I glared right back at him.
“Well, welcome to the class, Mr. Constantine,” Ms. Sanderson said. “Luckily for you, last week was only an orientation, and so you haven’t missed much. Take a seat anywhere, and if I can have you all put down your phones now—yes, thank you—I’ve got this presentation fired up now, and we can get started.”
Ms. Sanderson started talking about representational interpretations versus abstraction as Keaton strode to the back of the classroom, giving me a final glower as he passed my desk.
I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he dropped into the empty desk right behind mine and propped his shoes against the legs of my chair.
I turned while Ms. Sanderson kept lecturing, keeping my voice in a low hiss. “You know, there’re other empty desks if you’re so opposed to being near me.”
“I’m fine right here,” he said softly. Defiantly. His eyes glittered as he spoke.
I turned back around, livid. And a little bit hurt.
We didn’t see each other for a week after that kiss, and this was how he acted when he saw me again?
Fine.
I guess I knew where things stood then.
“The partnered semester project will involve an interpretation of landscapes,” Ms. Sanderson was saying at the front of the room.
I heard a faint, collective murmur of discontent ripple up around me, and Ms. Sanderson held up her hands. “I know, I know, landscapes are boring, but hear me out. The word interpretation is key, because I’ll be asking you to step outside your comfort zone and add an element of illustration to your images. You will not only have to capture twelve stunning images of your landscape, but then you will have to use art and design to transform these images into something that tells a story. And you must do this all collaboratively—the photography and the design are to be a joint effort. I expect both partners to influence the project with their individual perspectives.”
I looked over to Aurora, who was already looking over at me. She tilted her head and gave me a smile—the universal signal for let’s do this.
I’d only just smiled back at her when Ms. Sanderson ruined the moment.
“We’re going to pair up alphabetically,” she said. “Which means—oh, that’s right, Mr. Constantine has joined us. Okay, one minute…” She bent over a stack of folders on the teacher’s table at the front of the room, writing on Post-It notes and tapping in notes onto her tablet, then she straightened up after two or three minutes. “All fixed!”
She started to walk up and down the rows of desks as she handed us each a folder. “You’ll see your partner’s name on the front of your folder. Now, the assignment gives you three weeks to prepare your prospectus, but may I suggest you start working on it now . . .”
Ms. Sanderson’s voice faded away as I looked down at the folder on my desk. There, written in Ms. Sanderson’s spiky, rushed handwriting, was the last name I ever wanted to see.
Keaton Constantine.
Briggs. Constantine.
Alphabetically close.
Ugh.
My stomach dropped right to the floor—and my heart along with it. I couldn’t be his partner, I just couldn’t. To have to see him, talk with him, work with him . . . In close proximity?
To have to share my photography with him, which was the one thing I kept for myself, the one thing that made me happy and the one thing my father couldn’t control . . .
No. I couldn’t do it. Not when Keaton was so cruel, so angry. Not when he could kiss me like he did and then just walk away like it meant nothing.
I didn’t turn around to see what Keaton’s reaction to this was, but I didn’t have to. He leaned forward and said in a low voice I could barely hear, “Guess it’s a good thing I joined the class when I did. Partner.” He sounded utterly furious.
“You may spend this time getting acquainted with your collaborator and discussing plans for your project,” Ms. Sanderson announced, reaching the front of the room and sitting at her desk, presumably to spend the next twenty minutes surreptitiously updating her resume.
I spun around immediately and gave Keaton my fiercest glare. “This might be a blow-off class for you, Mr. Rugby Captain, but this is important to me. You may rule the school, but you don’t rule me, and especially not when it comes to this project. Got it?”
He blinked once, like I’d surprised him, and then a slow, cocky grin slid over his face.
And God help me, when he smiled like that, I could have gone up in flames.
Because when Keaton scowled, he was sexy as hell, but when he smiled?
It was like a fallen angel had come to claim my heart.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said confidently. “That’s what this is.”
“I’m not afr—that’s ridiculous—” Who the hell did he think he was?
He nodded, stroking his jaw in mock-thoughtfulness. “You’re afraid that if we work together, you won’t be able to keep from kissing me again.”
“Again?” I sputtered. “You kissed me! Remember?” The arrogant...insufferable…egotistical…jackass had another think coming. I wasn’t kissing him again.
Aurora looked over at him, her gaze murderous. I realized I’d been talking a little loudly, so I lowered my voice after giving her a quick all clear smile. “Remember? I was minding my own business, and then you leaned in and kissed me. I had nothing to do with it.”
He leaned forward over his desk, his smile fading into something darker. More intense. “Nothing to do with it? So that wasn’t you licking your lips while you stared at my mouth? That wasn’t you purring into my kiss as I helped you grind against my cock?”
I flushed so bright that I knew my cheeks probably matched my hair. I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my skin as my temperature reached peak embarrassment levels.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, sitting back. His voice held a note of satisfaction, but there was a predatory glint to his eyes that was anything but satisfied.
“Well, it’s not going to happen again,” I said sharply. No way was I going to be that vulnerable—that needy—again, and then watch him walk away. Again.
“Fine by me, Miss Perfect,” Keaton snapped. The scowl was back in full force again, like whatever I’d said had displeased him. Which couldn’t be true—I didn’t have that kind of power over him. And he had a girlfriend anyway. And he hated me.
“So now that that’s out of the way, should we get started?” My voice was still sharp, and I kept my face down so he couldn’t see my eyes. So he couldn’t see all the stupid hope and hurt there.
“Fine then,” he drawled. He gave his pen a contemptuous click and then flipped open his folder. “Let’s get fucking started.”
4
Keaton
“You want to get drinks? Phineas is in one of his moods, and I can’t handle it without a properly made martini.”
I shook my head at Owen. “Can’t.” I held up my phone and waggled it. “Monthly penance.”
Owen winced.
He was probably my closest friend in the Hellfire Club—which, might I add, was a dumb name for us, but I hadn’t started it, so who was I to judge? At any rate, as my closest friend, Owen was the only one who knew how complicated the Constantines really were. And like any good friend, he kept his mouth shut and didn’t say too much. But I had a feeling that later today, I’d find a bottle of Don Q Reserva Rum in my room.