Two days ago, I was furious at the very sight of him. Now, for some reason, one look from him and my breath is quickening and my heart is pounding.
For once, I want to get the hell out of this classroom. My eyes constantly flit back and forth from Professor Cormac to the clock hanging above the whiteboard. The moments between the tick and the tock take far too long. I just want to leave.
I’ve never packed up my stuff so fast. I’ve no idea if Zack wanted to talk to me or not. I never gave him the chance.
Halfway to my next class, I realize something. Not once did I hear any incoming or outgoing texts from Zack’s phone.
WEDNESDAY EVENING AT 5:50, I’m getting ready for my first youth class. Ten out of the thirteen students registered are already here. Most of them wander around the room aimlessly, while a couple of boys grapple in the corner.
This is the class I was chewing my fingernails over. I can coach grown adults without a flicker of anxiety, but with a bunch of children, some of whom have parents standing idly in the corner, it’s all a little nerve-racking. As if those parents are just waiting for one of their little angels to end up with a boo-boo so they can point their angry fingers at me.
Since the youth class is purely focused on discipline and form, rather than sparring, each of these kids should walk away completely unscathed. Except for the two wrestling in the corner, but since class hasn’t technically started yet, they aren’t on my watch.
At 5:58, I call the students up to face me in rows. Thankfully, the two wrestlers join in without a second command. My mouth opens to explain the purpose and mission of the class when the door indicator goes off.
And in walks Zack Graves wearing silver-gray gym shorts and a loose T-shirt with the university name and logo.
My mouth falls open wider when he asks, “Am I late?” in a husky, breathless voice. As if he’s run all the way here. As if he has no idea of his heady effect on me.
Not wanting to appear unprofessional, especially with parents standing nearby, I swallow the snub waiting at the base of my throat and summon the mindset of every retail worker on the planet. “How can I help you, Zack?”
His eyes glint with amusement. “You did say Wednesdays at six, right?”
I gape at him for a second before looking at the parents and students to see if they’re watching us. Of course they are. He approaches me with a collected stride, and I turn, leaning toward him a bit so the rest of the class won’t hear me.
“Zack, I wasn’t serious,” I grit through clenched teeth. This is getting to be too damned much.
He cocks an arrogant brow. “Funny, you sounded pretty serious to me, Dahlia.”
“This is a class of ten-year-olds!” I hiss.
His smile deepens, revealing a row of perfectly straight white teeth. “Good, then I’m in the right group for my maturity level. According to some, that is.”
Gah! He just won’t quit. My hands reflexively curl into fists at my side. The entire room is watching. I can feel the scrutinizing gaze the parents are giving us. If he doesn’t leave now, I’m screwed. And if Christos finds out that I messed up the first class he let me handle on my own, I’m double screwed.
As Zack’s vivid blue eyes bear into mine, I feel as though I’m staring down the barrel of a shot gun. My throat tightens. “Leave now.”
The small area between his eyebrows pinches, followed by a sudden widening of his eyes. As if he’s just realized something. When he speaks again, his voice is low and tense. “Fine, I’ll leave. But on one condition.”
I swallow around the massive lump forming in my throat. “What?”
This time, there’s something wicked in his smile. Calculated, as though he’s the starving wolf who finally spots an innocent rabbit hopping through the woods. And it looks as though I’m the lucky rabbit. He’s the predator and I’m his prey.
His voice is abrupt, but I swear I hear a slight wavering in his tone. “Go out with me.”
My jaw drops. He’s not serious, is he? Out of the few times we’ve spoken, using so few words that more are shared at an awkward family reunion, what in the world could I have possibly said to give him the impression I would go out with him?
I pin him with an angry glare, smoke nearly bursting out of my ears and a flush making its way to my cheeks. “No.”
He holds his arms out wide. “Then shouldn’t we be getting on with the class? Bad form for the apprentice to be so careless with her time.”
I’m fuming now, the spark on my fuse reaching dangerously close to total detonation.
One of the corners of his mouth turns up in a sly grin. “Tick, tock.” He taps his index finger on the top of his wrist.
Breaking away from his gaze, I cast a glance at the students, all waiting and tipping back and forth on their toes and heels.
When one of the moms pushes herself off the wall and slings the strap of her brightly patterned Louis Vuitton purse over her shoulder, I slip into panic mode. The only thing that’s more important to me right now than giving Puck Boy a second ass kicking is not making Christos regret asking me to be his apprentice.
“Fine!” I almost shout, making a host of eyes stare at me. I lower my voice to a whisper. “Just get out now. Please.”
Yes, I begged, but what other choice did I have? It’s either suffer one grueling phony date with Zack or suffer for potentially weeks with Christos. Or worse, have my apprenticeship revoked. Would he do that? God, I hope not, but I’m not willing to risk it.
Zack is grinning from ear to fucking ear. And I’d love nothing more than to slap that smug look right off his face.
“All right then,” he whispers.
All right then? That’s it?
Straightening his spine, he turns around to face the rest of the room and holds out a hand. “Please pardon the interruption. I was just asking for directions to Sammy’s Wingshop.”
And then he’s heading for the door.
