London Prep: Book Two

by Dodd, Jillian

  “But it helps,” I argue.

  “Look, all you have to do is get up there. You don’t have to present anything. You barely have to say a word. You’re just going to stand over the projector and write out your problem. That’s it.”

  “That’s it, huh?” I mock. Noah looks at me disapprovingly, and I give in. “Fine, I guess you’re right.”

  “If you want, just look at me instead of the class.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you get nervous, just look at me. Pretend I’m the only one here and that you’re speaking directly to me. No one else.”

  “I think that might make me even more nervous,” I admit without thinking. I pinch my lips together, wanting to smack myself. I don’t know why I had to say that or what I even meant by it, but I know it’s too late to take it back.

  “Really?” Noah asks, seeming a little too pleased.

  “Only because, again, you’re still better at Statistics than me,” I say, trying to shrug off both my comment and his response to it.

  “Sure,” he replies, looking smug.

  “Are you not at all nervous?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “Nah, I don’t get nervous. I don’t care what they think.”

  “Well, I guess that makes one of us.”

  “You can always go with the imagine the crowd naked method,” Noah says, a smile on his face.

  “Right, like imagining everyone naked would make me less nervous.”

  “And what about imagining me naked?” he asks in a deep voice. “Would that make you nervous?”

  I look over at him, flushed, because the thought of him naked definitely makes me feel nervous.

  But then it makes me mad.

  “I thought we talked about this yesterday,” I say through my teeth, trying to keep my voice low. “We. Are. Friends. We. Will. Only. Ever. Be. Friends.”

  I say the words as a harsh reminder of what he said to me yesterday. Because he can’t just say things like this. He can’t touch my lips and tell me I look beautiful.

  He can’t make me think about him naked.

  It’s like he thinks it’s funny.

  “I know,” Noah says seriously, nodding in agreement.

  “Then, why are you asking me to imagine you naked?” I ask in frustration.

  Noah shifts, turning his knees out into the aisle. He moves closer to me, so he’s at my ear.

  “You’re a little loud,” he whispers. “And I didn’t ask you to imagine me naked. I asked if imagining me naked would make you nervous.”

  He sits back up, keeping his eyes on me.

  “Is there even a difference?” I ask, feeling the need to argue.

  Because.

  What.

  A.

  Jerk.

  Who does he think he is?

  His lips pull into a smile, and I instantly want to claw at his perfectly symmetrical face.

  “The idea makes me feel … nothing,” I finally answer, crossing my arms over my chest, indicating this conversation is over.

  I turn toward the front of the room as Mr. Johnson walks in.

  Once Noah turns to the front, I sneak a glance at him, noticing he looks equally as irritated as I feel.

  Well, good. He should be. Would that make you nervous?

  Would that make you nervous?

  Ugh, that weasel!

  No, the idea doesn’t make me nervous.

  It makes me repulsed.

  I let out a heavy huff, trying to prepare myself for this presentation.

  Trying to get the vision of a naked Noah out of my mind.

  “All right, students,” Mr. Johnson says, standing up in front of his desk. “Presentations start today.”

  A few more people file into the room, including Rachel, the girl I worked with yesterday. She shifts past my desk in a rush, her square jaw tightly locked.

  She looks upset.

  But then I notice her cheeks flush when she sits down in her chair, and I wonder if she was just worried about being late.

  Mr. Johnson doesn’t pay any attention. He just points to my row and toward the left wall. “To make this simple, I’d like for this half of the room to present today.”

  “Ugh,” I moan again.

  “Any volunteers?” he asks, glancing around the room with a smile.

  “Yeah,” Noah says next to me, grabbing my attention.

  I look over at him with surprise.

  “Wonderful,” Mr. Johnson says, moving to an open seat in the corner of the room. “I would like you all to write out the problem and follow along closely. Just because you didn’t answer the question doesn’t mean you won’t see one like it on your exam next week.”

  I roll my eyes as I flip open my notebook.

  When Noah gets to the front of the room, he lays his question onto the table next to the projector. He starts on a fresh piece of paper, writing out his problem, line by line.

  “So, we first have to write out the equation,” he says, glancing up and looking directly at me.

  His lips pull at the corner, and I can tell, even up there, he’s laughing internally at me. Which, honestly, is kind of mind-boggling because he should be worrying about writing down his problem correctly.

  I narrow my eyes in at him, crossing my arms.

  Noah moves his focus back to the projector, his brows dipping in concentration as he explains what to do, step by step. And it’s actually kind of soothing, seeing him at the front of the class.

  It’s a nice change from Mr. Johnson, and it sort of makes the idea of going up there not as scary.

  He’s finished in no time, and he slips back into the seat next to me.

  “Thank you, Noah,” Mr. Johnson says with a content I wish all my students could be as perfect as Noah Williams smile on his face. “Who wants to go next?”

  Without thinking, I stand up. “Could I go?” But the moment the words leave my lips, I want to step on my own foot for volunteering.

  Mr. Johnson nods at me, and I grab my piece of paper, walking to the front of the room.

