Right now, he’s tapping away at the keyboard of the laptop he pulled out of his backpack a few minutes ago. That was sort of fun, suggesting the story idea. Here he was, trying to wheel and deal with me, convince me to meet with him more often, when really the guy just needed to focus and actually work.

“You should go to class, too, you know,” I suggest out of the blue, causing him to peer at me from above his laptop. “That all counts toward your grade. The more absences you have, the worse your grade becomes.”

“It’s gonna take more than me showing up in class to improve my grades enough to get back on the team quick, and you know it,” he says, annoyance tingeing his voice. “I’ll consider your advice, though.”

“Good.” I nod, feeling stupid. And I never feel stupid with anyone. I’m the smart one. I’ve been told more often than not that I’m the one that makes others feel dumb. Uncomfortable. Or they flat-out don’t like me, think I’m some sort of freak of nature with the too-big brain and the thieving father.

Blowing out a harsh breath, I push all thoughts of my dad from my head and slap Owen’s file shut, grabbing a textbook out of my backpack and setting it on the table with a loud thump.

Owen doesn’t even glance up from his laptop screen, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the keyboard, and I’m glad to see him getting into it. This is what he needed. A push, the realization that hey, he’d better get to work before he fails and ruins everything.

He can handle it, though. I know he can.

I flip open the textbook and start reading, feeling bad that I’m giving him no real direction, but what else am I supposed to do? He’s the one who needs to do the work. There’s nothing else I can do but wait him out while he writes. So I may as well work on my own assignments to pass the time.

It’s either that or stare at him unabashedly while he works.

Stealing a glance at him, I drink him in, my breath stalling in my throat at the sight before me. His brows are furrowed in concentration, his mouth scrunched, those pretty green eyes narrowed as he stares at his laptop screen. His fingers keep up an impressive pace and he looks up, catches me staring at him.

His fingers pause and I hurriedly look down, staring unseeingly at the words in front of me while deep inside, my heart is racing a bazillion miles a minute.

He doesn’t resume typing for a while and I slowly start to realize it’s because he’s still staring at me. I can feel the weight of his gaze pressing on me, burning my skin, making me want to squirm in my chair. I refuse to look back up, resting my elbow on the table so I can prop my cheek on my fist, hiding my face from his eyes.

“Must be real interesting,” he drawls. “What you’re reading.”

There’s no hiding for me. He can see right through my act.

“Fascinating,” I murmur, not even sure what the heck I’m reading, since the words are all blurry thanks to my gone-hazy vision. All I can think about is him. Owen. Watching me and teasing me, the scent of his cologne and soap and shampoo and whatever else he uses tickling my senses. That spicy, autumnal scent that’s driving me crazier the deeper I breathe him in.

“What’s it about?”

I still refuse to look at him. “Shouldn’t you worry about your own work?”

“Sorry.” Now he sounds irritated. Great. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Don’t you want to get a move on this stuff so you can get back to playing for your team?” I finally drop my hand and look at him. Really look at him, and I can tell my words affect him.

He doesn’t need to antagonize me when he should be using his time much more wisely.

“You’re right.” Heaving a big sigh, he starts typing again, his fingers going clackety-clack upon the keys. “Keep me on track, Chelsea. I think I’m going to need it for the next few weeks, months, whatever. Need you.”

Those two words pound a restless rhythm in my soul the rest of the time I sit with him. The entire walk back to the tiny apartment I share with Kari, I feel those simple words pulse in my blood with every step I take. I hope she’s not home because I want to sit alone on the couch, in the dark quiet, and savor the simple words.

Need. You.

I’m probably insane for thinking this way. Boys don’t matter. Boys are bad. Look at my father. He’s done nothing but hurt Mom their entire marriage. That she still supports him and remains married to him despite everything he’s done makes me want to hit something.

Preferably my father.

I don’t romanticize anything. I’m straightforward in how I think, what I do. Everything has a cause and an effect. A reason. And there is absolutely no reason for me to react this way when it comes to Owen. I hardly know him, and what I know of him doesn’t impress me.

But I want him. I want to keep looking at him, get to know him. I want to know what it feels like to have him touch me. I want to touch his lips and see if they’re as soft as they look. I want to feel his arm slide around me and hold me close. I want to …

My cell rings just as I approach the front door of my apartment. Pulling the phone from my pocket, I check who the caller is and answer. “Are you home?”

“Nope, and you won’t be either when I come and pick you up in twenty minutes,” Kari says cheerily, in this tone that tells me she’s up to no good.

“What’s going on?” I ask as I unlock the door and enter the apartment. It’s quiet and dark, would have been the perfect scenario for me to sit and go over what happened with Owen earlier again and again, but …

Kari is totally ruining that option. And she’s not even home.

“We’re going out for drinks. I talked to these two cute guys in the library and they asked if we wanted to meet up with them later tonight.”

“Kari. I’m not even old enough to order a drink.” Uneasiness slips over me, settling low in my stomach. If they want to meet for drinks, they are most likely older. They’d probably run screaming the minute they met me. Kari’s good at the flirtatious, carefree thing. Me, not so much. “Who are these guys?”

“I don’t know, but they’re pretty. And when I say pretty, I mean gorgeous. They’re in a frat.” At my hesitation she rattles on. She knows I’m going to say no or come up with some sort of excuse. She’s got me all figured out. “Hey, we can just drink water and eat appetizers, Chelsea. We don’t have to tell them we’re not old enough for alcohol.” Kari mutters something unintelligible. “I’m telling you, we need to get fake IDs, and soon.”

The very last thing I want to do is get a fake ID. I’m not about to get into trouble with the law. “Where do they want to meet us?”

“The District.” Kari’s voice is practically vibrating. Her excitement is infectious. I can feel it bubble up inside of me despite my apprehension. “I’ve never been, and you know I’ve been dying to go there.”

Kari wasn’t exaggerating. The young, beautiful, and very trendy types hang out at The District. Kari would definitely fit in.

Me? Not really.

I set my backpack on the tiny kitchen table and go sit on the couch, heaving a big sigh. “I don’t know. I have home—”

“If you say you have homework, I’m going to beat you.” Kari’s voice is so fierce I don’t doubt her threat for a second. “You never, ever go out. Ever. You’re going to shrivel up and die an old maid if you don’t at least make an attempt at a social life. Despite what your mom says, and who is she to talk, boys are not the devil. They’re actually a lot of fun if you’d just talk to one once in your life. Come on, Chelsea.” Her voice takes on that pleading sound that tends to work on me. “Do it for me. We’ll have fun.”

I want to believe her. I desperately want to fit in. It’s been a struggle since I was nine and they accelerated me into the sixth grade when I should have been in the fourth. The older kids wanted nothing to do with me; the younger ones thought I’d ditched them and ignored me. I’ve been an outsider ever since.