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by May, McKinley

  One time Sophomore Year, we accidentally switched mugs and each took a huge gulp. What followed were two spit-takes worthy of the big screen and a volley of insults that went a little something like this:

  "You want some coffee with your sugar milk?!"

  "Sorry, I didn't realize you ingested jet fuel for breakfast!"

  and

  "This tastes like cavities in a cup. Your dentist must make a killing off of you."

  Yep.

  We don't exactly see eye-to-eye on the subject.

  I take a sip of the cold beverage and shiver, goosebumps emerging all over my body. The steaming hot cup of French Press coffee I planned on making this morning would've been much more appropriate and appreciated on this chilly day.

  It also would've been a lot stronger than this brew, which kinda sucks. I could really use some extra brain fuel for the class I'm heading to right now.

  Advanced Biology Lab is no joke. I've heard that it's an extremely tricky class. While the experiments are deceptively simple and fun, the lab reports are notorious grade-killers.

  The good thing is the professor, Dr. Benton, is known around campus as the most badass lab instructor ever. Everyone who's pursuing a natural science degree or healthcare career has heard of the guy.

  He's one of those mad genius types.

  But despite the chill vibe he gives off, rumor has it he's a stickler when it comes to the red pen. He's one of those teachers you respect and love, but at the same time you're sorta scared shitless of them.

  A badass and a hardass.

  Another thing I learned from my relentless searching on those Rate Your Professor websites?

  He writes personal and gushing recommendation letters if you become one of his favorite students—something I most certainly plan on doing.

  Unfortunately, that's off to a crappy start because I'm going to be late.

  To the very first lab.

  Awesome.

  Missing out on a positive first impression isn't the only issue here, though. Arriving early for the first day of lab is basically College Tips 101.

  Choosing a partner for the semester is incredibly important.

  Usually, I arrive thirty minutes early on the first day and sit outside the room. I spend the next half hour pretending to be absorbed in a textbook while I secretly assess my classmates one-by-one as they show up, surreptitiously determining who would be an ideal partner.

  Seriously.

  It works.

  There's a science to the selection process. A Goldilocks-like science.

  Not too smug and pretentious, not too lazy and unmotivated, but justtt right and Tada!

  You're got yourself a suitable P.I.C. for the semester.

  Yes, I'm judging people after a ten second evaluation, but I must have some sort of sixth sense for it because it's worked wonders for me so far.

  I peer down at my phone as I briskly walk through campus.

  7:58 a.m.

  There's no chance of me getting my pick of the litter for this lab, but I'm confident things will be A-Okay.

  This is Advanced Bio Lab, after all. It's a class chock-full of students preparing for a variety of careers in healthcare, so desire for a high grade should be instilled in the majority of them.

  A few minutes later, I finally arrive at the Biology building and quickly make my way up the concrete steps. I down the last sips of my coffee and shove the empty thermos into my backpack as I jog inside.

  One peek at the map is all it takes for me to figure out where I'm going. I've taken more classes than I can count in this place.

  I pass by a large lecture hall, the muffled sounds of a professor introducing himself emitting from the room.

  Shit.

  I am definitely late.

  My sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor as I break into a run. I make it to the hallway where the lab is located and breathe a sigh of relief when I spot another student thirty feet ahead of me.

  Thank God I'm not way later than everyone else. This guy barely beat me here.

  I'm sure we'll end up as partners, so I give him a hasty perusal. I can only see his back, but it's more than enough to assign him an accurate label.

  Slacker.

  All of the I-don't-give-a-flying-fuck-about-school signals are there. He's decked out in sweats, the hood of his Windhaven sweatshirt is covering his head, and the black Adidas track pants hugging his admittedly well-defined ass are wrinkled as if he slept in them. His lazy gait screams "I'd rather be in bed", and I can hear the music he's blasting through his headphones all the way down the hall.

  Ugh.

  "Slacker" might be a generous categorization for this one.

  But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe my judgmental analysis will fail me this time.

  This could be one of those cases where a millionaire dresses like a total slob. Where if you saw them on the side of the road you'd be more inclined to assume they're homeless than the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

  For all I know, this dude could be a 4.0 student. His high school valedictorian. The person who will one day discover the cure for cancer!

  I watch as he jiggles the classroom door handle and pulls. The door doesn't budge. He pulls harder, but still nothing. It takes him three more tries before the genius realizes he needs to push instead, and he finally slips into the room.

  Good Lord.

  I'm reallllly hating myself for that alarm mix-up right about now.

  When I step into class a few beats later, Dr. Benton's front and center, already scrawling something on the dry-erase board. He looks up and gives me a small nod.

  "Ah, our last straggler. Come in, come in." He points the marker behind him. "Take a seat with our other tardy student. Perhaps you two can have a little chat about getting to class on time."

  He cracks a warm smile as I apologize and move past him.

  I walk through the rows of lab tables, enduring stares from the other students already in their seats. If I was the type to get embarrassed, I probably would be right now.

  I end up at the very back of the classroom where an isolated lab table sits. It's a different make and model than the others, almost as if it was added later to squeeze in a few more students.

  Andddd there's Mr. Sweatpants.

  He's got his head on the desk, his back moving up and down with slow breaths that have me wondering if he's asleep. The beat of hip hop music is still audible, but at a slightly lower volume now.

  Before I take a seat, I reach over and poke my new partner on the shoulder.

