Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(11)
I feign stretching my legs and kick her foot, flipping her leg off from being crossed over the other. She tips sideways, nearly thrown off her chair from the impact. When I feel her livid gaze on me, I’m scouring my notes, eyes down.
Suddenly an arm comes toward me and smacks my ball cap clean away. I reach behind my seat immediately and scoop it up. Raking back my hair, I tug my hat low over my eyes. Ball cap back in place, I turn toward her and give her an icy stare.
“Oops,” she says with those damn bee-stung lips. Her arms lower from her feigned stretching position. “My bad.”
I’m done pretending I’m not giving her hell right back. Leaning slowly her way, I watch her eyes widen, those pouty lips pop open in surprise. Closer, closer until our noses are only a few inches apart. While I have her eyes, I reach up, find a nice thick chunk of that wild hair and give it a hefty tug.
“Ouch!” her mouth says, but I catch a faint din of noise. Considering how fucked my ears are, that means she had to have screeched.
Aiden whips around, eyes darting between both of us. I’m an experienced middle child. I know how to get away with way worse than this, so I’m already innocently jotting something down in the margins of my class notes.
My eyes cheat a glance from underneath the brim of my ball cap, as I watch Aiden say, “Miss Sutter, everything all right?”
Willa’s sputtering, her hand still clasping her hair, but it seems she’s speechless.
“All right, then.” Aiden returns his focus to the class. “We’ll stop there. Now, time to talk about the final. Two things. Anyone who did their homework before they registered for my class read in the course description that this final is unique. It’s actually what I’m most proud of in this class. Successful businesses are inherently collaborative. They require teamwork, compromise, and unity of message and purpose. So, this class final involves working with your partner both to create a comprehensive business model and budget plan, as well as to test jointly—”
A massive groan interrupts him.
Aiden unleashes his sinister grin. The man takes way too much delight in torturing students. “That’ll teach you not to skip the course description again. And don’t try to get out of it. Legally, it’s water-tight. You signed up and in doing so consented to this class’s terms.”
Willa scrubs her face, leading me to think she might be one of those unlucky ducks who did not read the course description.
“Your partner takes a written test. You take a complimentary other half. Together, you two complete your final.” Aiden’s eyes dance around the room. “I’ve heard from past students that they were pleasantly surprised by the natural byproduct of this pairing. It incentivized them to work better together and study extensively, both for the midterm and the final tests. So, without further ado, I have collaborative pairs assigned, which I’ll put on the projector in just a second.” Leaning, Aiden presses a button on his laptop, changing the image to a tidy row chart with names in two columns. Immediately, my eyes begin scouring it, as dread fills my stomach.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare.
Hands in pockets, Aiden smiles out at the sea of students. “Good luck, everyone!”
Finally, I find it. Ryder Bergman. In the adjacent column, Willa Sutter.
Mother. Fucker.
Willa
Playlist: “Written In The Water,” Gin Wigmore
In middle school, I broke my ankle during a game and managed to play straight through overtime. Obviously, I have a high pain threshold, a tolerance for suffering. This, however, is pushing it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
There we are, Ryder and I, paired up for the final. Not only do we have to collaborate for the remainder of the semester, but we also have to agree on a project idea, work together, and test cumulatively well enough to ensure I pass. Impossible is the understatement of the century.
Ryder sighs and scrubs his face.
“Listen,” I tell him. “I’m not thrilled either.”
He doesn’t respond. It’s almost as if he doesn’t even hear me. In fact, it seems like he’s never heard me. I’ve been friends with Rooney long enough to know that’s her major complaint with men: “They just don’t listen, Willa! They don’t try to understand.”
Ryder so far seems completely typical in this aspect.
“Hey.” I poke his arm and earn his abrupt attention. Well, hi there, muscles upon muscles. Damn.
He straightens in his seat, turning to look at me. Even in the shadow of his ball cap, his eyes are an unfairly striking shade of grass green.
“What’s your deal?” I ask.
His gaze drifts to my mouth, then down to my hands, where I’m spinning my phone across my desk. Suddenly, his hand lands heavy over mine, stilling my fidgety movement. Breath surges out of my lungs. His grip is warm, his fingers long, his palm calloused. He’s closer and I get the faintest whiff of evergreens and soft, clean soap.
His fingers curl gently around my phone before Ryder swipes it and holds it to my face, assuming correctly that I use Face ID to unlock it. Once it’s open, he creates a new blank message sent to a number I don’t recognize. I stare down, watching those three bubbles, then glance up to him, as his thumbs fly over the keys.