Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(11)

I have two choices. I can get up and move, which would show him how much he's irritating me, or I can sit here and do my best to ignore him.

"Please, just let me get this done. I have a ton of work, and if you pester me while I'm trying to do it, I'll . . ." I search for some sort of just punishment. "I'll poke you in the eye with my pen."

"If you can catch me," he says, not perturbed at all.

"Stop it!" I say with a laugh as I stab my earbuds back in my ears and turn my music on again. I can still see him in my peripheral vision, but that's the best I can do right now.

Rhett

I really did come to the library with the intention to work, and that's what I'm going to do. Annoying Freya is a bonus.

I figured that the fourth floor would be the most deserted. Then I saw her blond hair, and it was like fate.

She doesn't seem too happy that I'm here, but that doesn't bother me. I just camp out on the floor next to her and get to work. I wish I knew what she's listening to, but I don't want to risk her wrath and ask. I respect her need to study.

I pull out my textbook for childhood psychology and get reading. The only sounds in this remote corner of the library are the turning of pages and the click of Freya's fingers on her laptop keys. She's an incredibly fast typist, but I wouldn't expect anything less. I've only spent a week with her, but I know she's smart. I fucking love smart girls. I've never understood the appeal of a girl who can't string together a coherent sentence.

We work in silence for about two hours, and then she puts her arms over her head and stretches, her shoulders popping. I'm momentarily distracted from brushing up on Great Expectations for my English class.

She glares down at me, and our eyes meet as she takes her earbuds out.

"Can I help you?"

"Nope." She looks like she's going to put them back in but then leans over the table.

"What are you reading?"

I hold up my worn paperback.

"What class is that for?" All of a sudden she seems curious. Hell, I'll roll with it.

"Brit lit. My minor is English." I don't add that I've read this book before.

"Cool. What's your major?"

"Developmental psychology." I watch her face as I tell her, enjoying every second.

"Oh, wow," she says.

"Yeah. What did you think it was?" She's a little flustered.

"I don't know. I guess I just . . ." The hand holding her pen flails around a little.

"You assumed. It's okay; you're human." I shrug my shoulders, mark my place in my book, and close it.

"What about you?"

"Well, I wanted to do photojournalism, but they don't have that here, so I'm double majoring. Photography and journalism." Well, shit. I'm getting seriously turned on by all this academic talk. "I like to write, and I love taking pictures. So it seemed like the best option to do both."



       
         
       
        

"That's impressive. But why did you come here if they didn't have the major you wanted?" It doesn't seem like a loaded question to me, but she instantly pales and looks away. Oh. I've touched on something she'd rather not talk about. Interesting. I file that away for future reference.

"I transferred here from somewhere else," she says, so quietly that I almost don't hear her. The hum of the air conditioners and the buzz of the lights overwhelm her voice.

"Where?" I ask, knowing she's probably not going to answer me.

"Doesn't matter," she says, pressing her lips together and staring at her laptop as if she's trying to set it on fire with her mind.

"Sure," I say, and an uncomfortable silence sits between us. "Hey, do you want to grab some coffee or something?" I'm starving, but I don't want to push my luck with her. I expect her to tell me to go to hell, but she just nods.

"Okay."

* * *

I almost offer to carry her books but think better of it. We walk down to the small coffee shop next to the library.

"What can I get you? My treat." She's been deflated ever since I asked about why she came to MSU.

"Um, a skim caramel macchiato. No, wait. A large vanilla latte with an extra shot and whipped cream." Okay, then. She sits down at a table for two as I order the coffees. Figuring she's also hungry, and knowing I am, I get two croissants as well.

When I come back with the drinks, she's messing with her fingernails. She keeps them short so she doesn't gouge anyone's eyes out during cheer, but they're always painted different bright colors. She must do them every day or so.

"Here you go," I say, handing her the coffee and croissant.