See Me After Class(40)

“Stella, I don’t—”

“Hey.” She snaps her finger at Greer, who rears back. “We helped you with the pranks, now it’s your turn. Fix it.”

“You know, it’s a huge turn-on that you’re so into the teachers’ league,” Romeo says, heart eyes practically spilling out of him.

“Shut up, Brock.” Stella charges past him, Gunner and Coraline following closely behind.

“I’m going to call up Lindsay and see if she wants to meet up with us, take Dylan out to some ice cream.”

“Great idea,” Coraline says, her voice trailing off. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

And then they’re gone, leaving me alone in my backyard with Greer.

A very angry, irritated, and less-than-excited Greer.

This should be fun.





“Here,” I say, handing Greer a water with slices of cucumber.

She looks at the drink and then back up at me. “Did you poison it?”

Rolling my eyes, I take a big gulp and hand it to her. “No.”

After the rest of the crew went to get ice cream, Greer angrily stormed off down the stone steps of my backyard that lead to the bottom half, where I have lounge chairs looking out over the lake. She took a seat and that’s where she’s been since.

Given the immense amount of anger in her eyes during badminton, I thought it would be a good idea to let her cool off, so I went inside, did dishes, and then took her some water . . . and cookies. But she hasn’t seen those yet.

“Move your feet,” I say sternly.

“Why?” she asks, staring at the lake.

“So I can sit down.”

“There are a lot of other chairs. Pick one.”

Huffing out in frustration, I push her legs to the side and take a seat on her lounge.

“Insufferable,” she mutters, bringing her legs into a crisscross position.

I hold the plate of chocolate chip cookies out to her and say, “Here, eat one of these. Maybe you’ll be less crabby.”

“Less crabby? Don’t you think you’re the one who should be eating the cookies? Or do they not fix bastard? Also, it’s extremely offensive that you think a cookie will change my attitude.” She picks up two cookies and takes a bite of one. “Damn it,” she whispers, reaching for the plate and taking another. When I quirk a brow at her, she says, “This has nothing to do with my crabbiness or need for sugar as a woman and everything do with how incredibly soft these are. Got it?”

“Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“See, that right there,” she says, pointing at me, mouthful of cookie. “That attitude, that’s what’s making me want to jab my fist through your eye socket. So condescending all the time. Ever consider not acting like a total motherfucker?”

“Never gave it much thought.” I plop a cookie in my mouth.

“Maybe you should. You’d be more likeable.”

“My goal in life isn’t to please everyone. I don’t have to make the world around me happy in order to be happy.”

“Wouldn’t kill you to not be a dick, though.”

“Contrary to what you might believe, I’m not a dick.”

She sips her water. “Oh, I know, you also suck ass really well.”

I run my tongue over my teeth and, in a deeper tone, say, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Her eyes narrow and she stares at me while taking a bite of cookie. She chews, swallows. “Whatever happened in your office was a lapse of judgment.”

“Nothing happened. At least not for me. You were the one with the hard nipples.”

“And you were the one with the . . . well . . .” Her lips quirk to the side. “Were, uh . . . were you hard?”

Fuck, I almost laugh out loud from the confused look on her face.

Almost.

“No,” I answer. “I’d have to be remotely interested to be hard.” I was so fucking hard I could have hammered nails with my cock. But I refuse to be goaded.

She’s mid-bite of her cookie when I say that, causing her to sputter crumbs all over me with her outburst. “Remotely interested? Are you kidding me right now? You were the one with the hand up my shirt.”

“I wouldn’t have qualified that as up your shirt. My fingers barely touched your skin.”

“Well, there was touching, and caressing, and you . . . and you nibbled on my earlobe.”

I shrug. “Doesn’t mean I was interested.”

“You’re so full of yourself, you know that?” She washes her cookie down with water and then removes the plate of cookies from my hand, setting them on the side table next to the lounge.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving a point,” she says, standing, only to push me back on the lounge and then sit on my lap.

Seeing where she’s going with this, I place my hands behind my head and look up at her. “Enjoying yourself?”

She rolls her eyes and scoots up so her pelvis sits right on top of mine.

There’s no doubt in my mind that I can best her in this, that I can look away, think of other things, make for damn sure that I don’t get turned on.

But then . . .

She moves her hand over her neck, rotating her head to the side.