London Prep: Book Two

by Dodd, Jillian

  “Holy shit,” I say, taking a seat next to Noah. My eyes are wide, and I can barely believe what just happened.

  My chest is pounding, and I’m not sure if I’m going to cry from shock or joy.

  But I’m pretty sure I’m going to cry.

  “What?” Noah asks, concerned.

  I turn toward him, trying to process this.

  I hold out the paper still glued to my hand. “I got an A. I got an A on my Latin test. Our teacher handed them back right before class was over.”

  “Why aren’t you excited?” Noah asks, a smile on his face.

  “I am. But I feel shocked. I mean, I’ve only been in the class for a week and a half. I guess I can’t believe studying worked.”

  Noah tilts his head, his chestnut hair bouncing. “Well, studying usually does have that effect.”

  I shake my head, trying to pull myself out of my daze. “I just can’t believe I did so good.” I turn to him, grinning. “I genuinely thought I would fail.”

  “Way to discredit my help,” he teases.

  I eye him, but his brown eyes are sparkling, and he looks proud of me.

  “You were a great help. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” Because I do appreciate him helping me study.

  “We need to celebrate,” he states, connecting his eyes to mine.

  His creamy skin looks soft and warm, and I instantly want to touch his cheek.

  “You think?” I ask, feeling embarrassed. I push a piece of hair behind my ear, dropping my gaze onto the desk.

  “Definitely,” Noah confirms. “Getting a high mark is something to celebrate. Especially when you’re new to the language and you were thrown into the course midterm.”

  I flush at his words, knowing that he’s right.

  But I wouldn’t have been able to do it without his or Mohammad’s help.

  “How should we celebrate then?” I ask.

  Noah brings his fingers to his chin, thinking, and I can see when an idea sparks in his head.

  “We should have chocolate fondue this weekend,” he says, his brown eyes on me.

  “That’s actually a great idea.” I think about dipping bananas and apples into warm, delicious chocolate.

  My eyes flutter at the thought.

  “My stomach still isn’t too happy about last night’s free-for-all though.” I laugh. “I’ll have to make sure I pace myself. I can’t get crazy with the dipping options. I’ll keep it strictly fruits, nice and simple.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Noah grins, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Mum will love it. She’s got a fondue pot as well, so that makes it easy. Plus, chocolate …”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if you might enjoy my celebration more than I will.” I laugh.

  Because it’s no secret that he likes chocolate just as much, if not more, than the rest of us.

  “What?” he says, waving his hand at me. “Definitely not. That’s a ridiculous idea.” He pushes out his bottom lip while shaking his head, but his eyes are bright, and I know he’s teasing me.

  “I thought so,” I say pointedly. “Honestly, I’m not sure today could get any better. I mean, the run about killed me this morning, but it was good to get fresh air. Breakfast was delicious, and my grade was a nice surprise.”

  “I’m glad you’re having a good day,” he says.

  Mrs. Jones starts talking to the class from her desk. She wears a warm smile and a relaxed demeanor. “Today, class, we’re going to be starting a project that focuses on texture. Yesterday, you learned about different ways to add this to a canvas—gauze, painting medium, bits of paper, tools. What I want you to start on today is a painting of your choice, abstract or detailed, that has texture. You will all use the same-sized canvases, but it’s up to you what to do with them. I’m looking for creativity and dimension.”

  I glance over at Noah, wondering what his take is on this project.

  It doesn’t seem very hard, which makes me actually excited about it.

  “Now, you may create something abstract, but know that this will not make things easier. I want to see that you’ve transformed your piece through the use of texture.”

  Mrs. Jones strongly nods her head once before moving to the corner of our classroom, her hand coming down to a stack of canvases.

  “Each of you may come get your canvas and start at any time. I think, however, you should first outline your idea with pencil on paper. Feel free to explore the painting mediums. Once you have an idea, come show me before you get started.”

  In unison, we all nod our heads at Mrs. Jones, silently accepting her instruction.

  When she takes a seat back down at her desk, we know it’s okay to talk again.

  “This sounds kind of fun,” I admit, a little giddy for our project.

  “It should be a challenge,” Noah says, his eyes searching across the room.

  “What?” I ask, trying to figure out what he’s looking for.

  Noah turns to me. “Why don’t you grab my notebook out of my backpack? We can start writing out ideas. I’m going to go look at the paint colors for a minute.”

  “Sure.” I nod, watching as he walks away.

  I grab his backpack, unzipping it.

  It’s even more organized than I expected, and all of his notebooks are perfectly lined up. I finger through them until I find his one for Art, pulling it out. When I unzip his front pouch to grab pencils, I hit his phone, causing the screen to flash on.

  And I see that he has a text.

  I can’t read what it says. I just see who it’s from.

  Sophia.

  I look up, trying to pretend like I didn’t just see his phone.

  Or her name.

  But my heart is pounding in my chest.

  Because he insisted that nothing was going on.

  But if that’s the case, why is she texting him?

  I grab a few pencils from the pouch, avoiding his phone, and try not to throw his backpack down onto the ground when I get it zipped up.

  “So, any initial thoughts?” he asks, coming back to our table.

