Page 7 of The Good Girl

“I... I did.” How did he remember that?

Tristan arches a brow at me, and I want nothing more than to shave the thing off. Smug bastard. “You were awful at it, so why are you trying to learn again?”

I exhale, trying to control my temper. “Fuck you, Tristan.”

His hand drops back down onto my hip as he pulls me closer to him, so that my body is flush with his. “If you want to…”

“What?” I reply, trying to even out my voice, but I know my breathing is heavier. I can feel it in the way my chest tightens every time he touches me, which he is doing right now.

“Fuck me.” He shrugs, as if he was offering to lend me a pen. “I’m always here if you want to.”

I give a small laugh. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t even like you.”

The bitter tone in my voice reverberates between the books surrounding us as he just keeps smiling. Grinning. Smirking. Arrogant. His lips are so close to mine, almost brushing against them. “You don’t have to like me, hate works just as well.”

I make a noise of disgust, even though it’s not as genuine as I’d like. “Get away from me, Tristan.”

“Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, but he doesn’t move.

I can feel my cheeks getting hotter and my skin becoming clammy as I feel every movement he makes. Every twitch. Every adjustment, no matter how small in his stance. With him being this close, there’s no way to avoid it. My head hurts as I feel like I’m overheating.

Using the book, I shove it into his chest and create some space between us finally. Rolling my eyes, I give him another push, stepping forward, claiming back more precious inches. “Honestly? No, to make me feel uncomfortable would mean that I give a shit about you, when I don’t. You stink of weed, and it’s making me feel sick.”

He grabs his sweater and gives it a sniff. “I didn’t smoke today just for you.”

I stop. “For me?”

“I know you can’t stand it.” The soft look he gives me reminds me of when we were children, when he was trying to be my friend. It was the same one he gave whenever he would offer me an out if one of Atlas’ bets were bordering on the insane. Or when Tabitha would steal my book to demand my attention and he’d distract her. It was a caring look, and I don’t want his care or concern.

“Why would you…” My head spins a little, and I step away, until my back hits the shelves, sending a jolt through my body.

He grabs my arm to steady me. “Are you okay?”

I try to shrug him off, but he has a firm grip on me. “Yeah, I’m just a little lightheaded.”

“C’mon, we should go to the nurse’s office.” He grabs my chin and tilts my face up towards his as he examines me. His breath tickles my skin, the smell of weed fading as I pick up hints of sandalwood and something almost like...paint.

“No, I’m fine,” I hiss, shaking myself free of his touch.

He tuts. “You don’t look fine, you look tired.”

I don’t know if it’s the heat, the fact I am starving, or because I’m wedged between two bookshelves with someone I hate, but I snap. “Some of us have to actually try to succeed, Tristan. We aren’t all geniuses.”

Tilting his head, he gives me a sharp look. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve seen your GPA, and for a slacker, you seem to score pretty high.” I jab my finger into his shoulder between each word, I bet his little stoner crew didn’t realize that he was on track for an Ivy League school. Not that he needed it, daddy had enough money in the bank and several businesses. Tristan Radcliffe could do whatever he wanted with his life. And me? I’d be nothing. A trophy wife.

“Yeah, well, Princess, it’s all about balance.” He holds up his hand to stop my accusing finger, moving so that our hands are suddenly intertwined. If anyone came now, they would think we were sharing some sort of intimate moment in the stacks. “Besides, I have a wife to support.”

I yank my hand away as if he’s burned me. “I am not your wife.”

“Yet.” He snatches the book back off me and grabs my bag from the floor before claiming my hand again. “Don’t fight me, either I carry you to the nurse's office or you take a break with me. You have a study period next, right?”

He tries to pull me towards the exit, but my feet remain planted on the ground. “Are you stalking me now?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that statement,” he teases as he starts to pull me again. This time I go, I’m too tired to fight with him right now, and I feel nauseous.

“For Christ’s sake, what is wrong with you?” Why was he torturing me like this? I still had a few months until graduation. I still had time. What was he up to?

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