Brooks
I rush out of the principal’s office and head straight for the main door, ready to ditch the rest of my classes and take a walk around the park before heading home, where I’ll probably be forced to make lunch for Benji and help him with his homework.
I don’t mind taking care of the little terror, but that boy makes me wish I could go back in time and interrupt my parents when they were fooling around in the bathroom, while Grandma was looking after me. I’m pretty sure Benji was conceived that day—my dad cursed that adventure when Mom found out she was pregnant again.
Just as I’m getting closer to the door and my freedom, the stupid school bell rings, announcing lunch. The next thing I know, the students are pouring out of their classrooms like cattle and throwing me back and forth like a ping-pong ball.
“This is Principal Rivera, and I would like to see Brooklyn Bumps in my office again,” the announcement echoes over the loudspeakers. “Now.”
Every student stops in their tracks and turns to look at me.
I close my eyes and let out an audible groan, irritated. I was so close to freedom, and now I have to drag my sore ass back to the office where Principal Rivera and the Evanses—featuring the hot quarterback—are waiting for me.
“Why does the principal want to talk to the virgin nerd?” one guy snickers to his friends.
“What did you do? Did you get a B on your report card?” a girl with poorly done makeup sneers, shooting me a disgusted look.
I do my best to keep in mind that it’s senior year, and I’ll be out of this hellhole before I know it. My life in Florida is just around the corner—beaches, tanned surfers, and most importantly, far away from these idiots.
“Brooks,” Ryan calls from the end of the hall, which happens to be on my way to the principal’s office. “What’s up with the face?” he asks when I reach him, noticing my grumpy expression.
“The principal wants to see me,” I grumble, trying to walk past him.
“Wait.” He grabs my elbow, forcing me to stop. “Why does Mr. Rivera want to see you? Did something happen?”
I shake my head and pull my arm away from his grasp. “Just tell Macs I won’t be joining you two for lunch,” I say, turning on my heels and heading toward the torture chamber without giving him a chance to ask more questions.
“Mr. Rivera and the Evanses are still waiting for you, Miss Bumps,” the secretary informs me when I finally reach the principal’s office door.
I knock once and enter, doing my best to avoid repeating the embarrassing scene from earlier. I feel oddly nervous, and I’m not even sure why. I should be annoyed, though, since I’m pretty sure there’ll be some sort of punishment for turning down the chance to tutor the school’s golden boy.
“Thank you for coming back, Brooklyn,” Mr. Rivera begins, his tone appreciative as he turns to Mr. and Mrs. Evans, still seated where I left them. “You can make your proposal again.”
“Brooklyn, we really would like you to become Timothée’s math tutor because we know you’re our best shot right now.” Mrs. Evans scowls at her son briefly before turning back to face me. “My husband and I believe you’d be a good influence on Timothée. You’re both seventeen—almost eighteen—and you’re nothing like the girls he usually hangs out with,” she asserts.
“I’ve told you already that Zoe can help me,” Timothée complains, avoiding my gaze. “She’s pretty good with math and is one of my best friends,” he adds.
“How many times have you told me that you and Zoe were studying math in your bedroom, and I happened to catch you two loading the bases or hitting a home run with your naked asses out in the open?” Mrs. Evans suddenly snaps.
Blushing, Timothée groans, “Mom, stop. Don’t say those things in front of freakin’ strangers.” He shoots me a pointed look.
Rolling my eyes, I snort. “Yeah, I’m a stranger. Whatever. By the way, I thought you were a football player, not a baseball player.” I laugh.
Although I manage to stay composed enough to joke, my insides are a whirlwind of shock. I know Timothée and Zoe are a thing, but I never imagined they’d be bold enough to play naked baseball in his bedroom.
Just as I’m about to look away, the popular jock’s eyes flicker toward me, and suddenly, I catch myself holding his burning gaze for what feels like forever. His expression is blank—no smirk, no smile, not even a flicker of emotion—which only makes it more confusing...and a little terrifying.
“The thing is, Mr. Rivera has said wonderful things about you, Brooklyn. We trust your judgment and ethics to keep our son in line and teach him how to count from one to ten for once,” Mr. Evans interrupts my staring contest with Timothée, forcing me to finally look away from his hypnotizing eyes and glance at his father instead. “Please, Miss Bumps. We need your help,” he continues when he sees I’m not ready to respond.
I take a moment to study Mr. Evans’s striking features and effortless poise. He’s the kind of man who radiates wealth without saying a word—his clothes perfectly tailored and every detail of his appearance exuding quiet finesse that mirrors his wife’s. He looks like a grown-up version of the twins, with Timothée’s ocean-deep blue eyes and Dimitris’s captivating smile. His hair is a touch lighter and trimmed shorter than theirs, and he looks to be in his forties.
“Are you checking out my dad?” Timothée smirks, his lips curling into a sly grin.
I instantly tear my gaze away from Mr. Evans and drop it to my worn-out sneakers, heat flooding my face as mortification creeps up my neck.
“Look, Brooklyn.” Mrs. Evans gently reaches for my hand. “My husband and I will pay you one hundred dollars an hour if you agree to help our son.”
I gape at her, stunned. “Holy crap, one hundred dollars an hour?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, my brain scrambling to decide if she is messing with me or dead serious.
Both senior Evanses nod without hesitation.
I swallow hard and bring a hand to my forehead, trying to breathe and think straight. One hundred an hour is no joke. I could help my parents with the bills, fix up the truck…maybe even save enough to kickstart my future—my real future—far, far away from Seattle.
Involuntarily, my gaze drifts from Mrs. Evans to her son, whose expression remains impassive and whose blue eyes are impossible to read. Still, if I’m not mistaken—or if my dazzled mind isn’t playing tricks on me—there’s definitely a faint smile ghosting at the corners of his lips.
If I agree to become Timothée’s tutor, I’ll have to deal with him on a regular basis, which is both thrilling and utterly terrifying. Thousands of girls would kill to be in my position right now, and I’m not sure why, but…I kind of get it. He’s annoyingly charming, and a part of me wouldn’t mind diving into the depths of those mysterious ocean eyes—maybe even becoming his friend someday. I mean, why not? Sure, he’s a jackass, but his parents seem decent, and I doubt the twins are total disasters.
“Brooklyn? Mr. and Mrs. Evans are waiting for your answer,” Mr. Rivera cuts through my thoughts with a pointed cough.
“Please?” Mrs. Evans pleads softly.
“Okay,” I finally reply, offering her a small smile. “I’ll tutor your son.”
“Oh, thank you, Brooklyn. Thank you so much,” she squeals, leaping to her feet and wrapping her arms around me like we’ve been best friends for years. “You have no idea how grateful I am.” She plants a kiss on my cheek.
What the hell?
Her affection catches me completely off guard, and for a second, I just stand there, frozen. Eventually, I hug her back, though awkwardly.
Once she lets go, Mr. Evans steps forward to shake my hand with that same polished grace he radiates. Timothée, however, doesn’t move. He just sits there, watching me like a hawk, or, more accurately, like a psychopath quietly planning my murder the next time we meet.
“I can’t wait to get to know you better, Brooklyn.” Mrs. Evans beams.
“Me too, Bums,” Timothée finally says, his voice low and husky. “I can’t wait to get to know you better.” His lips curl into a wicked smile.
“M-my name is Bu-Bumps,” I stammer, my heart doing somersaults.
“I know.” The quarterback grins. “I know, Bums.” He laughs.
I have officially sold my soul to the devil for a hundred bucks an hour, so bring on hell.
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