Stopping halfway through the opened door, he addresses them again. “No better place than this to take your kids for training. That girl is a master.” He eyes me pointedly.
Then he’s gone, leaving me staring at the floor in bewilderment. The expression on my face likely replicates the one he wore the day I flipped out about his phone.
I FEEL AS IF I’M floating on a cloud of fucking victory when I exit. For the past four days, I’ve nearly blown a hole through my brain trying to think up a way to get to know her better.
As a center player in hockey, one of my jobs is back checking. Cutting off the other team’s attacking forward to disrupt their control of the puck or any passes they try to make.
Up to this point, Dahlia has been the attacking forward with free rein on the ice and a clear shot to the goal. This time, I managed to cross my stick with hers.
Was it risky? Hell yeah. But only a bold move would suit a bold girl like Dahlia.
She’s probably thinking she’s in the clear. She told me what I wanted to hear to get me to leave and probably has no intention of following through. Which is exactly why I’m standing off to the side of the studio’s windows, my back against the building. Just waiting for my warrior princess to step outside.
Yeah, I’m a sneaky shit. But that’s what makes me a great center. Catching other players off their guard. Letting them think they’ll make or receive the pass until I come gliding in front of them.
Catching Dahlia off her guard was the easy part. The more difficult part is yet to come. Getting her to take me seriously enough to actually want to talk to me instead of being forced into it.
When I told Keith my master plan this morning, he threw back his head and laughed as if it was the funniest shit he’d ever heard. I guess most people would have the same reaction if they knew all the details. Not that I care.
I’ve already put up my pride like a lamb to the slaughter once for her. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t notice the way she looked at me in class on Monday. I won’t pretend to know exactly what thoughts she h
ad tucked away behind her gaze, but dammit, I want to find out. I want to climb over that icy barrier and discover what she’s hiding.
Because that’s exactly what she was doing two days ago. Hiding. The second our eyes met, she ripped them away. Which is the complete opposite of all of our prior interactions, when she stood in front of me, the top of her head just barely reaching my chin, and stared me down with all the might of a linebacker. No batting her eyelashes or fiddling with her hair, no interest whatsoever, other than to put me in my fucking place. And hell if I didn’t find that sexy as fuck.
I can’t prevent her from hiding. Not yet anyway. What I can do is stop her dead in her tracks before she has a chance to flee and hold her there until she realizes I’m safe.
THE LAST THING I EXPECT to see as I’m leaving the studio is Zack casually leaning against the café next door with that same sly look on his face. The way he stands with his arms folded over his chest and one foot propped up on the brick, he looks like a goddamn cover model come to life.
That thought irritates the hell out of me. He’s gorgeous, I’ll admit that much—and only because that fact comes purely from an objective standpoint with zero emotion attached to it. For any random girl passing him in the halls and happening to meet his penetrating gaze, it’s an instant takedown, but I have to keep my feet firmly on the ground with this one.
Pushing himself off the wall, he shoves his hands in his pockets and stares me down. “All ready to go?”
Wait . . . he wants to go on the date now?
I was shaking with anger throughout the entire class, struggling to keep my patience in check when the same two kids from before starting air punching each other in the middle of a demonstration.
But roughly ten minutes before the session ended, it dawned on me—we hadn’t exchanged phone numbers, emails, or any means of communication. All I had to put up with was a weekly class where I’d have legitimate reason to ignore him. I had been so sure I was in the clear.
I was wrong. So wrong. Clearly I underestimated him.
My eyes dart around nervously. “You mean, like, right now?”
He offers a careless shrug. “No time like the present, right? I didn’t bother to go home and change. You don’t seem like much of the dress-up type.”
He gives me a once-over, raking his eyes over me from head to toe. Not in a lewd way. Just as if he’s making sure he’s correct in his assumption. Which he is. I own a whopping total of one dress. A black one that I wore to Christos’s father’s funeral a year ago.
My body goes rigid, my mind racing through various excuses I could offer. I’m tired. I have homework. I’m suffering from a case of spontaneous vomiting. Anything.
But then his gaze softens and a whisper of a smile twitches at his lips. A sincere plea. For some crazy reason, he really wants this date.
And I melt. I fucking melt. Right into a puddle of pathetic goo at his feet.
With my heart pounding in my ears and a desert-dry mouth, I concede. “What did you have in mind?”
For a Wednesday night, Sammy’s Wingshop is packed. The waitresses dressed in black jeans and bright red shirts are zipping from party to party, sweat beading on their foreheads as they scribble down orders and hand them out.
You couldn’t pay me enough to be a waitress. I don’t care how good the tips are; the second someone decided to be an asshole to me, they’d end up with their entree in their lap.
My throat tightens and my palms are sweaty as I scan the room full of people. Crowds don’t necessarily bother me. Sure, I prefer a small gathering of friends at a cute little diner over crammed commercial restaurants, but I’ll deal with them whenever Lexi is craving food from a specific place.
What does bother me are the familiar faces sitting at nearby tables. Most of the people here look to be our age. Likely students at Oakland.
