Willow’s not quite in agreement with me on the dancing front. She thinks I’m pushing myself too fast. On the Greyson front, however, she’s fully on my side. In solidarity, she’s quit seeing Knox. She said she didn’t need to be over at their house every night, rubbing it in Greyson’s face. I think she’d just rather not see the parade of women he probably has coming and going.
Paris has restarted her attempts to woo him. She sits next to him in the dining hall, casting furtive glances my way. As if she’s going to catch me caring. Maybe she thinks she’ll spot me weeping into my soup bowl.
Unlikely.
Besides the pull toward the dark cloud that is Greyson Devereux, I’m finally feeling…happy. And somewhat back to normal. Even the news about the press release has died down. Jack disappeared into the background noise, nursing his broken leg.
I do my best to put him and that night out of my mind, although my trust in men has officially broken. Either way, I’m moving on.
But, as always, good things have to come to an end.
Greyson finally reaches his limit.
I don’t know what it is that sets him off, but it happens after our last class of the week together. For a month, I’ve sat as far from him as possible. I’ve studiously concentrated on my textbook, my notebook, the professor. Anything but the burning glares he sent my way.
Part of me has been eager for him to break. He’s not used to things not going his way. I wait with bated breath for the grenade to go off. But for so long, all he does is glower from afar.
Unfortunately for both of us, his father is more used to gettinghisway—and that’s exactly what’s happening. Greyson just doesn’t know it.
For the record, I’m minding my own business. As always. My new friend, Stacy, and I have been debating topics for our final projects in environmental economics—one of the classes I share with Greyson. Willow, Jess, and Amanda have a dance class. At least Paris isn’t around because of it, too.
Part of my mission over the last month has been to make friends outside of the dance team, for no other reason than they’re getting increasingly busy—and I don’t want to eat alone every evening. The dance team is gearing up for a big competition that takes place over spring break.
Stacy’s eyes widen, and then the chair beside me is yanked out. I know it’s him. He has a certain feel to him, like he’s projecting raw energy. He sits so he faces me, his knees pressing into my thigh.
I still ignore him.
“Violet.”
Nope.This isn’t happening.
He grabs my chin and forces my head around. I let out a little gasp at the connection and the way his eyes burn up close. His gaze drops to my lips, then lower. My throat, my heaving chest. Then back up. He smirks when our eyes collide again.
He doesn’t seem too worse for wear. There’s new stubble on his cheeks. He doesn’t bark at my new friend to leave. He doesn’t really do anything except stare into my eyes. Does he think that I owe him something?
I don’t. I’m grateful, but that’s as far as it goes.
His nails dig into my cheek. His thumb swipes across my lip.
So much anger.
His life is going just fine. He’s back at the top of his game. Amanda gave me the highlights from the last few games. Greyson has been on fire, leaving everything on the ice. He’s been interviewed for the local paper a few times. There’s been a feature in theNew York Times, along with a smiling photo of him and his father, who attended one of them.
“You’re not leaving me any choice,” he mutters.
My eyebrows hike up, and I open my mouth to retort. He holds my chin fast, his thumb pressing harder on my lips.
“Don’t give me your excuses. You’re going to get up and come with me. You’re going to sit next to me, and you’re going to fix your expression so you don’t look so shell-shocked.”
“Iamshell-shocked,” I say against his thumb. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”
He laughs. It’s low and throaty and it does something to me.
It’s been a long month.
“You know what, Violet?” He leans even closer. “I don’t fucking believe you.”
I don’t answer. Can’t.