Muffled laughter ripples through the classroom.
McKenzie’s face cycles through about seventeen shades of red, each one more satisfying than the last. Her perfectly manicured hands clench into fists on her desk.
And that’s when the guy she was fawning over clears his throat.
“Both perspectives have merit,” he says, and his voice is—fuck—his voice is this low, grumbly thing that willprobably sound great in a courtroom or a boardroom… or a bedroom, my devilish little mind thinks with a swoop low in my tummy. “We could argue that Isabella’s agency is constrained by the social structures of the time, while also acknowledging that she has more choices than someone in Heathcliff’s position. The question becomes whether Brontë is critiquing individual choices or systemic inequalities.”
I turn those words over in my head, biting my bottom lip.
It’s a well-reasoned answer, I guess. The kind of thing that makes teachers weak in the knees because it sounds smart without actually taking a position so that everybody can feel good about themselves.
It’s also the most chickenshit response I’ve ever heard.
“How diplomatic of you,” I say, and I can hear the challenge in my own voice. “Very...safe.”
His head turns.
Our eyes meet.
And holyshit. I lose my breath.
Up close, those blue eyes are devastating. Sharp. Intelligent. The kind of eyes that see too much and reveal nothing. There’s something careful in the way he looks at me—like he’s doing calculations, running scenarios, figuring out if I’m a threat.
But damn. How long has it been since a guy looking at me made my breath hitch? Has iteverhappened? Sure, I hook up with guys sometimes, but that’s just—meaningless. A thing to pass the time. A way to scratch an itch.
“I preferthorough,” Sexy Boy Scout says, voice level. Controlled.
“Right.” I struggle not to laugh at this carefully restrained boy. Is it wrong that all I want to do is ruffle those perfect little feathers?
I lean forward slightly and watch his body angle toward me in response. Unconsciously. Automatic. His eyes flick down to my collarbone—to the gap where I left too many buttons undone—then back up to my face.
Interesting.
“But sometimes thethoroughanswer is just the coward’s way of not taking a side.” I let that land, let it sink in. Let him feel it. “Maybe some situations don’t need diplomacy. Maybe sometimes the system is wrong, and pointing that out doesn’t require a seventeen-point analysis to make it palatable for people who benefit from keeping things exactly the way they are.”
The classroom goes dead silent.
Someone in the front row actually lets out a little gasp. What, do people not question Sexy Boy Scout often?
His jaw tightens. Just a fraction. But I see it. And I want to bite the little vein that pops out along his neck.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, even though we both know exactly what it means.
I shrug but don’t break eye contact. “Just that maybe you’re more interested in sounding smart than actuallybeingright. There’s a difference.”
Something flickers in his expression. Anger? Frustration?Arousal?
Fuck, I hope it’s arousal.
Because I’m definitely feeling something, and it’s not just the satisfaction of winning an argument. Maybe I could have a little fun before splitting town and figuring out a way to go back and get hitched to Z.
Fuck, I’m such a slut. I readjust my crossed legs, thighs squeezing together unintentionally.
Ms. Robertson clears her throat, probably sensing that this is about to turn into a cage match if she doesn’t step in. “This is exactly the kind of critical thinking Brontë was hoping to inspire. The tension between individual agency and social constraint is?—”
But I’m not listening anymore.
I’m watchinghim. Watching the way his knuckles go white where they grip his pen. The way a muscle jumps in his jaw. The way he’s staring at me like I just punched him in the throat and he can’t decide if he’s furious or impressed.