Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
The last thing I want is Ms. Pettijohn thinking I’m not serious about a career in education. She wrote several glowing recommendations to include with my college applications, and I’ll need more for the scholarships I plan to apply for in the spring.
Indecision spirals through me. “Forget I said anything,” I mumble. “It won’t be a problem.”
She raises a brow. “Are you certain?”
Nope.
I nod, realizing there’s no other option.
She swivels in her chair. The moment I’m released from her penetrating stare, my body wilts.
She gathers up a stack of papers before thumbing through them and then passing the pile to me. “I’ve taken the liberty of collecting Mr. Hawthorne’s work from his other instructors. Your job will be to go over each assignment in detail and help with a couple of problems should they arise. If there are concepts he’s unable to grasp after a thorough explanation, he should email the specific teacher for more direction.”
I take the books and paperwork, clutching the stack to my chest as if it has the power to protect me. “All right.”
When I stand rooted in place, she clears her throat and glances at her wristwatch before tapping the small face. “You should probably get moving. There’s no need to check out at the office. I’ve cleared you to leave after fifth hour for the next three afternoons.”
“Okay.”
With no other recourse, I head to my locker.
Each step feels like I’m walking to certain death.
If there’s one thing I know, Austin Hawthorne will be even less thrilled to see me on his doorstep than I am to be there.
DELILAH
Ipark Mom’s old Civic on the weathered brick driveway and stare up at the two-story monstrosity that looms before me. After a second or two of silence, I twist the key and kill the engine. A pit the size of Texas has taken up residence at the bottom of my belly, and nothing I do helps to dislodge it.
My fingers twitch to restart the vehicle and speed from the driveway. After everything that happened, I can’t imagine what it’ll be like to come face to face with the tall football player. There’s no erasing the hostility that had shined brightly in his eyes from my memory. That image has me inhaling a deep breath before forcing it out again. It does nothing to calm the nerves that are currently eating me alive.
Left with no other choice, I swipe the books and paperwork from the passenger seat and open the door before stepping onto the brick drive. The portico is just as impressive as the rest of the sprawling stone residence. Once at the front door, I glance through one of the glass side panels and peek inside. A few seconds tick by without movement.
Maybe Austin isn’t home.
Everything inside me tentatively lifts at the possibility.
I glance toward the driveway again and realize my vehicle is the only one parked there. My hand trembles as I reach out and press the bell. The sound echoes throughout the cavernous first floor. If anyone is home, there’s no way they didn’t hear that.
A fresh burst of anxiety explodes inside me as I tap my foot against the concrete.
One second slowly slips by.
Then another.
Hope rises within me like a soaring phoenix.
When a full minute ticks by and there’s still no answer, I consider swinging around and hightailing it from the premises. I can return to school and tell Ms. Pettijohn that I tried. It’s tempting to whip out my phone and snap a pic just to prove that I’m not a liar. After the way she stared at me fifteen minutes ago, I’ll probably need it.
Instead of giving in to the urge to run, I stab the button for a second time before peeking through the beveled glass panel.
It’s official. Austin’s not here.
A tidal wave of relief crashes over me, nearly bringing me to my knees.
Just as I turn away, ready to scamper back to my car, the door swings open. My spine stiffens as I grind to a reluctant halt and throw a glance over my shoulder. What I find is enough to stop my heart mid beat.
Austin stands in the entryway with athletic shorts that are slung low around lean hips and nothing else. Not even shoes or socks. A bead of sweat mars his brow. My guess is that he’s in the middle of a workout.
By the time my gaze lifts to his, a scowl has taken up residence on his face. That’s the moment I realize I’ve been standing on the porch, silently gawking. Heat stings my cheeks.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he barks.
My mouth turns bone dry as I squirm beneath the harsh intensity of his stare. I’m not used to him looking at me with such a potent concoction of rage and resentment.
It takes effort to clear my throat and summon my voice. “Ms. Pettijohn arranged for me to tutor you during sixth hour while you’re suspended.” He continues to glare, crossing thickly corded arms against his bare chest. The movement makes the muscles of his biceps bulge with a roadmap of veins that stand out in sharp relief.