He waited until she got to the end of the row of shelves before calling after her, “So I’ll see you tomorrow to plan out our project?”
She froze, her back to him, her shoulders going up to her ears as though to defend herself against his words. When she turned around, her eyes were little more than slits. “Read the damn book. I’ll tell you what you need to do when the time comes.”
With that, she stormed off.
He stared at the space where she’d stood, trying to figure out why she hated him so much. She was so striking that he would’ve remembered if they’d talked at all before now. Maybe she was friends with someone he’d slept with and never called back?
Hmm.
That seemed possible. Girls talked. So she might’ve been in on some girly ice-cream-and-guy-bashing session.
With a sigh of resignation, he glanced down at the book in his hands. She didn’t even expect him to read it, so having the same edition wouldn’t matter to her at all. Might as well save his money and check this one out. How would she react when he actually had an opinion about the book and their project? She’d probably just get pissed off, since that seemed to be her default reaction to him no matter what.
Female voices chatting and laughing drifted to him from somewhere else in the library. Walking out of the shelves, he spotted a couple of girls he recognized at a table with their books and laptops out. Just what he needed to feel better.
His usual flirty smirk in place, he sauntered over. “Hey, ladies. Mind if I join you? I need to get through some reading for a class.”
The girls eyed him up and down where he stood with a hand on the back of a free chair. The blonde drew her hand across her chest to move her hair behind her shoulder while the brunette pulled his chair out for him, a welcoming smile on her lips. “Of course! We’d love to have you join us.”
Evan smiled as he sat down. Yeah, his mojo worked just fine. It was all Layla acting like a frigid bitch, not something about the way he treated her. Good to know.
CHAPTER THREE
The library door banged open from the force of Layla shoving her way through, still angry at Evan. She couldn’t believe his brazen flirting and the way he’d checked her out. Repeatedly. Like he thought she might be interested.
She had no desire to be one of the many brainless females who threw themselves at his feet. Watching the way other girls reacted to him made her want to gag. They fawned all over him, which just fed into his ego, confirming his belief that he was God’s gift to womankind.
Her irritation kept her warm on the twenty minute walk to her apartment. On days like today, she missed her old roommate and the knowledge that she’d have a sympathetic ear to vent to. But Alyssa had gotten married over the summer to her longtime boyfriend. So now Layla lived in a one bedroom with only her books as company.
The exercise of walking home had calmed some of her anger, but she got annoyed all over again when she realized that she’d intended to look for the book she needed in the campus bookstore. She wanted to charge the book to her school account rather than having to pay for it out of her spending money if she could. Or maybe she should see if the public library had it.
Once inside her apartment, she put on the kettle to make some chamomile tea. She needed something soothing.
With a deep breath, she centered herself, thinking back through her interactions with Evan. If she had to work with him, she needed to figure out a way to not let him get to her. Now that she had a chance to think, it seemed like that might’ve been his goal, since every time she got irritated, he did more of whatever made her mad, like he was trying to see how much of a reaction he could get.
If that were the case, then she needed to rein in her temper and treat him politely but without emotion. Hopefully he’d lose interest when he didn’t get a reaction and go back to flirting with other people.
While the tea steeped, she decided to call Alyssa anyway, not sure if she’d answer, but knowing she’d call back when she could.
Alyssa picked up on the second ring. “Hey, girl! What’s up?”
“Not much. Just thought I’d see if you were around.” Layla clamped her phone between her ear and shoulder while she pressed the flowers against the steeper to squeeze the liquid out.
“Liar. You hate talking on the phone. You usually text me to come over or fish for an invite when you want to hang out. What’s wrong?”
Stirring in some honey, Layla let out a sigh. “I have to work with Evan Coopman for a project in World Literature.”
Alyssa didn’t say anything at first, then a muffled snort and a giggle came over the phone.
“Shut up. Why are you laughing at me?”
Her voice still vibrating with laughter, Alyssa finally spoke. “You’re the only person I know who can make that sound like a death sentence.”
“What—I’m supposed to be excited about it? Yippee, I get to work with a dumb football player who flirts with anyone who has a pulse and passes as female. Hooray.”
Alyssa snorted with laughter again. “Did he flirt with you?”
“Yes.” Layla spit the answer through clenched teeth, getting mad all over again.
“Oh, the horror. A hot guy who obviously works out all the time flirted with you. Hurry, hang up so you can call the police and report him.”
“What’s with the sarcasm? You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Alyssa sighed. “I am on your side. But what’s the big deal? So the guy flirted with you. Flirt back and have some fun. It’s not like your professor assigned you to have his babies. You meet a few times, you turn in your project or whatever, and you go about your life. It’s not quite the crisis situation you seem to think it is.”
“I know his type.” Her spoon banged against her mug harder than necessary as she stirred in the honey. “He flirts with everyone. It’s not like him flirting with me means anything.”
“Exactly,” Alyssa soothed. “It doesn’t mean anything, so why get upset about it?” Alyssa paused. “Or wait—would it be better if it did mean something? Do you want him to flirt with you for real?”
