Page 91 of Good Graces

My head jerks up.

“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath.

Lang turns toward me, expecting our usual post-class debrief.

“Sorry, I need to catch one of my lit seminar professors,” I say, voice rushed but steady. “There was a mix-up with a deadline, and she said she could talk if I caught her after class.”

Lang raises a brow but nods. “Go ahead. We can touch base tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say, already halfway out the door.

Warren’s almost at the end of the hall, moving like he’s got blinders on.

“Warren!” I whisper-shout, weaving through the slow walkers.

He doesn’t slow.

“Warren, wait!”

He stops just before the exit, one hand braced against the door like he’s still debating whether or not to keep going. His head turns just enough for me to catch the sharp angle of his jaw.

“What is it, Quinn?”

I frown. “Why are you running from me?”

He lets out a humorless snort. “I’m busy. Places to be.”

“You’re . . . busy?”

It takes a beat, but then it clicks. The clipped tone, the look on his face.

That’s my line.

“You’re mad at me because I said I was busy yesterday?”

“Not mad.”

“Warren.”

He turns fully, his face hard. “I mean, what was that? An auto-response? Seriously? After Saturday, that’s all I get?”

“So, we slept together,” I say, folding my arms tight across my chest, “and I’m just supposed to drop everything the second you text me?”

He shakes his head, incredulous. “That’s not what I want. I just . . . I wanted to see you.” His voice drops on the last part, like saying it out loud costs him something. “And I’m not gonna be treated like an afterthought.”

“I wanted to see you, too,” I say quietly. “But I was busy.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at me like he’s still trying to decide if he believes me.

“I was at the boxing gym,” I tell him. “The new one by my apartment. I knew it would be empty because of the game, so I wanted to take advantage of it. I was gonna stay for a while, then go home and work on my assignments.”

His eyebrows draw together. “You’re boxing now?”

“Yeah,” I say, and when he just stares at me, I add, “I’ve been going a few times a week. There’s this trainer—or almost trainer, whatever—who’s been helping me out.”

“You’ve got a trainer?”

“Kind of. He’s not official or anything, but he knows his stuff.”

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