I wait for him to meet my gaze before quietly offering, “She’s doing... better. Healing.”
He smiles at me, but his eyes are sad. “Good. Thank you.”
With his foot he “knocks” on the door and calls, “Yo, Bates! Gwen’s here.”
Hamilton emerges from a separate room and I roll my eyes, because seriously, how does he have more than one room? I’m assuming it’s a bedroom, because the one we’re in now is clearly is a living room, with its couch and recliner. A flat screen hangs on the wall. A small kitchenette is even attached. It’s ridiculous, but it’s clear he has no idea how much so as he strolls over barefoot. He’s wearing obscenely loose sweatpants and a Preston Prep Swim hoodie.
His gaze darts between me and Xavier, eyes narrowing at whatever he finds there.
Xavier ignores this and dumps the box unceremoniously into his arms. He says, “Good luck! And remember, attempted murder charges don’t look good on college applications.” He throws us two thumbs-ups and leaves.
Hamilton’s eyes slide to me. “Did he say something to you?”
“No.” I fight the urge to hug my middle, still feeling spooked. “Why?”
He drops the box. “Your cheeks are red, and you’ve got that line on your forehead that you only get when you’re freaking out or something.”
“Probably has something to do with me walking in here,” I tick off on my fingers, “alone, with a room full of guys, who have never been anything but vocal about despising me, who blame me for their disciplinary problems, and are all bigger than me.”
“Bigger than you?” Hamilton’s expression grows more and more incredulous. “What the fuck did you think we were going to do, attack you or something? Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Excuse me for having a basic sense of self-preservation." I throw my hands in the air, frustrated. “At least Xavier was nice enough to walk up with me.”
His jaw clenches. “I didn’t think you needed an escort. Especially me as an escort. If anything would start the rumor mill, it’d be me walking a girl—any girl—up to my room.”
“The fact you think that’s normal tells me more about you than anything else, Bates.”
He shrugs, blank-faced, as though being a basic asshole is perfectly fine. For him, I guess it is. I’m not saying he doesn’t deal with any expectations in his life. Obviously, his father has plenty. But none are for standard manners or consideration of other people. No wonder he’s such a jerk.
Yet, as I’m unpacking the art supplies, he walks over to the little kitchenette and returns with a bag from the local market. He dumps it on the table. Inside, there is candy, protein bars, crackers, and a variety of other snacks.
“What’s all that?”
Those long fingers reach into the pocket of his hoodie and pluck out the cards I handed out earlier that day. “Since you don’t have a car, I went to the store and grabbed the stuff we needed.”
“Oh. Well... good,” I say, refusing to thank him for doing what needed to be done. “I should have everything else.”
He peers into the box. “Yeah, I’m going to have to establish one rule now: no glitter.”
No glitter.
“Okay, first of all?” I hold up a finger. “How dare you.”
“It’s a fucking nightmare, Adams. I don’t want to have to clean that shit up for the rest of the year.”
I chuckle under my breath, but it transforms into a peal of mocking laughter.
He blinks at me. “What?”
“Like you clean.”
His eyes flash, and just like that, I feel the tell-tale tingle of a spark igniting in the pit of my stomach. This is what gets us into trouble. The bickering and challenges and little prickly jabs. It escalates into something bigger, snowballs, evolves into something frantic and desperate.
I take a deep breath and say, “Fine, no glitter. But I’m using as many paint pens as I want.”
His eyes narrow, but he takes the compromise, fully aware that keeping the peace also means keeping our clothes on.
I think.