  I search his face, trying to figure out what they could be talking about.

  Maybe if I stare at him hard enough, he’ll crack.

  He’ll finally admit to me that he has been talking to her.

  And that they do have something going on.

  Or at least that they’re more than friends.

  But he doesn’t.

  I let out a sigh, knowing I just need to forget I ever saw her name and move on.

  “I have no idea. Uh … maybe something abstract. I liked the paintings Mrs. Jones showed us yesterday where some of the paint was sanded off. I liked how the colors came together after being layered.”

  Noah nods. “I could see you liking that. I think it’s a great idea.”

  I smile, happy that he likes my idea.

  But then I think about his phone, and my stomach twists.

  “Thanks. Any thoughts on colors?” I ask, trying to keep our conversation on paint.

  “Maybe something to match your room at home? Bring a little personality to it. You said it was kind of formal, right?”

  I think about my room at home. The colors. The modern art on my walls.

  “That’s true. What if I did, like, a really beautiful deep purple but then layered over it with a shiny gold and topped it with a creamy white?”

  “That sounds really cool,” Noah admits. “After you sand it, you might consider sort of splattering on a thick acrylic as well or topping it with raised gold flakes to match the second layer.”

  “I hate that you’re so good at this.” I laugh, shaking my head.

  “It was your idea.” He shrugs.

  “So, Mr. Artist, what are you thinking about doing?”

  Noah grins at me, his gaze connecting with mine. “I was thinking about a peacock.”

  “A peacock?” I repeat, trying to figure out how he’s going to accomplish that.

  “Yeah. I’ll
paint the head and chest but texture the feathers,” he replies.

  “How would you do that?”

  “I was thinking about using tissue paper or maybe gauze. I’m not sure yet.”

  “It always surprises me how thoughtful you are in these projects. I’m not even sure why. It shouldn’t surprise me because I do think you’re very thoughtful. I mean, I just … I don’t know. It would be easy to joke it off or not care. But you really do care.”

  Noah bites his lip before smiling warmly at me. “I care about certain things, not all things.”

  He lets out a heavy, deep laugh that settles into me.

  “You care about Art,” I urge because I’m not buying this for one second.

  He cares about a ton of things. Math, Art, football, his friends, his family.

  “I do.” He nods, his face becoming serious.

  But then his eyes drift down to my lips, and I feel myself flush.

  I clear my throat, trying to get my body under control.

  Because it’s betraying me right now.

  When I glance back up to Noah, he’s still looking at my lips, and I feel frozen.

  I turn, forcing myself to stare at Noah’s closed notebook in front of me.

  “We should get started,” I push, wanting Noah to stop looking at me.

  “We should,” he agrees, shifting in his chair. He takes the notebook, tears out a piece of paper, and slides it back over to me.

  I pick up the pencil, knowing that I need to plan out my project, but my mind struggles to stay focused.

  Instead, I’m trying to forget about Sophia.

  And I’m trying to get Noah off of my mind.

  “It’s no use,” I huff, throwing the pencil back onto the table.

  At least pretend to.

  Lunch

  Noah and I walk to lunch together, weaving through students until we get to our usual table.

  We’re the first ones there, so I slip onto the bench across from Noah, leaving room for Harry next to me.

  I look around, searching for Harry.

  Because I haven’t seen him all day. And normally, that would make me concerned, but I know that he’s at school because of the note he left in my locker.

  And I really want to see him.

  “Everything okay?” Noah asks, pulling out our lunches from his backpack.

  I watch as he dumps the contents onto the table in front of him, sorting through them until he finds his sandwich.

  “Yep,” I reply, but I’m distracted, my eyes still scanning the cafeteria.

  My gaze drifts from person to person until I finally spot Harry. And the second my eyes land on him, I can’t help but exhale.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to Noah, getting up from the table.

  When his blue eyes meet mine, what I want to do is run across the room, leap straight into his arms, and kiss him. What I do instead is rush toward him, throwing my arms around him. I know that our embrace probably isn’t allowed and that we’re not supposed to hug or kiss or have a life or whatever, but I don’t care right now.

  I need to feel Harry against me.

  “Hi,” I breathe into his chest.

  His hands slip around my waist, and he hugs me back.

  “Excited to see me?” he asks, leaning down to my ear.

  I nod against him, taking in his familiar smell and letting his voice soothe me.

  I feel him try to pull back, but I keep him in place, wanting to hold on to him forever.

  “Everything okay?”

  I finally pull away from him, connecting our gaze. “Everything’s better than okay. I got your note. And I loved it.”

  Harry’s cheeks tint pink, and he shakes his head a bit like he’s uncomfortable.

  I drop my hands from around his neck.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” he says, clearing his throat.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, feeling unsure. Because he’s acting strange.

  “Yeah, of course. You just seemed more … upset than excited when you saw me. I thought something might have been wrong.”

  Harry’s face flashes with concern, and I try to relax my own, hoping he will see I’m perfectly fine.

  “I’m good, I promise. I just haven’t seen you all day, and I’ve been thinking about you,” I admit, looking up at him.

  His blue eyes shine down at me. “Good.”

