Home > Too Late(3)

Too Late(3)
Author: Colleen Hoover

She combs through the strands of her hair with her fingers. It's still slightly damp and I can smell the floral scent of her shampoo when she flips her hair back over her shoulders. It's long and dark and thick, just like the lashes that line her contrasting light-blue eyes. She glances toward the front of the room and opens her notebook, so I mirror her movements and do the same.

The professor greets us in Spanish, and we return his salutations in collective, broken responses. He begins giving instructions on an assignment when my phone lights up on the table between us. I look down at the incoming text message from Dalton.

Does this hot piece of ass you're sitting next to have a name?

I immediately flip the phone over, hoping she didn't read it. She brings her hand to her mouth and quietly laughs.

She read it.

"Hot piece of ass, huh?" she says.

Mental note: Kick Dalton's ass tonight.

"I'm sorry," I say. "My friend... he thinks he's funny. Also likes to make my life hell. "

She arches an eyebrow and turns toward me. "So you don't think I'm a hot piece of ass?"

With her facing me head on, it's the first chance I've actually had to get a good look at her. Let's just say I'm officially in love with this class now.

I shrug my shoulders. "With all due respect, you've been sitting down since I met you. I haven't even seen your ass."

She laughs again. "Sloan," she says, extending her hand. I take her hand in mine, failing to shake it. The sheer softness of her skin takes me by surprise and I look down at her hand clasped in mine. There's a small crescent shaped scar on her thumb. I run my finger across it and twist her hand back and forth, inspecting the scar.

"Sloan," I repeat, letting her name roll off the tip of my tongue.

"This is usually the point during introductions that one would reply with their own name," she says.

I glance back up at her and she pulls her hand away, looking at me inquisitively.

"Carter," I reply, keeping in character with who I'm supposed to be. It's been hard enough calling Ryan by the name of Dalton for the past six weeks, but I've gotten used to it. Calling myself Carter is another story. I've more than once slipped up and almost referred to myself by my real name.

"Mucho gusto," she says in an almost perfect accent, turning her attention toward the front of the room.

No, the pleasure is mine. Believe me.

The professor instructs the class to turn to the closest partner and state three facts about the other person in Spanish. This is my fourth year of Spanish, so I decide to let Sloan go first so I won't intimidate her. We turn toward each other and I nod my head at her. "Las Senoras primera," I say.

"No, we'll take turns," she says. "You first. Go ahead, tell me a fact about myself."

"Okay," I say, laughing at how she just took control. "Usted es mandona."

"That's an opinion, not a fact," she states. "But I'll give it to you."

I tilt my head in her direction. "You understood what I just said?"

She nods her head. "If you intended to call me bossy, then yes." She narrows her eyes, but a tiny smile forces its way through. "My turn," she says. "Su compañera de clase es bella."

I laugh. She just complimented herself by telling me one of my facts is that my class partner is beautiful? I nod in unabashed agreement. "Mi compañera de clase esta correcta," I say.

I can see the blush rise to her cheeks, despite her tanned skin. "How old are you?" she asks.

"That's a question, not a fact. And in English, no less."

"I need to ask a question to get to the fact. You look a little older than most sophomore Spanish students."

"How old do you think I am?"

"23? 24?" she says.

She's not too far off. I'm twenty-five, but she doesn't need to know that. "Twenty-two," I say.

"Tiene veintidos años," she says, stating her second fact about me.

"You cheat," I reply.

"You have to say that in Spanish if that's one of your facts about me."

"Usted engana."

I can tell by the arch in her eyebrow that she wasn't expecting me to know that one in Spanish.

"That's three for you," she says.

"You still have one more."

"Usted es un perro."

I laugh. "You just accidentally called me a dog in Spanish."

She shakes her head. "It wasn't an accident."

Her phone vibrates, so she pulls it out of her pocket and gives it her full attention. I lean back in my chair and grab my own phone, pretending to do the same. We sit silently while the rest of the class finishes the assignment. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she texts, her thumbs flying quickly over the screen of her phone. She's cute. I like that I'm looking forward to this class now. Three days a week doesn't seem like enough all the sudden.

There's roughly fifteen minutes left of class and I'm doing my damndest to keep myself from staring at her. She hasn't said anything else since she referred to me as a dog. I watch as she doodles into her notebook, not paying attention to a single word the instructor has said. She's either bored out of her mind, or she's somewhere else entirely. I lean forward, attempting to get a better look at what she's writing. I feel nosey, but then again she did read my text earlier, so I feel justified.

   
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