Page 27 of Wicked Little Secret
“Shut up,” Heather snaps at Katie and Macey. “I heard you. I’ve heard it everywhere for the last forty-eight hours. All thanks to that hag of a stepmother of mine.”
The three of us remain silent. The other two are uncertain while I’m secretly entertained.
“We’re, um, sorry for your loss,” Katie says.
“It’s no loss of mine. She did this on purpose, like she always does. She’s screwed up the entire will and testament proceedings. But I shouldn’t be surprised. She was a selfish old hag for a reason.” Heather turns her head toward the mousy brunette. “You should be more relieved than anyone, Katie. No one’s talking about you blowing Lucas Cummings at my end of summer pool party after he was nice to you for five minutes.”
Macey’s jaw drops open. Mine almost does too.
Katie’s chin quivers as she holds in emotion. “You don’t have to be cruel, Heather.”
“Who’s been cruel? I’m being honest. Just like you spreading news about my stepmom. Besides, it’s not exactly a secret you’ll sleep with anyone who’s nice to you, Katie. We call that common knowledge.”
Katie rushes off while me and Macey hang back in shock. Heather holds her head up high, her usual confidence returning as she struts past us into the student union.
Half an hour later, the four of us are seated in Professor Adler’s class with tension thick in the air. Katie’s refused to utter a peep to anyone while Heather texts away on herphone with unapologetic defiance. Macey’s flirting with one of the guys in our class.
And then there’s me—my attention set on the front of the room where Professor Adler’s waiting for the clock to strike ten.
As entertaining as our catty frenemy group is, I’m much more interested in today’s crim law lesson.
The class begins and Professor Adler commands the room.
Dark, brooding, endlessly sarcastic, he holds my attention every second I’m near him. He grills the class during his lecture with such intensity, it feels like my heart’s about to bust out of my chest.
The other students exchange ominous looks when he starts scribbling on the antique blackboard at the front of the lecture hall. His writing’s abysmal. Chicken scratch is more legible. But that’s the point—keeping us on our toes. On edge.
Making sure we’re paying attention every second we’re in his class.
I thrust my arm in the air when he asks questions. I meet his gaze bravely when he peers around almost disdainfully at the rows of seats. Deep down I’m hoping,prayinghe’ll call on me.
I’ve been waiting days for it to happen.
For the words, “Yes, Miss Oliver?” to leave his lips as he finally turns his attention to me.
But it never happens. Come the end of class, he hasn’t looked in my direction once. All around me the other students collect their things and trickle out of the room. I’ve stayed put, my book still splayed open.
I’m not sure what I’m doing.
Only that it feels like something I have to do. I have tostay behind and talk to him. Gain his attention and make sure I’m not going crazy.
I thought… after the funeral, after the art festival, after my token of good will with the coffee and note, I had hoped…
The last person wanders out, the door thudding shut behind him. Drawing courage into my lungs with a deep breath, I rise out of my chair and start toward his desk at the front of the room. Each step feels dangerous, like I’m walking a plank to shark-infested waters. I’m on my way to my death.
And I very well could be—what if I’ve completely misread the situation? What if I thought we’d made amends when really he’s still pissed I spilled coffee on him? Do I really want to incur the wrath of my criminal law professor?
I come up on his desk, yet still he doesn’t notice me. He doesn’t look up, so focused on collecting his things for his leather satchel that I’m a non-factor. I give a small cough.
He jerks his head up like it’s a total surprise to find someone’s in front of him. His brow furrows, the rest of his features no less clenched from his natural scowl. A scowl that should be off-putting, yet pairs perfectly with his wavy dark hair and stubbled jaw. His glasses only add to his intensity, making him both studious and forbidding as his deep brown eyes meet my own.
My belly flips, my mind wiping blank. “Um… I was just… I mean I had a… a question.”
A flicker of something I can’t place passes in his gaze. “Yes, Miss Oliver?”
There. It. Is.
Three simple words I’ve been craving all week long. Spoken in his smooth, professional-yet-throaty baritone.