The Secret Girl (Adamson All-Boys Academy #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,3

about him, like he’s not afraid to throw down. Oh my god, Cody would hate you, I think as our eyes meet.

“I … I don't feel well.” I tear away from him, but his grip is like steel. At the last second, he lets go of me with a scowl. Fine, whatever, I don't care if he likes me or not. I'm not here to make people like me. I'm only here because my dad got a good job offer and my mom is … just not herself right now, you know?

I get the feeling though, that if the dark-haired guy had wanted to hold onto me and keep me there, he could have.

My breath is coming in panting gasps by the time I get to the top of the staircase, and I fumble with my keys, letting myself into my new room and slamming the door behind me.

I don't come out until breakfast the next day.

The dorm bathrooms at Adamson All-Boys Academy are communal, but they do have private rooms for the toilets as well as changing rooms connected to the showers. It's mostly just that the sink/counter is open to everyone.

Dad was not okay with me using the bathroom and insisted I come to the headmaster's house to shower, but I'm not about to trudge nearly a mile across campus just to soak myself in some steamy water.

Sorry, but no.

So I wait for everyone to leave for breakfast, knowing I'm not going to get a chance to eat before class, and take my gym bag with my uniform in it to the bathroom down the hall. There's a guy with silver-blond hair brushing his teeth at the sink, but I'm swimming in a baggy hoodie and sweats. Even without the uniform, I'm pretty sure I'm passable.

Besides, nobody at the academy is looking for a girl. If they're not expecting it, they won't see it, no matter how obvious it is.

Well, I mean, so long as they don't get a look at my breasts.

Slinking past the lone applicant in the bathroom, I head for one of the shower stalls, take the key from the hook and unlock it before letting myself into a little antechamber, sort of like a dressing room at a department store.

“Rich assholes,” I grumble as I look around.

Okay, I freaking lied.

This is way nicer than any department store I've ever been in.

There's a satin chaise lounge with a frilly pillow, an oil painting on the wall that I'm pretty sure is not a reproduction, and a small bookshelf stocked with classic novels and topped with a tea and coffee station, plus a bowl of fresh fruit.

Like, who comes into the shower to read and eat apples?

I double, triple, and quadruple check to make sure the door is locked behind me, hang the tiny key on the hook nearby, and get naked.

The walls on the changing stall and shower are a good twelve feet high, but there's no ceiling per se. I can hear the sound of a door opening and closing as the toothbrush boy leaves the room, and then nothing.

Pure silence.

Sighing blissfully, I push past the curtain into the tiled area and stop with one hand still clinging to the fabric.

Right.

“Rich dickheads,” I repeat as I look around at the marble floors, walls, and shower stall. It's got a glass half-door and like four shower heads with some sort of fancy command center. On the wall next to me, there's a sound system that I scroll through, selecting a classic piano song that filters lightly through the speakers.

There are shelves on one wall stocked with shampoo, conditioner, fresh bars of soap wrapped in paper wrappers, brand-new loofahs, scrub brushes, towels, and more. I'm pretty blown away.

“Please take all used items back to your dorm room in a shower caddy. Any used items left will be discarded. Thanks. -Adamson Academy staff.” I glance down and find a row of wooden shower caddies on the bottom shelf, selecting one and setting it aside. Then I take my sweet time picking out my soaps and body washes.

“This shit is so luxe,” I grumble, thinking about how much the lilac and rosemary scented shampoo I'm holding would cost in a salon. And it's just sitting here, free for anyone to take?

Then, of course, I realize how stupid that sounds. Tuition money for a year at Adamson is literally double the yearly wage my father made at his last job. There's only maybe three high schools in the entire