Page 2 of Wicked Mistletoe

My eyes skip to his shoulder, and I freeze. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Run? Faint? Spontaneously combust?

“At least you have a sense of humor to match that big brain you supposedly have,piccola,” he says.

Piccola? Did he just call me small? The audacity!

But before I can retort, he looks up at the cafeteria, his voice booming. “Listen up, unless you want to deal with me, you leave her the fuck alone.”

Wait, what?

I stand there, completely flabbergasted, as he strolls into the cafeteria with the confidence of someone who owns the place, flanked by his three friends who now eye me with newfound curiosity. In fact, it’s as if a spotlight has suddenly turned on me, making me the focal point of a million scrutinizing stares. The sensation is so crushing, it feels like my skin is crawling off my bones.

Nope. I’m not dealing with this.

So, caught in a wave of embarrassment, I do the only thing my panic-stricken brain can come up with: I duck my head and practically sprint out of there. Did he really just threaten everyone not to bully me? My heart pounds erratically as I stumble into an empty classroom and collapse into one of the seats.

Why would he do that?

Why would he do that?

Why would he do that?

The question bounces around my skull in tune with my knees as I study the desk, desperate for some distraction. It’s coveredin stupid little scribbles like ‘Mrs C has a huge rack’, ‘school sucks’, and ‘Scorpion was here’. I roll my eyes at the last one.

“Scorpion,” I mutter with a snort. What kind of pretentious douchebag calls themselves Scorpion? But my brain, the traitorous thing, bounces right back to the mesmerizing stranger in the cafeteria. The dark–haired god with eyes like molten silver. Shit, I’ve never seen anyone so devastatingly attractive, not even in those ridiculous teen dramas.

“Why did he do that?” I wonder out loud, and my stomach grumbles in response. Thanks, Captain Obvious. I get it, I missed lunch. I’m starving, but there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot back in that cafeteria. I hate when people look at me—hate the crawling burning sensation on my skin of eyes following me like I’m some sort of freak show attraction.

Nerves buzzing, I spring up from the seat and pace the room agitatedly as my stomach throws a full-on tantrum. Maybe I should go to the library, distract myself with a book or something. Yes, the library.Go to the library. It’s safe there. Quiet. No prying eyes. I nod to myself, psyching myself up before slipping out of the classroom and back into the now-empty hallway.

“Emilia Rossi?”

I freeze at the sound of my name. Slowly, I turn to see the principal, Mr. Logan, eyeing me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. My eyes widen in surprise. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

Duh, of course he knows it’s me. We literally met a few days ago when Dad brought me to enroll in classes.

“Can you come with me for a moment?” he asks, flashing what he probably thinks is a warm smile, but it gives me the heebie-jeebies instead. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? It’s only my first day here, and besides that minor drama at the cafeteria, I’ve been as low-key as possible. Invisible, even.

Mr. Logan doesn’t wait for my answer. He just turns and starts walking down the hall, expecting me to tag along. I do, though my legs feel like jelly.

“Is something wrong?” I manage to squeak out.

“Of course not.” He tosses a glance over his shoulder, brows arched as if daring me to spill some scandalous secret. “Unless you have something to confess?”

I shake my head mutely, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. We round the corner, and there it is—the door with “Principal Logan” etched in stern block letters. He swings it open, gesturing for me to enter first, and my pulse kicks up a notch.

“Have a seat,” he says, circling around to his imposing leather chair.

I perch on the edge of the visitor’s chair, acutely aware of how small I feel. My hands slip from my hoodie and fold neatly in my lap as I focus on a spot just past Mr. Logan’s ear, unable to meet his gaze directly. I’m trying not to fidget, but it’s a losing battle. The silence is making me squirm. Am I about to get the boot back to my old grade?

Mr. Logan takes his seat and gives me another one of those smiles. God, does he practice that in the mirror?

“Emilia,” he begins. “I’ve been looking through your records…”

Here we go.

“…and I have to say, I’m genuinely impressed. I’ve seen high school seniors struggle with AP chemistry, and you aced it at, what, fourteen?”

“Fifteen.” I correct automatically, even though I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

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