And I’m late for my tutoring session with Lane within the Brainy Bean.

My legs carry me throughout campus with lengthy, agitated strides, my satchel banging in opposition to my hip. Throughout me, college students solar themselves within the watery spring sunshine. They haven’t any troubles on this cool Thursday.

The sky is calm: not a cloud or a single gust of wind. There’s no signal at the entire storm that raged over the weekend—nothingexcept for the damaged branches nonetheless strewn throughout campus, dropped on grassy verges and swept in opposition to partitions.

That, and the reminiscence of lightning flashing exterior Lane’s open window, strobing her naked physique with gentle. The rattle of rain in opposition to her windowpane; the scent of moist cement and sea brine. The way in which her moans mingled with thunder.

Fuck.

A pigeon hops out of my approach, cooing, and I shake my head and stroll sooner. There’s no use daydreaming about my silly errors now. I must get to the Brainy Bean earlier than Lane thinks I blew her off.

Fifteen minutes late. I’mneverlate, and I’ve no excuse at the moment besides that I used to be wrestling with myself endlessly, debating about whether or not it was extra honorable to remain away or flip up. I nonetheless haven’t determined, however ultimately I couldn’t bear the considered Lane sitting there, alone. Ready.

“Shit.” My coronary heart drums in my chest, however not due to the race throughout campus. No, my coronary heart’s been working extra time because the first day I met Lane Rhodes on this very espresso store. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The Brainy Bean’s automated door whooshes open, and I’m hit with a coffee-scented wall of steam. The previous caffeine habit rears its head, squeezes my temples hopefully, however frankly, I’ve greater addictions now.

The espresso store is full, with each desk occupied and cluttered with mugs and plates. I scan for a head of blonde curls, barely respiratory.

There.

Lane is slumped at a desk within the again nook, fiddling sadly with the nook of a serviette. Her shoulders are curved over, and her mouth is down-turned. Even her bouncy hair is limp.

When she glances up and spots me weaving between tables towards her, it’s just like the goddamn solar comes out. Blue eyes lightup; shade glows on her cheeks. Lane sits up straight and hits me with a large, joyful smile, and—what am I doing? Critically, what am I doing?

It’s been 4 days since I noticed her final. Since we did…that.

Why did I wait so lengthy to see this woman once more? Who am I fucking kidding?

Chairs scrape as their occupants assist shuffle out of my approach, and I murmur my thanks however don’t look away from Lane. As if I ever might. She’s spinning a mug between her palms—one thing frothy and candy—however for as soon as I’m not jealous of her drink. I’m jealous of the contact of her palms.

I like her. This new speculation rolls by means of my mind, and finds no proof to contradict the assertion. Not a single rattling factor.

I like Lane Rhodes. Clearly.

It’s an inconvenient discovery to make within the Brainy Bean, particularly when this place is full of chatting college students and rushed professors and faculty athletes in fitness center gear, stretching their lengthy limbs within the line on the counter. It’s busy and loud in right here, stuffed with an over-caffeinated crowd, however a minimum of it’s scorching sufficient to cover the flush on my cheeks.

“Hello.” Lane sounds breathless as she shuffles her pocket book and low mug over to make room. I sink into the chair reverse her, my tongue too leaden to talk.

I’m in love with this woman.

In love with my tutoring pupil.

In love with somebody who’s been utilizing me forpractice.

Christ.

“Did you overlook we had a session?” Lane’s smiling brightly, not offended in any respect by my rocking up fifteen minutes late with no phrase of excuse—although there’s an undercurrent of tension beneath her phrases. “I try this generally. Combine up the times of theweek, I imply. Final month I sat in an empty lecture corridor and it took me approach too lengthy to understand it was Sunday, not Monday.”

Her pen faucets nervously on her notepad. Lane nudges my foot together with her personal beneath the desk.

And—hell. I don’t deserve this woman. Don’t deserve her making an attempt to make me really feel higher, afterIwas late. Don’t deserve her assuming the most effective of me, and telling an anecdote that makes her appear absent-minded, even when her mother and father continuously assume she’s an airhead.

“I…” Clearing my throat, I attempt once more. “I wasn’t certain if I ought to come.”

Lane’s smile falls. Her foot strikes away from mine beneath the desk, and I’m left feeling chilly.

She’s carrying one other sundress—yellow this time, with little embroidered daisies. Her shoulders are naked and frivolously freckled, and her pulse thuds on the base of her throat.

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