And I’m standing here with Zack Graves. The Big Man on Campus himself. And while people don’t know me, they know him like a blind man knows scent. According to Lexi, whoever he’s seen with becomes an instant topic of conversation.
Just what I need.
The hostess hurries over to us, a little out of breath, and small pieces of her blond hair stray from the perfect bun at the top of her head. She asks us if we prefer a table or the bar located in the back of the restaurant, and Zack chooses the bar.
I lean my head closer to him to whisper, “I’m only twenty. I can’t drink.”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that sends an electric current shooting straight to my lower belly. “So am I.” I’m surprised he doesn’t bother to whisper. “Being on a championship winning hockey team has its perks.”
Ah, yes, the star player emerges. I have to suppress the powerful urge to roll my eyes. If he’s going to brag about his athletic prowess the entire night, then this date will be cut short far earlier than he realizes.
Despite the place being filled to near capacity, Zack and I find two empty stools next to each other at bar. He orders a summer beer by some foreign brand, then he turns to me just as the bartender does.
“Unsweetened iced tea, please,” I say.
The bartender pours Zack’s beer from the tap before letting us know he’ll give us a few minutes to look over the menu.
“You can’t be one of those girls who does an hour on the treadmill for smelling a cookie,” Zack says, smiling with amusement.
My nose scrunches. “I just don’t like things that are super sugary. I’m more of a savory food lover.”
He takes a sip of his beer and nods. “I get that. So no fruity drinks with a Jolly Rancher swizzle for you, eh?” When a tiny bubble of laughter breaks through my lips, his eyes widen in mock surprise. “Would you look at that! I got Dahlia Anastas to laugh. No small feat, I’d imagine.”
No, it really isn’t. Lexi always says I make some of her professors look like stand-up comedians, but something about the man sitting next to me elicits a strange sense of ease within me, despite my mind being so twisted I fear it will tear in two.
The bartender brings my iced tea, and we place our orders. When we both choose the habeñero wings with a side of chili fries, we jerk our heads toward each other in surprise. He laughs, and I pinch my lips together to avoid doing the same.
“I’m impressed,” he says, tipping his beer in my direction.
I shoot him a disdainful look. “I’m not trying to impress you.”
Setting down his glass, he focuses intently on my face, making me fight the urge to squirm in the wooden seat. “I know.”
So what, I’m a challenge to him? Some sort of box, likely under Sex with Twins, he hasn’t yet ticked off on some illicit bucket list? Which brings me to our next topic of conversation.
“What’s going on here, Zack?” I shake my head and rephrase. “I mean, why did you want this date so badly you needed to barge in on one of my classes and force me into it?”
I expect him to hesitate, but he doesn’t. He gives me the same intense look. “Well, A.” He holds up his pointer finger. “I was going to ask you the other day in class, but you left before I had the chance. And I know for a fact you would have turned me down.”
Obviously. So he intentionally put me on the spot so I would say yes. Crafty bastard.
“And B.” He holds up a second finger, but he casts his eyes down to the varnished wood bar before looking back at me. “I dunno, I like you.”
I stop midsip of my iced tea, the lemon wedge perched on the side of the glass slipping onto the counter and sending droplets everywhere. I wasn’t expecting him to be so straightforward. “Is this how you typically respond to getting your ass kicked?”
A loud belly laugh erupts from him, and this time I can’t help but laugh right along with him.
“Not exactly,” he says as his laughter slows to a chuckle. “Can’t say I’ve ever been on the receiving end of an ass kicking quite that intense before.”
“Isn’t hockey a relatively physical sport?”
He gi
ves me a lopsided smirk. “Yeah, but no one has ever delivered a drop kick to my face before.”
It was a jump switch kick actually . . .
“So you know I play hockey. I hope that’s the only thing you’ve been hearing about me.” His face flushes a little.
“To be fair, I didn’t know anything about you before two weeks ago. You have my friend Lexi to thank for that.”
He squints as though trying to recall something. “Oh, you mean the hippie chick with the pink hair?”
I snort out a laugh. I guess Lexi does fall under the bohemian category with her floral sundresses, crystals, and incense. I swear I can still smell that putrid Nag Champa she always burned when we roomed together.
He’s beaming at me now, the tiny creases at the edges of his eyes becoming more defined. “That depends on whether her info played for or against my favor.”
I kind of like that he’s gauging my first impression of him. It shows that he’s not an all-around egotistical jock like I expected.
So rather than brushing him off just for the sake of it, I give him an honest answer. “That remains to be seen. But you get a point for keeping your phone quiet on Monday.”
THAT VICTORY CLOUD DOESN’T COME close to the euphoria of floating on cloud fucking nine.
While the date started off slightly awkward—with me worrying that she was going to bolt at any second and her scanning the room to locate the nearest exits—things eventually fell into a comfortable rhythm as the conversation flowed with ease.
One thing I learned about Dahlia is that she isn’t the talkative type. At least not when it comes to divulging information about herself. Like how she came to train in mixed martial arts or where she grew up. Those types of questions she flipped back around to me, and while I was disappointed that she was dodging some of my attempts to get to know her better, I also didn’t want to push her right out the fucking door.
Sweet Insanity (Sweet Series Book 1) Page 5