Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Romance(28)

Mrs Martins straightens. “This is Layla Thompson,” she sighs. “She’s in Year Nine, and she’s apparently still incapable of dressing herself.”

Frowning, the man steps further into the room. I stare at him, a bit stunned. He’s gorgeous. Tall and young, with high cheekbones and deep grey eyes.

“Hi Layla,” he says quietly, studying me. “I’m Luke. I’m one of the English teachers.” He glances at Mrs Martins. “What’s going on?”

“I was just explaining to Layla the importance of wearing the school uniform correctly,” the headmistress bites out. “Look at her blazer. It’s disgraceful. This school has a reputation of excellence to uphold, and we can’t do that if our students are running around looking like street urchins.”

Luke steps forward, studying the frayed sleeve of my blazer. I shiver as his fingers trail lightly over the fabric, not touching me. “I see. You’ve worn this to death, haven’t you, Layla? You should get your parents to buy you a new one.”

“They can’t afford it,” I mutter, my cheeks burning. “I’m on a scholarship. It only covers tuition.”

Luke goes still. “Ah. I see.”

Mrs Martins sighs dramatically. “Seriously? We’re paying your school fees, and they can’t even shell out a few hundred for a new uniform every couple of years?”

I look down, humiliated. “I could fix it myself, if I could use the school sewing machines. I asked the textiles teacher if I could do it in class, but she said no.”

“Absolutely not!” Mrs Martins blusters. “I can’t have my students walking around in patched-up clothes. Tell your parents to pick up another shift, or put it on a credit card. This is ridiculous.”

Luke frowns. “Come on, Amy, let’s not put a family into debt over a jacket.” He studies my sleeve. “You think you could fix this yourself?”

“I’ve been hemming my clothes for years,” I say. “I’m really good at it.”

His grey eyes flash to mine, and my stomach flips. “You wear a lot of second-hand clothes?”

I flush. “They’re cheaper.”

He nods. “Very smart. You’ll do well in your economics classes, I’m sure.” He straightens. “Well, in that case, we’ll just give you permission to use the sewing machines during lunch breaks.” He picks up a piece of paper from Mrs Martins’ desk and scribbles a few words on it, handing it back to me with a smile. “There you go, Layla. If your textiles teacher asks what you’re doing, tell her Mr Martins said it was okay.”

I take the note, wide-eyed. “I… Mr Martins? You’re Mrs Martins’ husband?” I glance at the headmistress, who is scowling at me. How did such a nice man marry such an awful woman?

His eyes soften. “Yes. Amy is my wife. I really lucked out in that department.”

Mrs Martins — Amy — huffs, picking up her coat. “Whatever. Let’s get lunch, then. Layla, if I see you in here again, you’re getting a detention.” She saunters to her office door.

Luke smiles at me gently. “Ignore her, she gets crabby when she’s hungry. I guess I’ll see you in a few years, Layla. My office is in the West Wing if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” I croak, clutching the permission slip as he holds the door open for me to leave.



I watch Luke heading down the stairs, blinking back the memory. My throat squeezes. “Luke?” I call after him.

“Hm?” He turns back to look at me.

I nod at his flat door. “You could come eat dinner with us, if you want?”

He smiles. “Another time, sweetheart,” he says absently. “Enjoy your date.”

I glare at his back as he disappears down the stairs.

Whatever. If he wants to avoid me, he can. I’ve got enough guys to keep me busy.

I unlock my front door to dump my bag, then slouch across the hall to the guys’ flat. I’ve actually got a copy of their key — we exchanged spares a while ago in case someone got locked out — but I figure it’s slightly more polite to knock, so I lift my hand and rap my knuckles against the wood.

There’s a brief pause, and then the door swings open. Zack stands in the doorway, a grin spreading across his face. “Hey, bumblebee. C’mon in.”

I stare at him. He looks delicious. His long hair is tied back. His ring glints from the open collar of his white shirt. And best of all? He’s wearing a suit. I stare at the dark jacket hugging his broad shoulders and clinging to his thick thighs, speechless.

His smile just gets wider. “Come on,” he says again. “We got a special night planned for you.”





SEVENTEEN





JOSH





“I know,” Zack says, as Layla steps inside the flat, wide-eyed. “He went overboard. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

I roll my eyes, lighting the last candle on the table and setting the matchbox down. My hands are sweating with nerves, and I slip them into my trouser pockets.

Tonight, it’s my turn to pick a date. I figured, since we’ve already done a bar, a dinner date would be the next best thing. Ideally, I would’ve taken Layla to an actual restaurant, but when I asked her, she said she didn’t want to go out. So I did my best to set up a dinner date in our flat. The dining room table we never use has been covered in a white cloth. I’ve lit tapered candles and put some classical music on the record player. There’s salad in the fridge and a dish of homemade lasagne in the oven. The bouquet of roses I picked out this morning is sitting on the breakfast bar.