Watching the four guys stroll towards the long table we reserved from the other side of the room as I climb the last three steps, I immediately tense.
I identify Nathaniel Carmichael and Vincent Cushman, so my eyes scan the floor. As expected, I find Cross perusing the volumes in an aisle, oblivious to his pack of followers. Outside of class, the others rarely go anywhere without the King of Dicks.
The muscular guys zero in on Olivia like sharks smelling blood in the water, all smirks and swaggers, their very expressions telling me that they intend to be a pain in the butt.
Approaching, I’m close enough to catch the words Carmichael speaks as he leans in. “You look like the kind of girl who likes to be told what to do.”
He’s trying for sultry and seductive, and completely ignoring the cues from my friend, who clearly isn’t into it.
Part of me wonders if he’s genuinely interested.
I sort of get why he doesn’t understand his advances aren’t reciprocated. Men like Nathaniel Carmichael aren’t used to rejection. Tall, with impossibly broad shoulders and a slim waist, he’s built like a lovingly carved statue of Apollo. His artfully messy dark hair, golden complexion, and deep brown eyes are everyone’s type.
Be that as it may, Olivia’s uncomfortable under the scrutiny. If he genuinely wants to flirt with her, he should approach her alone, not corner her with three other equally intimidating guys who all have a history of bugging us.
Liv shakes her head, muttering something indiscernible. I quicken my pace, on a mission to intervene.
“Come on, you know you want to,” he presses, lowering his voice.
His friends chuckle.
“Tell you what, how about a pregame blowjob next Sunday, darling? You can be my good luck charm.”
By the time I make it to the table, Liv’s lower lip is quivering, her hands balled into fists. She looks close to tears, which makes me ready to spit fire—or throw a punch.
Restraining myself, certain that physical violence, however tempting, would just get me kicked out of Rothford, I throw my bag on the table to make my presence known.
“Please. You’d need a hell of a lot more than luck to win anything. You guys are pathetic. Hell, if you win, I’ll gladly blow the whole bloody team.”
Nate, Vincent, and the two others whose names I’m not sure of—Damian might be the one with longer hair who reminds me of a surfer—all stare at me.
“Would you, indeed?”
I freeze at the smooth, slow, low voice that comes from right behind me. I didn’t hear him at all, too focused on getting between Nate and Olivia, but when I turn, Cross is right behind me, hovering closer than what would be considered polite.
I’m itching to step back, but make myself stay planted. The last thing I need is to show weakness. The way they treat Olivia proves it doesn’t work with men like them. They feed on it.
I lift my head, projecting confidence.
“I might not want to witness your skills”—I make air quotes—“firsthand, but you guys literally won zero games last year. It’s a safe gamble.”
“Fascinating,” Cross drawls, one corner of his lips hiking up. “If it’s such a safe bet, we should formalize the stakes. We win, and we get to see what that wicked tongue of yours can do aside from hurling insults. We lose—” His amber eyes flash with an intensity I try not to squirm against. “You get an internship with Maria Devar this summer.”
I gasp.
He can’t mean that. That is absolutely not possible.
“How the hell—” I start, unsure how to finish that.
Does he know he’s offering me my wildest dream?
Maria Devar, the genius behind the costume designs of so many of my favorite movies and series, is as unattainable as the moon and stars to someone like me. She’s Hollywood royalty.
If I were a trust fund brat like the rest of them, I would have chosen the kind of classes that could possibly lead to a job asher assistant’s assistant’s intern, but I have to support myself as soon as I’m done with school, so I chose a more practical field. My one art class doesn’t qualify me for getting close enough to her to wipe her shoes.
But mostly, I’d like to understand how he knows just what to dangle at me.
Cross is blasé. “Maria’s my cousin.”