  And I’m freaking out.

  But then I try to think about Noah. What he looked like, standing at the front of the room. He was just himself.

  Relaxed.

  I let out a breath, setting the paper down next to the projector, and I write out my problem. When I start to explain it to the class, I make sure to look only at Noah, like he said.

  There’s no one else here.

  Noah smiles at me, tilting his head to the side, and I can’t help but smile back at him before I continue.

  A few minutes later, I’m done and, thankfully, back in my seat.

  “You did great,” Noah whispers, keeping his head forward, his eyes on the next presenter.

  “Yeah?” I ask, feeling like my heart might leap out of my chest.

  “Yeah,” he confirms, giving me a small nod.

  I turn and grin at him, not able to contain my excitement.

  Noah looks toward me at the same time and smiles back.

  So much trouble.

  Latin

  “I’m in such a good mood,” I practically sing to Mohammad, taking my seat next to him. “My statistics presentation is over with, my art project is done, I wasn’t late for class, and my tights have finally dried.”

  I glance over at him and smile, but when I do, I suck in a breath.

  Mohammad looks upset.

  His eyes are red, like he didn’t get much sleep, and his usually-warm chestnut skin looks pale.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.

  “Just didn’t sleep well,” he replies, his head down.

  “Is everything okay? Are you sick?”

  “What did Harry say last night?” he says, finally making eye contact.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mohammad turns in his chair, putting his elbow down onto his knee, resting his chin in his hand. “Harry has never shut down like that before, with us.” It’s obvious that he�
��s hurt.

  “You mean, at his game?”

  “Yes. He always talks to Noah and me about things. And last night, he didn’t.”

  “Are you hurt that he didn’t want to talk to you about his parents?” I ask.

  Because normally, Mohammad is so go with the flow. I know he cares about his friendships, but at the same time, he never seems to let anything get to him too much. Even yesterday, when we talked about Noah and Harry—and, well, me—he wasn’t this upset.

  “I’m not hurt,” he says defensively, pushing off of his knee. He purses his lips, like he isn’t sure what to say.

  “It’s okay if you are.” Mohammad swallows hard, and my stomach tightens, causing me to keep talking, “Last night, when I was with Harry, he never stopped talking about how important you and Noah are to him.”

  Mohammad’s face visibly brightens. “Yeah?”

  I nod. I want to reach out and put my hand on his arm in comfort, but I don’t. “I think he’s been feeling a little suffocated with his mom home. I’m not sure he knows how to talk about it, how to handle it.”

  “I can’t imagine what it’s been like for him.”

  “You know, he told me last night about how, when you guys were young, the three of you used to go to his family’s country house for Christmas.”

  “I used to have to beg Mum to let me go,” Mohammad says, his eyes getting their shine back.

  “She wanted you home for the holidays, I’m assuming?” I laugh.

  He nods. “I was always home for Christmas. We would go the first week of our holiday. I remember, one year, we got into so much trouble.”

  “What happened?” I ask, taking in Mohammad’s smile and knowing I’m in for a good story.

  “I think it was one of their first parties of the season. It had just snowed,” Mohammad starts, sitting up straighter. “Anyway, Harry’s mum and dad had insisted that we go upstairs early to get ready for the party. So, there we were, all in tuxedos, and Harry decided that he wanted to go out in the snow.”

  “Oh no,” I say, preparing myself for what’s to come next.

  “We ended up getting in this snowball fight, right? And Harry’s a shit thrower. Like, terrible. Noah was pelting the fuck out of him. I somehow managed to avoid the snowballs, hiding behind one thing after another. But then Harry thought he’d caught sight of me. He threw a snowball and actually hit something. Unfortunately, it ended up being one of the arriving party guests.”

  “Mohammad!”

  “I know,” he replies, fully grinning now.

  “That’s terrible.” Because, well, that poor guest.

  “We were in so much trouble,” he says, shaking his head. “His mum separated us that night for dinner, sitting us each, like, five seats apart. But we couldn’t stop grinning at one another.”

  “It sounds like you had a lot of fun though,” I comment, trying to picture the three of them as young boys.

  And honestly, it’s actually pretty easy.

  “We did,” he replies, his eyes still clouded with memories. “I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

  “You don’t go anymore?”

  “We haven’t been with his family in a few years. Last year, Noah’s parents went on holiday for Christmas,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “Harry still had to go, but my parents wanted me to stay home because we had family visiting. I was so bored.”

  “Maybe you should reinstate the tradition.”

  “I don’t know if it would even be possible. With Harry’s parents, you know,” he says quietly, glancing around.

  “Yeah.” I nod, knowing that he doesn’t want anyone to overhear us. Which isn’t surprising since he gets most of his information from listening in on conversations.

  I give his arm a little squeeze as our Latin teacher starts writing out a sentence on the whiteboard.

  “I like hearing your stories,” I whisper as I open up my textbook.

  “We have so many good ones. I’ll have to think of a few more for lunch.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “You know, you’re kind of awesome,” Mohammad whispers to me a few minutes later. “Also,” he says, leaning in closer, “you literally do look like Miss America today.”

