He plops his pack on the ground, and a stripe of something blue tumbles out the open flap. I lower my gaze to a messy writing pad littered with haphazard papers shoved inside, the name Austin spelled out in bold black writing on the cover.
Austin. A derivative form of Augustine, yet the boy before me bears no resemblance to the great saint and man of faith. If anything, he resembles one of Lucifer’s tempting, sinful brethren with his disheveled raven hair and mischievous, beguiling eyes.
Austin folds his long legs under the desk and leans back to slide his hand into the pocket of his dark jeans. He withdraws a pair of earbuds, much like the ones Cat brought during her time-travel stay, and soon the faint sound of music floats in the air.
Our instructor calls out, “That was quite the entrance, Mister….” She pauses and stares at the boy beside me.
“Michaels.”
She consults a paper on her desk and nods. “Oh, yes, Mr. Michaels,” she says, not sounding at all impressed—or surprised. “Well, I’m Miss Edwards. Maybe the next time you join our class, you can add prerecorded fanfare to spice things up.” Austin lifts two fingers to his forehead in a mock-salute, and she sighs. “Now, back to American government…”
She turns to the large whiteboard behind her and begins writing. Austin places the buds in his ears, bobbing his head to the beat, completely ignoring her…and me. I slump farther down into my seat.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I do not want attention from someone who feels the need to be so disruptive, regardless of how beautiful he is—but I don’t believe myself. Pushing thoughts of my rude neighbor away, I try to focus on foreign words like electoral college and congressional district, anything other than the frustratingly rude boy beside me, but my gaze keeps flitting back. His bouncing knee rattles the desk, dragging the metal feet along the hard tile, and the pen in his hand taps rhythmically to the music seeping from his ears.
How can anyone concentrate with such boorish behavior around?
Indignation on behalf of my instructor—and all right, perhaps a bit over my bruised pride for failing to elicit even a neighborly smile—churns inside me. A mixture of heat and odd tingles flows up and down my arms and legs, and I clench my hands into fists.
Tap, tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap, tap-tap.
The skin on my scalp itches and I shove a section of hair behind my ear. A girl in front of him turns, and a grin stretches across my face. Good, she is annoyed, too. She’ll tell him to be quiet, give a scathing remark like Cat is always able to deliver, and he will be thoroughly chastened.
Righteous triumph builds in my chest as I lean closer to hear.
She bites her lower lip and rolls her eyes—but not in a mean way. She does it playfully, with a smile, as though Austin is an adorable pup or childish imp. Austin lifts his chin, tossing the girl an impudent wink and saucy grin.
And that is when I snap.
Before my movement registers in my brain, my hand is across the aisle, snatching his pen from his tight grip and flinging it across the room. My elbow accidently hits the book on his desk and sends it clattering, loudly, to the ground.
Now I have his attention.
Austin finally turns to me, treating me to the slow once-over he just gave the girl in front of him. She turns, too, curling her lip as if she has discovered something disgusting on the bottom of her shoe. My skin burns under their joint scrutiny.
“Problem, Princess?”
I jerk my head back, eyes wide. Not so much at Austin’s words, though I can tell he does not mean the term affectionately, but the way he delivers them—scornfully, tauntingly.
“Me?” I squeak in protest. On some level, I realize the room is strangely quiet, but I have yet to gather why. My faculties are wholly consumed with the infuriating individual before me. “I’m not the one causing the problem!”
My voice echoes off the tile below our feet. Austin lifts a dark brow…and suddenly, I realize that I am.
Panic sears my cheeks as I look around and notice all prior conversation, even the young instructor’s lecture, has halted.
The girl in front of Austin purses her lips in a cruel sort of grin, and I see the instructor watching me, waves of disappointment pouring off her. Every eye in the room is turned in our direction, which for some reason ultimately prompts Austin to give me my coveted grin.
My mouth goes dry.
I have never—never—held myself with anything other than complete decorum, public or otherwise, yet spending less than five minutes in Austin Michaels’s presence has led to complete and utter depravity.
“I-I’m s-so very—” I begin, only to feel Austin’s warm hand close around mine.
“My fault, Miss E. Pen slipped.” He looks to the floor and grins. “Book, too.”
Miss E’s dark brow hitches heavenward as she studies us. After what feels like an eternity she says, “While I have no doubt that you somehow share the blame, Mr. Michaels, I will still need to see the both of you after class.”
All I can do is nod, my cheeks and neck burning in humiliation. The fight, my anger, and all perplexing bodily reactions have left me. In their place remains nothing but a surreal feeling of disbelief. Miss Edwards sighs, and the class continues.
“That’s some sexy accent you have there,” Austin says in a hushed voice—but not that hushed. A few people around us snicker at my evident discomfort, which of course only serves to spur him on more. “Italian, right? Mmm. Say something else—how do you say blush in Italian?”
When I ignore him, he says, “You sure do have that rosy glow going on. Normally I have to work harder to inspire something like that. Like what you see, Princess?”
“D-don’t call me that,” I stammer, blushing all the more from his brazen question. “And I do not blush.”
That earns me my wink. “Sure you don’t.”
Austin looks to the front of the room, and I follow his gaze. The teacher has her back turned, drawing what appears to be a map of sorts on the whiteboard. My eyes flick to the large clock mounted on the wall. Class is nearly over, and I have managed to follow exactly nothing of the lecture.
Alas, my experience thus far as a modern-day student has not been exemplary.
Though I do not wish Austin to know the effect he has on me, I cannot keep my eyes from snapping back. And when I do, I find him practically in my seat. His long torso is stretched across the aisle, and his face is ever so close. Warm breath fans across my cheeks, and I catch the scent of mint. Soulful blue eyes drill into mine as he dares to touch a lock of my hair, twisting it around one long, tanned finger. My heart pounds at his blatant familiarity.
This must be what rage feels like.
Under his breath, Austin says, “It’s too bad that wasn’t a blush. I thought it was kinda hot.”
A shocked puff of air and saucer-like eyes are my only response—having learned from Cat’s list of words the double meaning of the word hot—and the left side of Austin’s mouth lifts in a smile of victory. He settles back in his own seat and reinserts his earbuds. The pen tapping begins again, only this time louder and with more force.
I raise my chin and stare straight ahead, vowing to keep my eyes from straying to the ill-mannered jerk beside me for the rest of class. I count the seconds in time with his taps.