Chapter Twenty-Two RHETT

I wait for Willow outside of our English class, anxious to talk to her. I haven’t seen her since Friday morning when Westscott dragged me away from her. Such a dick move. I messaged her over the weekend and apologized over it, and she was sweet, reassuring me it wasn’t my fault. Then we talked about football and the fact that she was home for the weekend, which was a disappointment. I wanted to see her. Was even going to ask her if she wanted to hang out Saturday night, but my plans were crushed by her being off-campus.

We’ve been vibing all week. I was swamped with school work and football, and she was always patient, always seemingly eager to talk to me. I like that. I like that she’s not naggy or demanding, though I never believed she would be. She’s cool. I like her.

A lot.

I was completely preoccupied over the weekend anyway, so I didn’t have too much time on my hands to feel down that she wasn’t around. After our close win, Coach called special practice sessions both Saturday and Sunday because we need to make sure we’re up to speed for the first home game this upcoming Friday.

We had an extra practice this morning too—we will all week, just like we did last week. I was up by five-thirty and went for a run. Worked out with weights for thirty minutes and then was out on the field, sweating my ass off despite the cool air and the misty clouds that hung over the stadium.

My energy hasn’t waned though. If anything, I’m even more amped up. Excited to see her. Hear her voice. Flirt with her a little bit. Willow Lancaster is nothing but repressed energy, and I can sense there’s a bad girl underneath all that innocent shine and she’s dying to come out. I can’t get the memories of her from that party a couple of weeks ago out of my head, when I kept whispering in her ear. The way she leaned into me. Those breathy sounds she made and how her body trembled.

I look forward to seeing her on campus. In class. Talking to her via DMs when we’re not in class and practice is long done. We stayed up way too late Thursday night chatting, which I thought would have me dragging ass on Friday but I was fine. She gives me energy.

Life.

Fuuuuck, she’s going to be my undoing if I don’t watch it. And I need to stay focused. Football is number one on my priority list. School is number two. Girls—Willow—will have to be number three.

I check my phone for the time. Two minutes or less until the final bell rings. Minus the first day of school in our photography class, she’s always early.

Where the hell is she?

The bell is literally ringing when I see her running down the hall, headed straight for me. I push away from the wall, waiting for her, and she comes to an abrupt stop when she notices me standing there. Her shiny loafers squeak as she shuffles her feet along the floor and her cheeks are a dewy pink.

“Rhett!” she chastises. “You should get inside. The bell just rang.”

She goes zooming right past me without waiting for a reply and I follow her into the classroom. “Where were you?”

“Running a little late.” She practically falls into her desk.

I sit in the one behind her like usual. “You’re never late.”

“You’ve known me for a couple of weeks. Meaning, you don’t know me that well at all.” She sniffs, turning so her back is to me. All that long, glossy dark hair swings and I’m tempted to pull on a strand.

I rear back a little, mulling over what she just said. Her dismissive attitude. What’s her problem? I’m filled with the sudden urge to get under her skin—what’s fair is fair, right? She’s definitely under mine.

“Pretty sure I’ve got you somewhat figured out, Will. You’re an early bird.” I give in to my impulses and wrap a thick, silky curl around my finger once. Twice, before I give it a hard tug, making her yelp and jerk away from me. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Willow sends me a quick glance from over her shoulder, seemingly surprised that I can read her so well. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Uh huh.” I don’t believe her. She’s acting weird. “You know you don’t have to keep anything from me.”

Her shoulders stiffen, and I just know something is bugging this girl. But what could it be?

Mrs. Patel starts taking attendance, but I’m barely paying attention. I’m too caught up in watching Willow. How the tension never leaves her shoulders. How she keeps fidgeting, like she can’t get comfortable.

Seriously. What’s wrong with her?

Of course, I can’t ask her because today’s the day our teacher decides to give a big lecture on the joys of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his books. She rambles on about the meaning behind the novel we’re supposed to be reading, The Great Gatsby.

I haven’t even cracked it open yet.

She even has some of us read parts of the book out loud, which means I keep my head down, hopeful she doesn’t call on me. I can’t concentrate for shit, too wrapped up in the swing of Willow’s hair and how I can smell her perfume, that faintly floral scent I remember inhaling Friday night when she sat on my lap. I wish I could bury my face in her neck and breathe deep, imprinting her smell on my senses forever. If I did that though, she’d probably freak the hell out.