  It’s all he says, but then he grabs on to my hand, leading me back to our lunch table.

  Mohammad’s standing by the table, talking to Noah as we walk up.

  “There you lovebirds are,” Mohammad says.

  My mouth instantly falls open.

  “Thought I would have to face the lunch lines alone if the two of you never stopped chatting,” Mohammad continues.

  “Oh, lay off, mate. I’m here; I’m here. Let’s go get some food,” Harry says, throwing his arm around Mohammad’s shoulders and leaving me at the table.

  Alone with Noah.

  Harry shoots me a wink as they walk away, but I can’t even focus on that.

  Because all of my attention is focused on Mohammad and trying to knock him on his butt with my glare.

  Because that little weasel.

  “That was weird,” Noah comments, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  “Was it?” I ask, laughing nervously. “I mean, maybe a bit. I don’t know what’s gotten into Mohammad. I think he’s just feeling a little feisty today or something. Maybe he’s jealous. Wants some alone time with Harry or something,” I babble.

  “I’ve changed my mind. You are acting weird,” Noah says, looking across the table at me with a flat expression.

  I widen my eyes at him, not sure what to say.

  I push my mouth shut, deciding I probably shouldn’t say anything. Because it will just make things weirder. Or worse. And they shouldn’t be either.

  I need to calm down.

  “Here,” Noah says, interrupting my thoughts by pushing my lunch bag toward me.

  “Thanks,” I sigh, happy for a distraction.

  I get halfway through my sandwich before Mohammad and Harry get back to the table.

  “I’m still upset that you didn’t include me in this sleepover,” Mohammad says as he sets his tray onto the table.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “We’ve already talked about this.”

  And I don’t want another sleepover lecture.

  Harry takes a seat next to me. He wraps his arm around my waist before kissing me on the cheek.

  “And you,” Mohammad says, ignoring my statement and turning his attention to Noah. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “What?” Noah says.

  “You didn’t even tell me about the sleepover until it was too late. Had you told me earlier, I could have at least begged my aunt to let me come over.”

  Noah rolls his eyes. “If anything, you’re lucky you didn’t have to be there.”

  “Hey,” I say, leaning across the table and trying to swat him.

  He just holds up his hands in defense, leaning further back.

  “Seriously. They messed up my bed,” Noah says, a little salty.

  “And you can’t get over it?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

  Because Noah is being more than a tiny bit dramatic.

  Noah glares back at me, and I have my answer.

  Apparently not.

  “Wait … what do you mean, they messed up your bed?” Mohammad asks, his face brightening up. “You told me you didn’t have a pillow fight.”

  Mohammad’s eyes narrow in on me.

  “We didn’t,” I tell him. “We just messed up his room.”

  “Among other things,” Noah mutters. “They kicked my pillows onto the floor. Plus, they single-handedly ate all of the chocolate and popcorn in the house.”

  Because, apparently, that’s supposed to be proof enough that we’re demons?

  “Please, you ate the chocolate and popcorn too,” I argue.

  “They also more than kindly insist
ed that I put on a face mask,” Noah says like the experience scarred him.

  “Please tell me you have a photo.” Harry chuckles.

  I raise my eyebrows at him and smile, shooting him a wink.

  “That’s my girl,” he says proudly.

  “What was Naomi wearing?” Mohammad asks.

  “Bunny slippers,” Noah states.

  “That’s hot.”

  “That’s not hot,” I say, still annoyed I had to wear slippers.

  “Girls can look the hottest when they don’t even realize it,” Mohammad continues. “Think about it. Soft pajamas, fuzzy slippers, a little morning hair. One button is off, and you get a little nip—”

  “Someone’s getting a little too imaginative for the lunch table,” I interject, cutting off his fantasy.

  “Can you blame the man?” Harry asks, his eyes slipping over me.

  “I guess you have a point,” Noah says, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Sometimes, girls are just too done up. They can look sort of fake. Like their faces are caked on or something.”

  “Makeup is an expression,” Mohammad says, seemingly defending all the dolled-up girls of the world.

  “So, here’s a question. When Harry dated Olivia, why didn’t either of you date Naomi?” I ask, looking between Noah and Mohammad. “She’s really sweet.”

  “She is sweet,” Noah confirms, nodding.

  “But?” I push.

  “But I don’t fancy her. She’s nice. We’ve just never had a connection.”

  “Noah, I think you’re the only man I know who wants to have a spark with a woman before shagging her,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

  “For fuck’s sake, Harry,” Noah says, “it’s normal to want to like a girl before getting with her.”

  “Is it?” Mohammad teases.

  “Of course it is,” I scold.

  “See, Mallory agrees,” Noah says, like that somehow means he’s won. He raises his eyebrows, looking between Harry and Mohammad.

  “There’s a difference between liking a girl and waiting for some cosmic connection,” Harry says, taking a drink of his soda.

  “Don’t pressure him,” I say, turning toward Harry.

  “I don’t need you to defend me,” Noah cuts in.

  “Are you sure? Because you’re getting walked on all over here.”

  “We’re debating,” Mohammad says.

  “You’re judging,” I correct.