But the moment those words leave my mouth—and the moment she levels me with her gaze—I know she has a list prepared.
She ticks off her fingers one by one. “The first day of class you asked if you could call me Big Red. I said no. Then you asked if the carpet matched the drapes.”
I try not to seem ashamed. “In my defense, I was pretty sauced that first class.”
“Then,” she goes on, ignoring me, “we had to read our one-page stories out loud. After mine, you said that my stuff works better than Nyquil.”
“Hey,” I tell her, defensive and vaguely embarrassed. “I didn’t think you heard that.”
She cocks her head and shakes it. “Oh really. Then there was that time where I dropped my books right in front of you, and instead of helping me, you just stared at my ass as I bent over. Not only that, but I’m pretty sure you made a sound like you were coming in your pants,” she adds, wrinkling her nose for added effect.
That vaguely rings a bell. “So you don’t like being appreciated by the male species,” I say, goading her.
“I don’t want any species staring at my ass when they could be helping me,” she says. “Not that I need help anyway.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “Oh, of course not.”
“What does that mean?”
I lick my lips and shrug. “I don’t know, it could explain why anytime anyone has a critique about your writing, you just laugh it off, as if their opinions don’t matter, don’t count, and aren’t warranted.”
She stills. I know I’ve hit a sore spot.
A flash of pink tongue comes out, absently licking her lips. “That’s not true,” she finally says, though her voice is soft now, a whisper. “I can take criticism.”
“Right.”
“But, I mean, most people in that class couldn’t string a sentence together if they tried.”
I raise my brow. “You mean people like me.”
Amanda thinks that over, like she’s chewing it in her head.
“Why are you taking this class anyway?” she asks, and I know she’s had a change of heart and doesn’t quite want to call me an idiot to my face. I’m not sure if I like this sudden politeness, nor the change of subject.
“Because I want to.”
She stares at me for a moment, still chewing, still digesting. I get why it’s hard for her to believe, that she thinks there is some ulterior motive on my behalf, perhaps an easy grade, perhaps I just live to annoy her.
“Look,” I tell her, feeling the need to explain myself, maybe just because of the way I’ve been acting. I half recollect the things I said to her in class and I’m surprised she noticed. Thank god there’s no way she knows what I’m thinking most of the time. “I’m not taking writing because I think it’s easy or a joke or I just need a credit. I’m taking it because I like it.”
“But you’re taking Business Management.”
I peer at her inquisitively. “How do you know that?”
“Because during the first class, the one you said you were hammered at, everyone had to tell the class what they were taking at school, and I remember what you said.”
I’m slightly impressed. “Well, then. I guess you were paying attention.” I take off my leather jacket and hang it on the back of the chair, figuring I’m not going anywhere now. When I turn back to face her, I catch her eyes on my biceps. She quickly averts them, but she can’t fool me. Is it wrong that I feel a strange sense of victory, maybe even pride, that she’s noticed me in some way that doesn’t involve me being a total asshole?
I clear my throat. “Anyway, not that it’s any of your business, but I’m taking Business Management so I can properly take over my father’s store. The bookstore. The writing class is for me. Maybe the only thing that is for me.”
I’m surprised I’ve admitted that last part.
She tilts her head, eyeing me. She seems to spend a lot of time thinking me over, and yet the outcome always seems to be the same: fuckface. That was the term she used, right?
“So you want to be a writer?”
I don’t answer her at first. “I want to get this project done and over with, and I want to graduate.” All right, maybe it was a non-answer, but I don’t feel like giving her any ammo. I sigh and lean back in my chair. “I’m sorry about the email. I guess you rubbed me the wrong way.”
“Because you rub me the wrong way!” she says, and another “Shhhh!” comes from down the aisle.
“Quiet,” I hiss at Amanda. “Do you want Treebeard to kick us out or what?”
A flash of worry comes across her brow and she nods, knowing exactly who I’m talking about.
“Regardless of who rubbed who first,” I tell her, trying not to smirk at my innuendo, “we need to at least try and get along if this is going to work.” I pause. “Or if anything, at least not kill each other until the novella is done.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
I shrug. “Well, a good start would be if you just accepted my apology.”
She blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Fine.” But of course she’s not looking at me, she’s pulling her laptop toward her, going into serious writer mode, just like in class. Whatever, I’ll take what I can get at this point. Though I have to say, even though it was my idea, it’s going to take a lot of discipline to not press her buttons. And no, that’s not innuendo this time.