The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(7)

She’s pissed about earlier.

“Do you know Spanish?” I ask, figuring really…what do I have to lose?

“Fuck off,” she spits back, kind of quickly, and I wonder if she actually heard me because her reaction seems like it was prepared for something else. She’s walking away when I keep talking.

“Because that’s why I made these flashcards. I’m studying for my Spanish final. And I suck at this language, and the study group never showed,” I mumble, spreading the word papers out in front of me like a dealer in Vegas. I pull one out, and read the back, holding it up for her to see. “Caw-meeee-day.”

I’m not even close; I know that much. I’m exaggerating my poor pronunciation, though not by much. Her shoulders hunch up when I speak, and she flips around, taking quick steps back to me, and ripping the small paper from my fingers.

I watch her lips as she reads my writing, pronouncing the Spanish word for food, and I’m pretty sure she’s getting the full picture of how pathetic I am.

“Let me see these,” she says, not really waiting for me, grabbing them all in her hands and flipping through a few, letting others fall loosely to the ground. I reach to pick them up, but give up quickly. Who am I kidding?

“When’s your test?” she asks with a sigh.

“Monday. Early,” I say, holding her gaze. Goddamn does she have nice eyes. They’re blue. Ocean blue. I notice them every time she comes into the store.

After a few long seconds, she wads my papers up in her hands and marches to the trashcan a few feet away, tossing my craft project away. She drags an extra chair over to the opposite side of the coffee table from me, then pauses, looking at me again while she chews at the inside of her lip. I can actually see her tongue pushing on the inside of her mouth like she’s working really hard to avoid calling me something. Her eyes flutter in this annoyed blink-like movement, and to most people, it’s probably irritating, but it makes me smirk. Her mannerisms are familiar somehow.

She holds up a finger before walking quickly back to the study room she was sitting in. When she comes back, she’s carrying all of her belongings—her bag not fully zipped, like she probably just tossed everything in quickly. She drops everything next to the chair, then sits in it and slides forward until her knees touch the table. She folds her legs up in her chair, then leans forward to grab my book, flipping it around so she can look at it. Her shirt is navy blue—I know that much—but I can’t tell you if it has a pattern on it, a scoop-neck or whatever else comes on a chick’s shirt. I can tell you that it’s loose enough to drape forward when she leans down, and I can tell you that I now love pink bras.

I’m too slow to pull my eyes back, and she catches me staring. Even though her eyes look angry, her mouth curls the tiniest bit on one side, and I know she’s not angry at all that she caught me looking. If she were angry, she’d have pulled her shirt up and quit leaning over; Paige did neither.

“Is it a verbal or a written exam?” she asks, and I shake my head to pay attention just like Bugs Bunny does when Lola Bunny shows up and makes him all jelly-brained.

“Both,” I say, and catch her wince a little. She’s heard my verbal.

“How long do you have tonight?” she asks.

“How long do you need?” I’m already prepping myself for the text I’m about to send Casey that I’m not coming. This isn’t about the pink bra. Well, okay, maybe it’s a little about the pink bra. But honestly, if Paige can help me pass my Spanish final, I’ll forgo eating and sleeping for twenty-four hours if I have to.

“Judging from the way you just butchered comida? I’d say we’re going to be here for a while.” I get caught up in her lips for a few seconds when the word literally falls from them, sounding like I’m sure it’s supposed to. It’s both the hottest and most amazing thing I’ve witnessed in a while—that, or I’m desperate—for tutoring and a woman.

“Give me a second,” I say, pulling my phone out and firing off the text to Casey that I won’t be able to make it.

He types back.

CASEY: You’re a dick. What am I supposed to do now?

ME: Sorry. Try the computer commons. They have lots of geeks there.

CASEY: They’re not as geeky as you.

ME: You can’t sweet-talk me. I’m sorry. Something important came up.

CASEY: You owe me beer.

ME: When don’t I?



Casey sends me one final text, an icon of a middle finger. I toss my phone down to my backpack, smirking, and lean forward, my elbows on my knees, ready for Paige to work a miracle.

“I’m all yours,” I say, and she looks at me the same way she did when I stared at her boobs—eyes hazed, but mouth curled. This girl is an enigma.



* * *



I feel a little guilty. I’ve checked Paige out; I even look forward to her coming in to pick up orders, pulling the tickets before Sheila has a chance to go through them, just to make sure hers are in my pile. I do it because I think she’s cute. But—and I’m an * for assuming—I never thought she was smart. I’ve been sitting on the floor for the last two hours, my legs stretched out under the coffee table while she grills me on Spanish vocabulary, forcing the words into my head, and somehow pulling them from my mouth correctly. I’m going to pass my Spanish final, and Paige is a genius.