A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime (Lancaster Prep )(66)

Come at me, bro.

“We’re going to work on our essays for The Great Gatsby today,” he announces as he starts pacing in front of the classroom. “By now, all of you should be wrapping up the book, or already finished. There will be a test next week for finals.”

There’s some grumbling, but Fig ignores it.

“And the paper will be due the day we get back from winter break.”

The complaining is in earnest now. Very rarely do our teachers assign us projects over breaks. They know we actually need the break, and they don’t really want to grade assignments when they come back either.

Guess Fig is the exception, the asshole.

“So let’s use this week’s class time to catch up on our reading, going over what the themes are in the book, and starting to work on the paper. If you’ve already finished the book and understand the many themes within the story, congratulations. Consider yourself ahead of the game, and you’ll most likely have the essay wrapped up by next week before winter break starts.” He smiles, ignoring the fact that most of us are disgruntled.

Wren raises her hand, and he smiles at her, his gaze soft. “Yes, Wren?”

I clinch my hands into fists, wishing I could beat his rotten face in.

“What exactly should the essay be about?” she asks in her sweet voice.

“Great question.” He turns to the whiteboard, grabbing a blue marker and writing furiously across it before he steps away from the board, tapping the end of the marker against it. “How does Gatsby represent the American dream? That’s the theme.”

I lean back against my seat, already bored. I can handle that topic in my sleep. I still haven’t read the book, and I should probably study for the upcoming final, but I’m thinking I’ll be fine. There’s enough information on the internet that I can find.

There are a few more questions, but I tune them out, concentrating on Wren sitting in front of me, her head bent, exposing her nape. I remember kissing her there yesterday, making her tremble.

“Mr. Lancaster? A word?”

I glance up to find Figueroa watching me, his hands in his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. I can tell he’s tense by the rigid line of his shoulders.

“Sure.” Shrugging, I rise to my feet and follow him out of the classroom, Wren’s eyes on me the entire time. I send her a quick look, noting the worry in her eyes, and I flash her a quick smile to reassure her.

Her smile is weak. Barely there.

Girl worries too much.

Once we’re out in the hall, Figueroa turns on me, his expression grim. “Why were you late?”

This from the teacher who normally doesn’t give a shit. Who told us at the beginning of the school year that attendance was a chore he hated but was forced to do. “The weather. Weren’t you outside?”

“The sidewalks were all cleared earlier this morning. If you left in enough time, you would’ve made it.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, on the defensive.

“The sidewalks were icy as fuck.”

“Watch your mouth.” His eyelids flicker, as if he’s got a twitch. “Why did you come in late with Wren?”

That’s what this is all about. Good ol’ Figueroa is curious.

“That’s none of your damn business,” I drawl, leaning against the wall. “And what, we were like two minutes late?”

“Late is late.”

“From the teacher who doesn’t have a tardy policy.”

“I still have to follow school rules.” His gaze is steely. “As do you and Wren.”

“You’re just mad,” I murmur, so low I almost think he didn’t hear me.

But he did. I witness the anger crossing his face that very moment. “Explain to me what you think I’m mad about?”

“The fact that Wren isn’t interested in you—that she’s interested in me. We’ve already had this conversation, Fig. And I told you what was going to happen. You don’t have a chance in hell getting in her panties.” I smile, enjoying the anger I see flashing in his eyes.

“How would Miss Beaumont feel, knowing you talk about her in such a manner?”

Doesn’t he sound like a stuffy old teacher who respects his female students? What a crock of shit.

“First, you’ll never say anything to her, because you know she’d be more offended by the fact that you brought up her panties to her in the first place. And second, I’ve been in those panties, so she couldn’t deny it even if you mention it to her.” Oh, I’m feeling really smug now, mentioning the ‘in her panties’ bit, and I fucking love it.

“I don’t believe you,” Figueroa says through clenched teeth.

“Go ahead. Ask her.” I flick my head toward the closed classroom door. “Call her out here.”

“I am not about to get involved in my students’—sexual activities,” he says.

I laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you. Are we done with this conversation?”

“Watch your tone. And don’t be late. I’ll write you up next time. Wren too.” His words are clipped.

Oh, she won’t like that. A write-up might send her spiraling.

Standing up straighter, I salute him like the asshole I am. “Yes, sir.”