the list.”
I lift one shoulder, trying really hard just to look into his eyes and not linger over every feature, from the dark brows to the cleft chin, or study every lock of thick black hair that looks like it air-dried on his motorcycle, falling into silky strands that brush his shoulders. What is wrong with me?
“It’s no big deal,” I say, possibly for the twentieth time today. I want to turn back to my locker and let him do whatever he came into this bay to do—which I’m certain wasn’t to corner me and make me go all gooey inside—but I don’t. His eyes essentially pin me against the wall, and all I’m capable of doing is staring back like a helpless baby deer in the face of a forest fire.
“So how’s it feel to make school history?”
I can’t think of anything clever, so I go for honest. “Lame.”
He gives me a slow smile, revealing perfect white teeth and, holy cow, a dimple on one side. Really, God, was that necessary? “It is lame.”
Finally, one person in the whole school with common sense. With a record, too, but still. “It’s all anyone’s talking about,” I say.
“Because they’re not on the list,” he says. “Making them losers.”
“Pathetic losers,” I agree.
That makes him laugh, a short, low rumble in his chest. “You gotta be the only girl in school who doesn’t think the Hottie List is a big-ass accomplishment.”
“It’s not. Although I’m sure you voted like everyone else.”
“I’m alive, aren’t I? I voted.”
But probably, I muse, not for me. Still, he’s the first boy who’s talked openly about the voting, and curiosity gets me. “So is there a ballot with names on it or are they all write-in?”
He tips his head, the softest moan of disappointment in his throat. “You do care.”
I actually feel like I’ve let him down, which is crazy. “Not in the least,” I say too fast. “I’m just curious because I don’t belong on that list.”
“I’d argue with that.”
The compliment surprises and warms me as an awkward beat passes. He doesn’t move, so basically we’re a foot apart staring at each other.
“Anyway …” I move my eyes left and right to indicate our surroundings. “What are you doing here?” His locker’s not near this bay, I’m certain. Levi Sterling doesn’t fly under anyone’s radar. If his locker were around here, I’d know it. Then again, a kid like him probably doesn’t need a locker because he doesn’t bother with books. Rumors have always swirled about him. I once heard a girl in his old school cut his name into her thigh with a razor blade.
“I’m skipping class.”
I nod, like skipping class is something I understand and have done.
“You?”
“I just escaped AP Calc.”
A glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes at what could be the nerdiest admission ever.
“AP Calc?” He raises his eyebrows. “And I’m failing Advanced Topics.”
Math for Morons. I’m grateful that the school name for his pathetic class doesn’t pop right out of my mouth. “Math can kill you,” I say, managing not to cringe at how stupid that comment is.
He inches a little closer, rubbing his chin as he studies my face. “You know what’s killing me?”
You. You are killing me. I shrug. “Not a clue.”
He’s so close now I can barely think. “The word problems,” he whispers.
The word … does he mean in math? I let out a hollow laugh because hating the word problems is so cliché and because he’s so … close.
“Yeah, they’re pretty tough.”
“I bet you breezed through that shit.”
My eyes shift to the floor. “Word problems aren’t that hard.”
“So you’re pretty and smart,” he says.
I look up at him, not quite sure what’s going on here. “Both are subjective.”
“And I heard you’re an expert in dead languages.”
I blink for a minute before it processes. “Latin? I don’t know about expert.”
His gaze moves over my face from top to bottom, lingering on my mouth. “Are you … flirting with me?” I ask with a nervous laugh.
“Trying.”
And honestly? Succeeding. A slow heat creeps up my chest, a mix of trepidation and excitement fluttering through me, along with—No, it can’t be.
But it is. Attraction.
To him? I should run for dear life, not flirt with him. I sure as heck should be in my math class. “I don’t flirt,” I say, feeling as awkward as that sounded.
“You’re doing okay.”
For the first time in my life, I understand the meaning of the word swoon. And I don’t like it. Swooning is dangerous, helpless, and it