One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(64)

With a heavy sigh, I admit, “No.” Because I’ll have to lie to him and I don’t want to do that, either. Avoidance is key. Reagan is onto something. Checking the clock, I mutter, “I have class in twenty.” My English lit class. I don’t feel like going. I’ve only done a quarter of the reading, so I’ll be lost anyway. I look at my bed. A nap would feel amazing right now . . .

“Well . . . we miss you, Livie.”

I smile sadly, thinking about Storm’s growing belly and Mia’s science experiments, and nights with my sister on the back deck, overlooking the ocean, and a hollow ache fills my chest. As pretty as the Princeton campus is, it just doesn’t compare. “I miss you too.”

“Love you, sis.”

I’m crawling into my top bunk for that nap when my phone chirps with a text:

Are you in your room? It’s Ash.

A thrill rushes through me as I type:

Yes.

The response comes immediately:

I’ll walk you to class. See you in a few . . .

What? He’s coming here? Now? My wide eyes dart around our room, at Reagan’s pile of dirty clothes, at my sweats, at my pale complexion and the rat’s nest of black hair reflecting back at me in the mirror. Scrambling, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt that Storm bought me but I’ve never worn. It’s light blue to match my eyes, fitted, and cut in a low V-neck. Because suddenly, I feel the need to tempt Ashton. Then I set to work on my hair, struggling to pull a brush through it. Seriously, I think rats have actually nested in it.

A loud knock on my door makes my heart leap. Peeking at my reflection in the mirror one last time, I quickly smooth on Reagan’s sheer lip gloss to add some color to my face. Then, with a deep breath, I walk over to unlock and open the door.

Ashton is standing with his back to me as he scans the hall. When he turns to face me, my stomach flips the way it did the first time I saw those intoxicating dark features. Only the feeling is so much more intense now, because it’s coupled with a magnetic pull wrenching at both my body and my heart.

“I thought I’d walk you to class on account of that lame foot,” he murmurs with a wry grin, his gaze drifting down and up my frame, unashamed.

“Thanks,” I murmur with a shy smile, turning to grab my books and coat from my desk. Truth be told, my foot is almost perfect. But I’m willing to not tell the truth if it means a ten-minute walk with Ashton.

Our conversation is normal, safe. He asks me a few questions about my exams; he answers a few about his. He asks me about the twins. When I see the door to the lecture hall up ahead, my heart sinks. I don’t want ten minutes with Ashton. I want ten hours. Ten days. Longer.

But Ashton doesn’t leave. He follows me into the lecture hall, down the stairs, straight to the front row, and sits down beside me. I don’t question him. I don’t say a word. I just watch as he stretches those long legs out, once again encroaching on my space. My body turns toward him this time, welcoming him. Wanting him.

“So how are those redeeming qualities of mine coming along?” he murmurs as the prof walks to the podium with his notes.

I think of the answer I want to give. I finally say, “I’ll let you know when I find one.”

The professor taps the podium three times, signaling the start of class. Ashton doesn’t care, of course. His lips brush my ear as he leans in to whisper, “Do you want me to just tell you?”

I push his face away with my palm, feigning annoyance, the beginnings of the burn in my thighs making me uncomfortable enough to squirm in my seat. Ashton’s low chuckle tells me he’s noticed and he has a good idea what his proximity is doing to me.

The entire lecture today is on Thomas Hardy and I can’t focus on a freaking word with Ashton’s cologne swirling in my nose, with his knee bumping into mine, with those skilled fingers of his strumming against the desk. At times I catch him scribbling notes in his book. Notes on what? He’s not even in this class.

At one point the prof has turned away from us to take a sip of his water. Ashton tears a sheet out of his book and slides it in front of me without a word. Frowning, I look at it.

I should have known better. I should have waited until after class.

1. I’m brilliant

2. I’m charming

3. I’m hung like a thoroughbred

4. I’ve stopped all philandering

5. I’m highly skilled, as you’ve learned the other night.

P.S. Stop staring at my hands. I know what you want me to with them.

   The professor continues his lecture not five feet away from me as blood rushes to my head, to my belly, to my thighs. What is he doing? Why would he write that down and pass it to me in the middle of a lecture? The last thing I want to be thinking about while the professor drones on about stupid Thomas Hardy is Ashton and his hands and the other night in the car . . .

A hand squeezes my knee, making me jump in my seat. My elbow reactively flies out and jabs Ashton in the ribs. It’s enough to attract the professor’s attention. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” he asks calmly, regarding us over his glasses.

I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head as seventy-something students lean forward in their seats, their eyes boring into the back of my skull.

That likely would have worked. The prof might have let it go. But then I have to go and cover the note lying on top of my book, as if trying to muffle the indiscretions screaming from it.