Good thing I’ve got plenty of restraint.

“Willow? Would you care to read a passage?” the teacher asks her at one point.

“Yes, of course.” Willow sits up straighter, clears her throat and begins to read while I lean forward across the top of my desk like I’m trying to get closer to her, entranced with the sound of her voice.

I could listen to her all day.

I feel like a lovesick idiot—not that I’m in love with her or anything, but damn. Her voice is soft and sweet, but not too highpitched or little-girlish. She sounds sophisticated, and she pronounces every word clearly. But I could also imagine her saying something dirty to me and that would be hot.

This girl is hot.

Fuck, I’ve got it bad.

Next thing I know, the bell is ringing and she’s exiting the classroom in a blur of movement, like she’s in a race. From not caring if she’s late to hightailing her ass out of the room, she’s not making any sense.

Weird.

When lunchtime rolls around, I’m entering the dining hall with my friends and my brother when I spot Westscott lingering by the entrance, a faint smile appearing on his face when he spots me.

“Mr. Bennett. A word?” He lifts his brows in question.

“Sure.” I follow him as he rounds the corner of the building, coming to a stop near the fence that surrounds the dining hall dumpster. Not that it smells out here. That’s the thing about Lancaster Prep. The grounds are manicured and immaculate, and there’s never any trash in sight. The entire place is spotless, but that’s what money gets you.

Westscott turns to face me, that pleasant smile still on his face. “You ready for this Friday’s game?”

“You know it, sir,” I say with a firm nod. “Had an intense practice this morning. We’ll be keeping it up all week.”

“You did great last Friday, though the score was a little closer than I prefer,” Westscott says.

He sounds like our coaching staff. They hated how close the score was. I didn’t love it either.

“We’ll do even better this Friday,” I reassure him. “Being on home turf is always a benefit.”

“You’re right.” He sounds satisfied with my answers. “Keep it up.”

“Of course, sir. We always want to win no matter what it takes.”

“That’s the attitude I like to see. Just don’t overwork yourself,” he warns.

“Never. You have nothing to worry about. We’ve got this.”

“Glad to hear it.” He pauses, resting his hands on his hips and glancing around before he returns his gaze to me. I can tell he wants to ask me something else. “Everything going okay for you otherwise?”

“School’s good.” I don’t bother telling him it’s boring. Teachers, principals, headmasters—they don’t understand.

“Anything else going on?”

Why does it feel like he’s digging? “Not much. Just school and football, sir.”

“No parties after the game Friday night?”

I shake my head. “We got back to campus so late, all of us were too beat to party.”

“Heard about the bonfire last Friday night though,” he says casually. Why is he bringing it up now? “Hope there wasn’t too much partying and drinking going on then.”

The staff tends to turn a figurative cheek when they hear we’re partying. It’s my favorite thing about Lancaster Prep. Well, that and the hottest girl I’ve ever met who goes here and just so happens to be a Lancaster.

“I didn’t get shitfaced.” I grimace the moment the words leave me. Probably shouldn’t have said it like that. “Sir.”

Westscott chuckles. “Good to know, Bennett. Just—make sure you stay focused. You don’t need any distractions in your life right now, especially during football season. You’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“Right.” I nod. “No distractions.”

“I know how it is. I was a teenage boy once. At this stage in our life, we’re all young, dumb and full of cum.” Westscott chuckles.

I blink at him, shocked he would say that. I mean yeah, my dad would probably say something like that but in a joking way. And plus, he’s my dad. We have that kind of relationship where it’s no bullshit. He remembers what it was like when he was a teen, he’s told me. He was all over the place and obsessed with two things—football.

And my mother.

But Westscott is the headmaster. He runs the entire school and he has an image to uphold—he’s told me that plenty of times. He looked pretty serious saying it too, which is just odd.

“Right,” I say lightly, trying to laugh but failing miserably. Instead, I just feel uncomfortable. “You don’t have to worry about me, sir. I’m one hundred percent focused on football. We’re going all the way. I can feel it.”

“Good to know.” Westscott claps me on the shoulder so hard I take a stumbling step forward, glaring at him as he turns and walks away.

