He drops the hand that holds his phone and shifts sideways to let me past. It’s a hopeful move, and I almost keep going, not having the heart to disappoint him.

Instead I reach his side, coming to a complete stop with an audible sigh of exhaustion that I just can’t contain.

“Hi,” I say and try for a smile. I feel my face crack a little and flecks of dried chocolate flutter to the ground between us.

He shifts back, brows rising as he stares. “Help you?”

I nod at the door we’re both standing in front of. “I live here.”

“You do?”

His tone implores me to say no, and for the second time in as many minutes I’m going to disappoint him.

“Yes,” I reply and extend a hand, trying to be polite. “I’m Jordan Elliott. You’re here for the tute?”

“Tute?”

“Tutorial,” I clarify.

“I am,” he replies and ignores my gesture of greeting. Instead, he leans back against the doorframe and folds his arms. Muscles bunch and flex, highlighting the powerful build beneath his tee shirt. It absorbs my focus, and I force my eyes to ignore the display. “And you’re late.”

His voice is a deep rumble, one I want to listen to on repeat until I’m lulled into sleep, but I find I don’t care much for it when it comes out loaded with irritation. I drop my hand, embarrassed at his snub and disappointed in his attitude. I am late, but he’s obviously the type of person who doesn’t understand that sometimes shit just happens.

“Well, as you can see,” I bite out as I give him my back to unlock the door, “my afternoon took a small turn for the worse.”

Brody

Scooping my backpack off the floor, I sling it over my shoulder and follow Jordan inside her apartment, seething on the inside. Yeah it was rude not to shake her hand, but she looks like someone rolled her in a giant pile of shit, not to mention I don’t want to be here.

Maybe I’m barely scraping by on my own, but I don’t need anyone trying to make me better because it’s an exercise in futility. I am never going to be intelligent, or sharp, or hold a meaningful conversation that doesn’t include the subject of football. I am never going to be normal. I am who I am, and I have to accept that it’s all I’m going to be without someone trying to give me false hope. No doubt Jordan plans to do just that.

What a waste of fucking time.

After I shut the apartment door behind me, Jordan turns to face me, lifting her chin like she’s doing her best to hold her shit together. “Look,” she says in an accent I’m pegging as Australian. Is she an international student? My uncle gave me minimal information. “I know I’m late and I’m sorry, but I really need to take a shower before we get started.”

Started on what? Operation Grow Brody A Brain? Despite the shame prickling along my skin like a heat rash, I chuckle at the absurdity.

Jordan cocks her head. “What?”

I shrug and give her a quick once over. Her hair and features are mostly obscured with caked brown smears and flecks of white, but I can see she’s geared up in a soccer uniform, shin guards and cleats still in place.

“What is that all over you?” Leaning in, I give an audible sniff. Rather than the stench of manure, she smells sickly sweet, like chocolate cream pie. “Hmmm, syrup? You’re covered in chocolate sauce? What happened?” I ask, even though there’s no doubt the girl just got hazed. I’ve seen the chocolate syrup trick a time or two and the opportunity to tease is too good to ignore. “Was it a kinky sex game gone wrong?”

There’s something familiar in the clear blue eyes that narrow at my insult, but I don’t know what it is. I cock my head, bringing a smirk to my lips. I’m being an asshole, but better her anger than pity. “You know you’re supposed to take your clothes off before you let some guy lick syrup off your tits.”

Jordan studies me for a moment. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”

I want to roll my shoulders, defuse the annoyance because I haven’t managed to rile her. In fact, I just want to leave. “Look, Jordan, I don’t know what they’re paying you to tutor me, but whatever it is, I’ll double it so you don’t.”

Her eyebrows shoot up underneath the chocolate coating her face. “You’ll pay me not to tutor you?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

Jordan shakes her head. “I guess I wasn’t sure I heard you right.”

“Well you did, so what are they paying you? Twenty bucks an hour?”

After laughing outright, she says, “Seven-fifty.”

“Is that all?”

I don’t believe it. No one in their right mind would agree to that. Jordan has a secret agenda and it could only be one thing. Fury begins to build in my chest. Dumping my backpack on the floor, my eyes narrow as I stalk toward her, my steps slow and deliberate. She shifts backwards, eyes widening. I press my advantage by standing over her, the broad width of my shoulders intimidating and hostile.

“What do you want from me, Jordan Elliott? Money? The inside scoop on my life so you can sell it to the press?” I grab her chin in my hand, forcing her face upwards so she can see the contempt blazing from my eyes. “Or are you just after a fuck? You want everyone to know you had the honor of sucking my dick?”

Jordan jerks her chin free of my grip, and finally I have her anger. “You jerk!” She shoves me in the chest, and she may have strength, but it’s not enough to push me off my feet. I don’t even budge. “You may be a pretty package, Kyle Davis, but inside you’re an ugly, conceited donkey,” she hisses angrily, “and I have no time for people like you!”

A grin forces its way to my lips. “You think I’m pretty?”

Jordan jabs a finger in the direction of the apartment door. “Get out!”

It’s a hollow victory, but I’m taking it anyway. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I’m halfway out the door when I realize she called me Kyle Davis. “Wait.” I pause and turn back around. “What did you just call me?”

“A jackass!” she yells, and I duck when a soccer ball comes flying at my face. Jordan has exceptional aim, but I have better reflexes. It sails past, hitting the hallway wall behind me before bouncing back and whacking her doorframe with a loud thump. The makeshift weapon drops to the ground, and I put a foot on it, steadying it before I reach down and pick it up. I step back inside her apartment, the ball tucked under my arm. “Did you just call me Kyle Davis?”

“Sorry, Your Highness.” Jordan bows theatrically, and it looks ridiculous considering she’s a human éclair in soccer cleats. “Will I spontaneously combust if I say your name out loud? Will it jinx me? Or do you prefer something more formal, like Mr. Davis?” Jordan sneers at me. “If you ask me, I think asshat has a better ring to it.”

My lips twitch and I have to bite back the urge to laugh out loud. Jordan has no idea who I am. For some reason, she seems to think I’m my uncle’s douchebag TA. That means I must be wrong. How can Jordan have a secret agenda if she has no idea who I am?

Reaching behind me, I pull the door shut, closing us both back inside the apartment again.

Her brows pinch tight. “What are you doing?”

“You want to know what to call me?” Dropping my bag and the soccer ball on the floor, I lean against the back of the door, fold my arms, and smile lazily. “How about Lord and Master?”

Jordan makes a sound that comes out something like a high-pitched growl and reaches for a phone that’s resting on the kitchen counter beside her. “How about you leave? I’m sure Professor Draper can arrange another tutor for you.”

I shrug as if I don’t care, but I know my uncle will only assign another tutor in Jordan’s place. As much as I don’t want to be here, I’d prefer Jordan over someone else. I might not know her reason for signing up for this, but at least I know it isn’t because she’s looking at me with dollar signs in her eyes the way most other girls do.