the room. I raise my voice so my follow-up cuts through the din of rustling backpacks and reactivated phones.
“To be clear, ladies and gentlemen, my leniency extends no further than this early dismissal. Your term project proposals are still due by five p.m. today. That’s a printed version, bound in proper format, on my desk in the Archer Building. This project is worth fifty percent of your grade.”
By the time I conclude the speech, it’s clear I’ve been tuned out in favor of chattering about tonight’s events. The Conquistador Crush is one of the highlights of the school year at Alameda, a ten-day whirlwind kicked off by a formal fundraiser ball, a rock concert on the campus green, and then a four-day weekend carnival.
Tonight I have to don a monkey suit and make an obligatory appearance at the formal bash. The fact that they’re staging this year’s event in the library courtyard, literally steps from my office door, is little consolation. At least I’ll have a good excuse for escaping the throng. There should be a good-sized stack of papers on my desk before the afternoon has waned.
The emptied hall should give me some relief. But as long as Kara remains, I can’t erase the visceral awareness of her. Pretending to ignore her through the hour hasn’t stopped every drop of my blood from percolating for her—especially in this moment, when her stubborn stillness forces me to raise my stare to her.
“Goddamn.”
The word escapes me, primal and guttural, as I fully take her in. The dark gleam of her loose-braided hair. The enticing pearl buttons of her silky white blouse, and the matching zipper pulls of her pristine ankle boots.
But most of all, another pair of sleek and sinful jeans—black this time—hugging every line below the waist as she rises up and crosses the short distance between us.
“Kara.”
“Maximus,” she replies in an equally icy tone.
I compress my lips. Her censure is pure frostbite, though I should be grateful for every freezing syllable. My composure needs it. “What can I do for you today?”
“Hmm. How about starting with acknowledging that I exist?” she snaps.
She strikes a determined pose, killing all thoughts of ice-covered landscapes. I swear to God, real flames are whorling in the depths of her eyes. It’s got to be just a play of my imagination, but I swear by everything that’s holy, it’s the most captivating sight I’ve ever seen.
Except I’m even more conflicted now.
“Kara. Damn it.”
“Are you really going there? Right now? With this weird pretense that I’ve offended you?”
“You haven’t offended me, okay? It’s just—” I stop and drag a hand through my hair. “You’re more of a distraction to me here than I think you realize. Does that make sense?”
She rocks back on a heel and drags in a long breath. “So if I sit in the back again, your ice-out will be less obvious?”
I don’t answer, because I crave her closeness as much as I recognize the dangerousness of it.
“What changed in two days that you can’t even look at me?” Her voice is softer now, more vulnerable. And the kindle in her eyes has simmered into a sheen of hurt that rips my fucking heart out.
More than that. I’m torn to the foundations of whatever is beyond that.
I have no easy labels for it because I’ve spent my whole life pretending none of it exists. That there are parts of me best left unexplored. A wide tundra of my spirit covered by my self-imposed frost, now melting beneath her singular, stunning fire. Even if that heat manifests as her fury. Maybe because of it. Maddening temptress. She’s not letting me duck and run—which should have me snarling at her like a trapped dragon—but instead, I’m letting the tundra burn. Worse, I’m secretly yearning for more kerosene on these flames.
A kerosene called Kara. A wildfire I can’t possibly fight. Not even with all the mental resources I’ve amassed over the years. None of it—the self-control, the discipline, the fear, the inner forewarnings—feels like enough. So why am I even trying?
The answer pounds the perimeter of my skull. Clamors at the confines of my chest.
“Fuck,” I mutter while circling behind the podium. I pretend to be busy closing the presentation program on my laptop. Gliding my fingers across the touchpad brings a welcome dose of cool control. My prolonged silence has her heaving an angry huff.
“Look. I’m not trying to be clingy here. I don’t need your tongue down my throat for personal validation. But