  He glances from my lips down to my sweater and waggles his eyebrows at me.

  I roll my eyes in response.

  “Almost full-fledged Statue of Liberty status,” he adds, a grin on his face.

  Hot and bothered.

  Before Art

  Harry’s hand slides around my waist, pulling me into a hug in front of my locker.

  “Hi.” I grin, looking up into those gorgeous blue eyes.

  “I was starting to think I might not see you today,” he says, his gaze on me.

  “Aww. Miss me?” I tease.

  “Desperately,” Harry confirms, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve been sour all morning because of it actually. Haven’t eaten a thing. Haven’t been able to focus in my courses.”

  “I bet you couldn’t even enjoy flirting with Miss Gunters in History, could you?”

  Harry sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. “I couldn’t. I tried my best; I really did. But my heart just wasn’t in it today.”

  “I’m sure she was terribly disappointed,” I say with a laugh, going along with his ruse.

  “She was.” He nods dramatically.

  I lace my fingers around his neck and smile at him. “Well, luckily enough for everyone, you’ve found me.”

  “I have.” He grins and leans in to kiss me.

  But I pull back. “Not at school.” I shake my head, not wanting us to get into trouble again.

  “Already over me?”

  “Unfortunately,” I tease, but I shake my head at him and whisper, “Never.”

  I turn back to my locker to grab my art folder and put away my Latin textbook.

  Which reminds me of my conversation with Mohammad. I consider whether or not I should bring up what Harry and I talked about last night or my conversation with Mohammad today.

  I decide maybe if I ask how he’s doing, it might come up naturally.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  He tilts his head and stares at my lips. “Well, right now, I’m just feeling horny. This lipstick,” he says, licking his own lips as his blue eyes slip from my mouth back to my eyes, “has me all hot and bothered.”

  My mouth drops at his bold confession.

  “You like hearing what I’m thinking, don’t you?” He takes a step closer, running his hand down my hair.

  “I think you like telling me what you’re thinking,” I bounce back, bringing my eyes up to his.

  He smirks. “Oh, I do. Mostly, I just like seeing you speechless. It makes me think about what other things I could do that would shut you up.”

  “Shut me up?” I laugh, repeating his words.

  Harry wrinkles his nose and then shakes his head. “Bad choice of words,” he admits. “Let me try again.” Harry wraps his fingers through mine. “It makes me think about what other ways I can make you speechless.”

  “Because you don’t want me to have a voice?” I tease, biting my lip.

  “Because I want to be kissing you, silly,” he says, lightly tapping me on the nose. “And I like making you blush.”

  Harry kisses my cheek.

  “You’re merciless with me,” I reply, grinning.

  Harry looks down over me, tilting his head and biting his lip. “I’ll see you at lunch,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze before letting go.

  Confusion.

  Art

  I sit down in Art, feeling like my head could float away at any moment. Talking to Harry always leaves me feeling like this.

  Happy and light-headed.

  His sparkling blue eyes and adorable blond hair always put me in the best mood.

  And I like flirting with him.

  Because we flirt in, well, two kinds of ways.

  The first way is when he’s being cocky and silly.
Like when he winks at me across the lunch table or throws his arm over my shoulders in the hallway. I like that he teases me about going back to his house or sharing dessert together. It’s sexy but light. Somehow, he manages to say the most inappropriate things in such a casual way.

  In a way I could never pull off.

  And then there’s the second way—when he flirts with me like the world is waiting on bated breath for our next words to come.

  He was flirting like that with me in the hallway just now. Wrapping his fingers through mine, whispering into my ear.

  He knows exactly how to make me blush.

  It reminds me of when he asked me to be his girlfriend.

  He was honest and raw.

  He kissed me like my lips would save him.

  I think Harry knows that, when my face flushes and I have no words, he has me in the palm of his hand.

  And he definitely uses it.

  Because then, all of a sudden, he’ll talk about my lips or tell me that he wants me in his bed.

  And his words make my whole body come alive because I want him in a different way when he talks like that.

  A bolder way.

  A more serious way.

  It makes me happy that we can flirt in both ways. To have the ability to be either playful or serious, never letting one win out over the other. For as unbalanced as Harry’s personal life is right now, he surprisingly brings a lot of levity and balance to my life.

  I put my elbow on the table, letting my chin rest in my hand, thinking about what more is to come with Harry.

  “You all right there?” Noah’s voice rings in my ear, and his face comes into view. His head is tilted, his chestnut hair flopping to the side.

  “I’m perfect actually,” I sigh dreamily, not wanting anything to pull me out of this daze.

  “That’s good, I guess,” he replies. He’s seated on the stool next to mine, in his usual spot, with his elbow resting on the table. He has his chin in his palm, just like me, and his expression shifts from perplexed by what I had to say to seemingly amused. “Whatcha thinking about?”

  “You know,” I say mindlessly, trying to hold on to my mood, “life. Love.”