Page 5 of Frozen Hearts
I yank my arm out of his grip and step back, taking in the rest of his appearance—leather jacket and black skinny jeans that hug muscular thighs, tucked into matching black boots that give him a dark, biker vibe—before dropping my gaze to the ground. That’s when I notice the notebook, which he must have dropped, lying open on the pavement.
To avoid looking at his angry face, I bend down to lift it, pausing when my eyes catch on the intricate drawing of the main Halston building. Despite being nothing more than a sketch, it’s so life-like looking that I can’t help but stare.
“It’s rude to look through other people’s things,” the asshole snarls, ripping the notebook from my hand.
“Sorry,” I mutter, not that he hears me as he levels me with a final glare before storming off.
Jeez. What a fucking douchebag!
“It was an accident,” I snap under my breath, frowning in his direction before turning my back on him.
Why do the hot ones always have to be assholes? And right when I thought perhaps he was going to be different from everyone else.
* * *
Statistics 101 is my last class before the weekend. My first week at Halston has been relatively uneventful. The course load is intense, and the standards expected are high, but that’s nothing I hadn’t already foreseen. With the exception of unimpressed glances and whispering behind hands, I’ve been mostly ignored by the student population, which again is as predicted. And suits me perfectly fine. I’m used to being alone and didn’t expect to make friends here.
Maybe if my life had worked out differently, I’d have fretted over fitting in and forming a solid group of friends, but that naive little girl is long dead and buried, and in her place is someone who doesn’t give a damn what others think. Someone who recognizes that some things are far more important than having a friendship group and being accepted by superficial, rich brats.
Like security.
Safety.
Breathing.
I pull my laptop, notepad, and pens from my bag, prepared to take notes on today's lecture as the other students settle into their seats around me. Right before the professor is about to begin, the classroom door swings open, and the room erupts into hushed whispers as a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man with messy blond hair and a cheeky grin steps confidently into the room.
He gives a slight nod to the lecturer, who ignores his tardiness as he waves him toward the tiered pews. Chestnut brown eyes scan the rows of seats, spotting the only empty one—right beside mine. He makes a beeline for it, deftly squeezing behind the other occupants in my row as he works his way down.
Eyes follow his journey with rapt fascination. Girls smile coyly and reach out to touch him as he passes, while guys nod or hold their fists up for him to bump. Whoever he is, he’s clearly popular.
Dropping into the chair beside mine with a sigh, he leans over to grab his things from his bag. The move offers me the opportunity to check him out without him noticing. The thick cords of his biceps flex, and I can practically see the ropes of muscles around his shoulder, chest, and back through his top.
An athlete.
There’s no way someone like him looks like that and isn’t on some sort of sports team.
He doesn’t spare me a glance as he sets his things on the desk, his dirty-blond locks falling forward and obstructing my view of his face, and I rip my gaze away from him as the professor calls the class to attention.
Professor Caldwell has barely introduced himself when the bitchy blonde from Monday’s orientation tour leans into the hottie’s other side and begins whispering in his ear. I roll my eyes but bite my tongue and keep my focus on the professor as he goes over the syllabus for the semester.
It’s immediately apparent that this guy is a hard ass, and the class is going to be one of my tougher ones. Professor Caldwell makes it clear that he doesn’t suffer fools and won’t tolerate students who neglect their studies, and I make a mental note to ensure I don’t fall behind.
“I would advise you all to get a head start on next week's reading,” he calls out an hour later. “There will be regular class tests to ensure all of you are keeping up with the course load, and if your results are repeatedly subpar, you will find your place in my class in jeopardy.”
Once I’ve jotted down a reminder to read the chapter on introductory statistical methods ahead of next week's class, I slam closed my textbook, glaring at the hottie beside me. He’s oblivious, of course. As he has been all class while he flirted it up with blondie. The two of them whispered and giggled non-stop, their heads so close, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were actually making out at one point. Her hands were all over him, stroking his arm and sliding across his thigh. There was a moment halfway through when I started to panic, thinking she might give him a hand job right then and there in the middle of class.
Not only were their antics annoying, but her high-pitched giggles made it impossible to hear and I kept missing what the professor was saying.
Those two might not have any concerns about flunking out of this class, but I sure as hell do. I can clearly picture the look on my advisor’s face if I fail my first test of the year.
Gritting my teeth, I barge past the two of them—still oblivious to everyone around them as they flirt openly in the middle of the aisle—and stomp down the stairs toward the exit.
Unlikesome people, I have places to be.
Leaving campus, I make the fifteen-minute walk to my apartment. Halston is an elite college town that is centered around the university, however, if you head toward the outskirts of town, that elite vibe gives way to a shabbier feel.
My apartment is situated amongst the living quarters for the working people of this small town. The ones responsible for the day-to-day running of the university and who work in the surrounding shops, bars, cafes, clubs, and restaurants.