“No. What? No. Absolutely not. He’s a womanizing douche. Why would I want him to flirt with me?”
“Because he’s hot.”
“How do you know?”
Alyssa laughed out loud at that, not trying to muffle it. “One, they show pictures of the players on the scoreboard at games when they talk about them, and you know that Darren and I like to go. Two, you told me when he sat next to you in class last time. When you witnessed him flirting with a bunch of other girls right after being super flirty with you.”
Layla chose not to respond, sipping her tea.
“What’s really going on, Layla?”
Sighing, Layla set down her mug on the coffee table and sat down on her couch. “He reminds me of Mark.”
“That guy you dated in high school?”
“Yeah. That guy. The one who was hot and flirty and made me feel like I was special instead of the nerdy, weird girl. Who made me believe he loved me. And then bragged to anyone who would listen the minute we had sex. God, he posted about it on Facebook before I even left his house. I was just a challenge to him. Something different and exotic to add to his collection.” Her voice turned bitter on the last sentence. The way he’d made her feel—like an object, a fetish, something less than human—still stung even though it had happened almost five years ago.
“Look.” Alyssa’s voice softened. “I know Mark was awful to you. And you have every right to hate him. But Evan Coopman isn’t Mark. He hasn’t done anything but flirt with you, which, by your own admission, he does to every girl he comes across. So maybe try to be polite at least, okay? Treat him the same you would anyone else you could’ve gotten paired up with. Do your project and go back to ignoring him. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
With another sigh, Layla finally gave in to Alyssa. “Fine. You’re right. I should probably apologize the next time I see him. Maybe it’ll thr
ow him off guard. And I’ve already figured that I’ll have to do the majority of the work if I’m going to get a decent grade on this.”
“Why?” Alyssa sounded genuinely perplexed.
“Hello? He’s a jock. I’ve heard him talk about his tutor. He probably needs one to keep his GPA high enough to stay on the team. I’m not risking my grade on someone like that. I’ll give him enough to do in the presentation that we both get credit, but no way am I giving him actual work.”
“You’re such a snob sometimes.” Alyssa’s chuckle this time sounded more frustrated than amused. “Why not give him a real chance? You hate it when people assume things about you.”
Layla’s lips twisted in a grimace of distaste. That was true. She did hate people making assumptions about her, about her background, her ethnicity, her cultural heritage. When she’d moved to Everett in sixth grade the kids in her class had found out that she’d lived on a reservation before. They’d asked her if her parents had worked in a casino and called her a squaw and worse. Her skin was lighter than her dad’s, since she was only a quarter Native American, but with her long black hair that she liked to wear loose and her high cheekbones—plus growing up on the Colville Reservation—they all assumed she was Native American.
And when her mom, who was half white and half Japanese, came to school to pick her up, everyone assumed she was adopted. Or had been taken away from her Native American parents and placed in foster care. Anything but that her mom was her mom.
It was bad enough when kids did it in school, but it pissed her off more when it came from grown-ass adults. Like her history professor who had declared that she was a product of Affirmative Action, like she hadn’t earned her right to be at Marycliff University like everyone else.
“Fine. I won’t assume he’s a moron. I’ll give him a chance to prove himself at least. But I reserve the right to make sure he doesn’t screw this up.”
“Fair enough.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before hanging up, and Layla felt both better and worse after talking to Alyssa. Better, because Alyssa made good points. But worse because she had been a raging bitch to him today. With a sigh, she realized she’d have to apologize to him on Thursday when she saw him in class. And she should offer to schedule a time to meet with him and discuss what they should do.
The idea still didn’t sit well, but maybe if she made it clear that she would be polite and professional and expected the same from him, he’d quit flirting and save it for someone more receptive. She could only hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
Evan looked up in shock when Layla slid into the seat next to him on Thursday afternoon for their World Literature class. She didn’t look at him, instead busying herself with getting out her books, spiral notebook, and a pen. He’d noticed before that she always took notes by hand. His hands rested on the keyboard of his laptop—his preferred note taking device that also provided distraction opportunities during boring lectures, which was both blessing and curse—but he no longer paid attention to the chat he had open with one of his teammates. Instead he stared at Layla.
Heidi, the girl who normally sat next to him, approached with a frown. When she glanced at him, he shrugged, not sure what to make of this either. Heidi smoothed a hand over her blonde ponytail and cleared her throat, directing her attention at Layla. “Um, excuse me. This is my seat.”
Layla glanced up, her black hair falling away from her face. She gave Heidi a warm smile. “Oh, sorry. I know. But Evan and I are working on the project together, and I wanted to be able to talk to him about it so we can coordinate our schedules. You understand, right?”
Heidi’s frown grew more pronounced, her brown eyes flicking between him and Layla. He gave another shrug, as dumbfounded by this as Heidi, stunned into silence by this new and different version of Layla who he hadn’t encountered before. Quiet and studious, yes. The frigid bitch in full force on Tuesday. But apologetic, smiling, and polite? Who was this chick?
