms.

I jump back, eyes widening with frustration when he completely ignores me and returns to stocking the shelves.

First Rochelle, now me? I’m practically begging him to look. The guy’s an obvious nerd. Past wisdom has shown me they tend to salivate at the teensiest hint of boobage.

I mean, he’s not unattractive. Maybe a little plain. Not someone you notice on first glance. Not until the full force of that all-consuming gaze is on you, drawing you past those glasses and dazzling you with a cocky smile that sends the craziest tingles straight to your panties—

Oh, shit. I’m in uncharted territory here. It’s square peg, round hole. Fish out of water. Out of the frying pan, into the fucking fire.

I don’t know how to handle this. How to handle him.

If I knew one thing about him—just one thing at all—I’d know exactly what to do. What to say. How to wrap him around my finger.

But I know nothing except that he’s a nerd and apparently knows even more than me about—

He goes for another book on the cart. I grab it at the same time and hold on until he looks at me.

“Why bees?” I ask.

Grayson tugs at the book, but when I don’t let go, he huffs, “Rochelle was complaining about having to do something alone. And I thought, if bees can fly that long of a distance, in that short of a timespan, then she can surely watch a documentary by herself. If your intellectual advancement relies on others to be a part of it, then you’ll miss out on a world of knowledge you could gain on your own.”

When I let go of the book, he shoves it in its rightful place on the shelf.

“You do understand the concept of Netflix and chill, right?”

His arm suspends mid-air. Then, he rounds that annoyed look at me, but before he has a chance to respond, I continue, “Look, Rowe, learning things on your own—that’s all well and good for some. But subjects that come easy for one person can be harder for another. Sometimes, they struggle and need someone else to help make them understand simple concepts. Like the difference between—”

“Diameter and circumference?”

“Perfect, you get what I mean. So, you’ll help me?”

He shakes his head. But when he turns away from me to peer over his glasses at the bookshelves, he’s lost in thought. I give him time to think, deciding to play nice by putting the next book from the pile on a shelf. With a roll of his eyes, he waves my hand to the side, takes the book and places it in another spot two rows above.

“Look, I’ve hit my work hour limit. I can’t take on any more students right now.”

I pick up another book. “What’s the library’s policy of tutoring off the books?”

“Frowned upon.”

I tap the book’s dust jacket. “But if I were to, theoretically, offer to pay under the table for extra lessons…?”

Grayson takes the text from me. “Then—theoretically—I’d ask how much.”

“Double what the library’s paying you.”

Turning the book over in his hands, he’s quiet. I can practically see gears whirring in his head. “What subjects?” I tell him. “For those classes, and with my already limited time, I wouldn’t do it for less than a hundred dollars. Per lesson.”

He shoves the book on the shelf. Turns back to me. “Of course, that’s just all theoretical.”

Grayson crosses his arms over his chest, as though daring me to haggle with him. And honestly, I would have put on a show of arguing over prices.

Except when he folds his body like that, that punny shirt tightens at the shoulders. And this close, I can see that his arms, while deceptively lean on first inspection, are actually, really, kind of…

Toned.

Like, ridiculously toned.

I forget all about trying to hide the fact that that much money is chump change to me.

“Fine. A hundred bucks. You got it.” I hold out a hand.

Big mistake. Because the minute we shake on it, I notice even more absurd details. Like how warm Grayson’s palm is. How firmly his fingers wrap around mine. How, when he flexes his grip, the muscles in his wrist shift under the skin.

I meet his gaze. Brown eyes hidden behind a pair of lenses. The color of honey, light and warm and calm, and totally, consumingly, mesmerizing—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I don’t go silly over boys.

Especially not ones like Grayson Rowe.

Besides his arms, this guy is not my type. Not one bit. More than anything, I need the muscles in his brain, not his body. This is the start of a beautiful tutoring relationship.

Nothing else.

So, shoving aside all thoughts of what it might be like for Grayson Rowe to wrap those capable-looking arms around my waist, I drop his hand. “So, when can we start?”

We hash out details, determining a time that works for both of us on Monday. Our first lesson secured, I’m all set to leave.

So I don’t know why I stand there, lightly brushing my fingers over the books on the cart, looking for any excuse to stay.

It’s curiosity. That’s all. Just the simple fact that I know next to nothing about him and that I maybe, possibly, wouldn’t mind learning more.

But Grayson kneels to rearrange the texts on a bottom shelf, and I am completely forgotten.

Well, fine then. With a pout, I purposefully misplace yet another book, then turn on my heel to go.

“Summer?”

“What?” I’m embarrassed to admit that I turn back a little too eagerly.

There’s that grin. Sure and smug and shamelessly superior.

“You owe me five dollars.”