Since I’ve always done well in English, becoming a tutor in the subject felt like a no-brainer. Fall semester of my sophomore year, I applied and was hired. Two of my earlier students had dyslexia, and I did all the research I could to help them. They both left such rave reviews that now I’m considered a specialist when it comes to reading disabilities.
And according to Knox Maguire’s profile, he has a reading problem. Hmm.
What a coincidence that Knox chose me to be his tutor—insert sarcasm here. Did he figure out my name? Does he actually have a reading disability? Not like I can ask him if he’s faking it. That would be rude.
Maybe itisfate, as ridiculous as it sounds.
I’m waiting in the meeting room at the library, constantly checking my phone for the time. I forgot to wear my Apple Watch today, which is so freaking annoying. I love being able to see my messages, how many steps I’ve walked, and if I’ve closed those rings on the watch yet. It’s addicting.
Knox’s already two minutes late, and while that’s not a huge deal, I’m big on being punctual. My time is just as valuable as his.
The door suddenly swings open, and there he is, filling up all the space as he rushes into the room, dropping his backpack onto the table with a loud clunk, his gaze never, ever straying from mine.
His smile is slow, his eyes beginning to sparkle as he studies me, resting his hands on his hips. “Joanna.”
I incline my head toward him. “Knox.”
“I knew it was you.”
I try to ignore the way my heart leaps happily at his words. “You’re late.”
His smile fades and he whips out his phone, checking the time. “By only three minutes.”
“I don’t like it when people are late.”
That smile returns, smaller now. “Got it.”
I indicate the chair across from me. “You should sit. We need to get started.”
Knox does as I ask, plopping into the chair across from me and reaching for his backpack. The table is long and narrow, his knee grazing mine beneath it, and a jolt shoots up my spine from the contact.
Of his knee.
Against mine.
I am in serious trouble.
“I was cruising the list of English tutors yesterday and I saw your name. Something told me it could be you. I just had this feeling, you know?” His gaze is fleeting before he returns his focus to digging out stuff from his backpack. “Now I know your real name, Jo Jo.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “Please call me Joanna. Or just Jo.”
“But I don’t like just Jo. I like Jo Jo.” That devastating grin of his is powerful and I’m sure he knows it.
I send him a stern look, channeling my earlier wannabe teacher days, but it doesn’t seem to deter him. “It’s surprising to see someone request a tutor this early in the semester.”
He drops a battered paperback onto the table between us. “I’ve been avoiding this class for what feels like the entirety of my college career. Pretty sure I’m the only senior in there.”
I bet he’s right. It is a first-year course. “Why didn’t your counselor make you take it?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, sheepish. His cheeks are tinged the faintest pink. “She said I could take it whenever I want to, and I’m a huge procrastinator.”
Uh huh. There are athletes all over this campus who use their status to their advantage. Avoiding classes, getting a pass on tests or projects because they were out of town for a game. The list goes on and on.
Please tell me Knox isn’t like that. I’ll be so disappointed.
“So here you are, taking it your senior year, during football season.” I glance at the paperback sitting between us.The Hate U Giveby Angie Thomas. “Is that what you’re currently reading?”
“It’s what we’re supposed to be reading.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve only read the first couple of chapters.”