Page 11 of Frozen Hearts
“Okay, fine,” he admits in defeat. “You caught me. I had ulterior motives for wanting you to sit beside me.”
My body stiffens as I once again flick my shuttered gaze his way.
“I need your help,” he mutters, face scrunched as though the confession cost him.
How the hell couldIhelp someone like him?
He stares at me expectantly before cocking a brow. What? Does he think I have telepathy? I can’t read his damn mind!
Appearing frustrated, he sighs. “Haven’t you wondered why a senior is taking a freshman class?”
I had, actually. When I first learned who he was—and more specifically, that he was a senior—I questioned why he was in a freshman Stats class. However, I am not intrigued enough to go out of my way to find the answer… or to encourage whatever this is.
Masking my curiosity, I lean in as though I’m about to share a scandalizing secret and whisper, “This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t actually think about you all that often.”
Instead of the frown I was expecting at my admission, his face breaks out in a smile. The most breathtaking one I’ve ever seen. It’s blinding. Dazzling. Literally wipes all rational thought from my mind.
“So what you’re saying is you think about mesometimes.” My eyes widen, and he chuckles at my horrified expression. “What I want to know iswhendo you think about me, Shortcake? ‘Cause if it’s when I’m hoping, then perhaps the two of us should hang out and think about each othertogether.”
His cocky smirk is positively devious, and I hate how my body heats at the idea of his offer. My fingers quiver slightly with anticipation and I have to curl them into my hand to hide my reaction. Is this how other girls feel beneath Logan’s attention?
So… blindsided. Intoxicated. Swept away.
I have to physically snap myself out of my daze as I tear my gaze from his. This isn’t some romantic comedy, and Logan isn’t a sweet kid searching for some great love. He’s a sweet-talker—a player. Allowing myself to be taken in by him would be foolish. Irresponsible. Especially when there is so much riding on my success at Halston.
Wrangling myself under control, I scowl at him. My voice comes out low but harsh. “Ifthat’swhat you need my help with, then you may look elsewhere. I’m sure someone from your fan club would gladly help you out.”
He barks out a laugh, loud enough to draw the eyes of half the class, and I snap my head toward the front of the classroom, ignoring the heat in my cheeks as Professor Caldwell glares in our direction.Great, as if being late to class wasn’t bad enough, now I’m definitely going to be in Professor Caldwell’s bad books.
“No doubt, I could easily find someone tohelp me out, but that’s not the sort of help I need.” He leans in, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. The scent reminds me of a sharp winter breeze, and I involuntarily breathe in deeper until it fills my lungs. His scent wraps around me like a gentle caress, revitalizing my senses. I feel as though I just stepped outside into a whipping gale. Alert. Awake. Adrenalized. It’s pure. Invigorating. And it completely catches me by surprise. “The help I need, only you can provide.”
I blink at him. His words slowly process through the fog that has taken residence in my brain at his mere proximity.
His words finally resonate, and my entire body melts.
Fuck, why does that sound so sexual?Heat gathers low in my belly and I have to resist the urge to clench my thighs.
He’s not talking about sex,I mentally chastise myself.And even if he was, you would not be taking him up on that offer.I’m not here to get distracted by hot hockey gods that look like Logan Astor, and I just have to look at him to know one night with him would ruin me.
Hell to the motherfucking no.
No distractions. There’s too much on the line.
I glare daggers at him, sharp enough to penetrate skin, and his teasing expression melts away as he drops his gaze from mine, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. It’s an interesting look on him… seeing this confident sex symbol appear bashful, nervous even.
“I failed this class the first time around,” he mumbles, refusing to meet my gaze. “Me and math… we don’t gel. Anyway, I put off retaking it for too long—if I don’t pass it this time, I won’t be allowed to graduate, and well… I’m already flunking.”
I swallow hard before asking skeptically, “Why do you think I can help you?”
“Because you’re top of the class.”
“How do you—”
He interjects smugly, “I sweet-talked the professor into telling me.”
Of course, he did. And because he’s a real-life god come to grace us mere mortals with his presence, the professor just handed over that confidential piece of information.
He must see the refusal on my lips because before I can put it into words, he cuts across, “Please don’t make me beg. ‘Cause I will. I’ll get down on my knees right here in the middle of class and beg you to help me.”