I watch him go, rubbing the back of my neck, wondering about our conversation. Curious if I’m the only one he says this kind of shit to. When he talks to me like that, he makes me feel like I’m his prized possession, and I don’t like it.

At all.

***

By the time I’m in our photography class after lunch, I know for a damn fact that Willow is avoiding me. She runs into the classroom right as the bell rings, just like she did in English, earning a stern glare from our teacher who otherwise doesn’t say a word to her.

She scrambles to her desk, settling in and keeping her focus off me the entire time, leaving me confused. Everything was cool the last time I talked to her, which was last freaking night. Now she acts like she wants nothing to do with me and I don’t get it. Every little bit I get from her is just enough to keep me interested and wanting more.

Maybe it had the opposite effect on her.

If that’s the case, man that sucks.

“We’re going to work on a project this week that entails you pairing up with another student in class.” There’s a collective groan from the class and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who’s not complaining. I’d give anything to share the workload with someone else. Makes things so much easier.

“To take away the difficulty of pairing up on your own and to avoid anyone feeling left out, I’ve already preassigned your partner.”

More groaning from the classroom and I brace myself, glancing around the room. There’s hardly anybody in this class I want to be paired up with.

Mr. Chen starts rattling off names, going down a list.

“Bennett, you’re with Lancaster.”

Talk about good luck. I thought for sure I’d have to pair up with that weird brainiac freshman that no one talks to. Poor kid.

Willow’s hand shoots up in the air.

“Yes, Willow?”

“Um, maybe I could switch partners?” She still won’t look at me, and damn, I’m hurt.

She’d rather work with someone else? Maybe even the brainiac freshman?

Ouch.

“I’m afraid I can’t switch you with anyone else. Working with someone you’re unfamiliar with is good practice for when you’re out in the real world.” Mr. Chen’s face falls a little. “Well, you’ll probably never have to deal with that considering who you are.”

Someone giggles. Willow’s face turns red.

All I can do is glare at her.

“Okay!” Mr. Chen claps his hands, causing the room to go silent. “We’ll be heading outside to work on our first assignment for the week. Please make sure you grab one of the sheets here.” He gestures toward his desk. “The instructions are included, but if you have any questions, please let me know. Make sure you grab your belongings. We won’t be returning to the classroom before the bell rings and I don’t want to make you late for your next class.”

I grab my shit and stand, waiting for Willow. Watching as she moves at a snail’s pace to gather her things. She finally shoots me a quick glance, her eyes wide. She almost looks like she’s afraid to deal with me.

She jerks her gaze from mine and scurries out of the classroom, clutching her backpack in front of her chest. After grabbing our assignment sheet from the desk, I chase after her, calling her name, but she won’t look back at me.

If she’s trying to fuck with my head, she’s doing a damn good job of it.

“Will, come on. Let me talk to you,” I call after her.

She comes to a stop and whirls on me when I get close, stabbing her finger in the center of my chest. “You need to be quiet.”

“I’ll be quiet if you stop running from me,” I retort.

“Give me the assignment sheet.” She wiggles her fingers at me and I hand the piece of paper to her. She looks it over, her brows drawing together as she keeps reading. “We’re supposed to be each other’s partner for the next two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” If she’s going to treat me like shit the entire time, this is going to be torture.

Willow nods, still scanning the paper. “We’re supposed to take photos of the same things and then compare our compositions.”

“Our what?”

She rolls her eyes and shoves the paper back at me, slapping it against my chest. “No one sees objects or scenery in the same way. We all have different eyes. How we view the world.”

I remember her explaining this to me on the first day of class, and how embarrassed she got over it.

“I think that’s the point he’s wanting to prove with this project. If we work together long enough, maybe we’ll see things in a different light. You’ll teach me, and I’ll teach you,” she explains, her lips forming into a frown.

“Sounds like we’ll be working closely together.”

She nods but otherwise says nothing.

“And you act like that’s your own personal nightmare,” I continue.

Her gaze is full of misery when it meets mine. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

I’m completely baffled by her behavior. “What are you talking about?”

“Working together.” She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. “But I suppose we don’t have a choice. We’ll need to keep this strictly business, okay?”

I’m tempted to salute her. “What the hell happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re like … a completely different person compared to last night.”

“I know,” she admits, her voice full of sorrow. “I, um, had a realization.”

“What was it?”

“We’re not compatible.”