Layla bent to get something else out of her bag on the floor by her seat, her hair falling down and blocking her face once more. Heidi stood there for a minute staring at Layla, her shiny pink lips compressed in a thin line. With one final look at Evan, Heidi turned away to find a seat elsewhere.
When she was gone, Layla sat back up, nothing in her hand, her eyes darting around the room, briefly lighting on Evan before turning back to her desk. Digging in her bag had apparently been a front to keep Heidi from pushing further. He didn’t know what to think about all of this, both her sitting next to him and the way she’d handled Heidi so that she avoided a confrontation.
His curiosity getting the better of him, he leaned over the side of his desk so he could keep his voice low. “What was that all about?”
“Hmm?” Her face turned toward his just enough to let him know she was listening, but her eyes remained focused on whatever she was writing in her notebook.
“That. With Heidi. Why are you sitting here?”
Her dark eyes met his before darting away, and she licked her lips. “Oh. Like I said. We need to discuss our project. It’s easier if I’m sitting near you instead of halfway across the room.”
“I thought you were planning on doing everything. Or did you decide to give me reading lessons after all?” He let some of his irritation from Tuesday enter his voice, lending a caustic edge to his sarcasm.
This time she actually looked at him, huffing out a sigh. “Please. You’re an English major. We both know you can read. With all those tutors helping the football team, I’m sure they’d at least do that much.”
He ground his molars together at the clear implication that even if she thought him smart enough to read, her estimation of his intelligence wasn’t much higher than that. Why did he even give a damn what she thought? He didn’t have an answer to that question. He just knew that he did.
Before he could formulate a cutting response, Dr. Rankin appeared and started class. Evan had a hard time paying attention to the class discussion, which was unusual for this class. Dr. Rankin was one of his favorite professors, and her class discussions were some of the best that he’d ever participated in.
“Dr. Coopman? What’s your take?” Dr. Rankin addressed all of her students as doctors, even though they were undergrads.
Evan’s head popped up from behind his computer where he’d been brooding. He had no idea what they were talking about. Dr. Rankin had a tendency to single out the students who were distracted to answer questions, even if plenty of other people were chiming in, and now he’d been caught out. He wouldn’t care except that when he glanced around, trying to mine some clue about the discussion from his subconscious, he caught Layla smirking.
Dammit. Getting caught out like this wasn’t helping dispel her impression that he was just a dumb jock. How had she not noticed his comments during the other class discussions? Or did she choose to ignore those? Or maybe she thought his comments were obvious and juvenile. Shit.
And he still couldn’t come up with anything to say, while Dr. Rankin stood in front of his row, looking at him with an expectant expression on her face.
Finally, his cheeks and the tips of his ears hot, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. What’s my take on what?”
“We were discussing the similarities and differences between the Russian authors under Soviet rule and authors from other Eastern Bloc countries, like the Czech authors Milan Kundera or Vaclav Havel.” Her clarification was delivered calmly. Her purpose in calling on distracted students was only to get them to pay attention, not to humiliate or embarrass, even though that was sometimes a side effect.
A soft voice came from his right. “No tutor to feed you comments this semester?” He glanced at Layla, her smirk still in place.
Deciding to ignore her, he cleared his throat and thought about the question. “The Russians seem more hopeless and angry than the Czech writers you referenced. Which is particularly interesting in light of the fact that what was then Czechoslovakia had been oc
cupied by the Nazis before the Soviets took over. I guess when you survive a concentration camp, like Ivan Klíma did, maybe being blackballed and forced to work as a garbage man instead of a writer doesn’t seem so bad.”
“Interesting point.” Dr. Rankin walked back to the front of the room, moving the discussion onto the next item, and Evan slumped back in his chair, closing his laptop. He wasn’t taking notes anyway, why drain the battery by having it open?
“Maybe because by the time Klíma and Kundera were under Soviet rule the Russians weren’t running the labor camps anymore.” Layla’s response to his observation came as a muttered comment that he wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear.
But he did. “Even the later Russian artists have an angry quality to them that seems missing from Klíma’s novels and essays. Don’t you think?” He had to lean over and loud-whisper to be sure she heard him.
Unfortunately their conversation didn’t go unnoticed. “Dr. Coopman?” Dr. Rankin’s voice cut through the classroom, interrupting whatever she’d been saying. “Did you have something more to say?”
“No.” Layla’s stifled chuckle caught his attention, but he ignored it. “Sorry. No.”
Dr. Rankin held his gaze for a long moment before turning back to what she’d been saying.
“Busted,” came from Layla in a singsong whisper, but he continued to ignore her. He wasn’t going to be drawn into another whispering match with her and get in trouble with Dr. Rankin. Layla had caused him enough trouble today. He wouldn’t let her get to him again.
He managed to keep his attention mostly on the class discussion and ignore the way Layla’s hair swung forward when she looked down to write notes. And the way she ran her hands through it to push it back. And the curve of her neck when she swept it up and did that crazy thing with a pencil that chicks sometimes did to put their hair in a messy bun. How did a pencil keep your hair all wadded up on the back of your head? It made no sense to him. That’s why he studied literature and not physics.
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