  When he doesn't flinch, I poke him again. This time with a little more force.

  He stirs. I plaster on a fake smile and begin my introduction as he pulls out his earbuds.

  "Hi there. Looks like we're going to be lab part—"

  My sentence falls flat as he removes his hood.

  The moment those familiar hazel eyes meet mine, a wave of pure annoyance surges through me.

  This cannot be happening right now.

  He is the absolute last guy I'd expect to see in a class like this.

  There's just no way my lab partner for the next five months is him.

  Weston freaking Paine.

  Look, every campus has one.

  Every. Single. One.

  Doesn't matter if the student population is big or small, the university public or private, they've all got a Weston Paine strutting around the place.

  The college manwhore.

  The notorious womanizer.

  The can't go 24 hours without getting some Lothario who not only has devastatingly good looks, but also the charm and quick wit to seal the deal.

  Mix that in with his esteemed student athlete status and you've got all the necessary ingredients for an egotistical prick.

  Usually, I avoid these kind of guys like the plague. Cocky asshole is so not my type.

  Unfortunately, I have an almost familial connection with him. He's Vaughn's best bud and teammate, so I've had the displeasure of run
ning into him a few times last semester. Like when he met me at a Halloween Party, nicknamed me "Barbie", and tried to woo me into his bed after five seconds of conversation.

  And from the way he's leering at me now, I have a feeling there will be many more attempts to come.

  "Barbie." His eyes glimmer in amusement as mine roll at the ridiculous nickname he apparently hasn't forgotten about. "Surprised to see you here."

  "You're surprised?" I let out a puff of air. "Believe me, Weston. Your shock is nothing compared to mine."

  He runs a hand through his messy hair and grins. A small dimple appears on each cheek. "This is gonna be fun."

  Before I can let him know in more candid terms that no, this is most definitely not going to be fun, Dr. Benton resumes his introduction.

  "Now that we're all present, let's get this class a rollin'." He waves a hand across the room. "Everyone turn towards your seating buddy. Shake hands. Say hello. Give them an Eskimo kiss. I don't care. Introduce yourselves however you see fit."

  I forgo his suggestions and decide a scowl and seedy glare are appropriate gestures for the situation. That's about as cordial of a hello as I'm capable of with Weston.

  "Now take a long gander at your partner. Really look at them."

  Damn.

  The last thing I want to do is stare at his face—I'm already more than aware of what he looks like.

  There's no beating around the bush here.

  He's hot.

  I know it.

  He knows it.

  Everybody on this stupid campus knows it.

  He's your typical boy-next-door—the ones portrayed in the movies, not the creepy mouth-breathers from real life that always seem to be "bird-watching" in the direction of your bedroom window.

  Chestnut hair that strikes the perfect balance between unkempt and styled, golden skin from countless workouts in the sun, and that gorgeous smile and the accompanying dimples that take his look from masculine and sexy to irresistibly adorable in an instant...

  He's got the look down to a T.

  "Get used to that face," Dr. Benton continues, "because you're going to be spending a lot of time with one another this semester."

  "Lucky you," Weston says smoothly.

  I snarl.

  He winks.

  It irks me beyond belief, but whatever.

  I can handle him for three hours every Monday morning. No biggie. We'll do the experiment together and that's it.

  But with the professor's next words, my plan to survive this class is all but thrown out the window.

  "Every Monday, you will turn in a lab report based on the previous week's experiment and data. Lab reports will be collaborations this semester. You and your partner will work on these together, turning in one report for the both of you. Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?"

  I let my backpack drop to the floor as I immediately raise my hand. "And what exactly are we supposed to do if our lab partner is completely incompetent and doesn't belong in a class like this?"

  Every head turns to face me, but all I notice is the amused grunt that comes from my left.

  "Shit," he mutters so only I can hear. "Going for the jugular, huh?"

  I'm aware I sound like a raging bitch, but I promise I'm not being mean for no reason. I've heard all the stories from Rayne and Vaughn.

  Weston once turned in a term paper two semesters late.

  Weston skipped class so many times that when he showed up for the final, his professor asked who he was.

  Weston brought a George Foreman to Psych 101 and grilled burgers during lecture.

  If these examples are any indication, I'd say my outburst is completely justified.

  Dr. Benton turns towards me, intrigue painted on his face. He glances down at the clipboard in his hand before squinting in my direction.

  "Ms. Montgomery, is it? Any relation to Abigail and Elizabeth?"

  I nod my head.

  "Great girls. Fantastic students and very intelligent." The right side of his mouth curves up in curiosity, his bushy mustache going with it. "Quiet girls."

  I nod again. I know he's not saying it in a rude way, just pointing out the obvious differences. My sisters are reserved as hell.

  Because both of them attended Windhaven and were pre-med/Bio majors like me, I've heard this familiar speech from a vast majority of my professors. They're always surprised when I speak up in class or batter them with endless amounts of questions during office hours.

  I see it on their faces every time I'm incapable of keeping my mouth shut; they can't believe we're related.

  Dr. Benton tilts his head. "So you think I should let you switch partners?"

  "Yes. Absolutely," I say with a smile of relief. My eyes travel around the room, looking for a new seat mate.

  "Not going to happen, Ms. Montgomery."

  "What?" My head snaps back to him in disbelief, and then to Weston who looks downright pleased with the entire situation.

  Douchebag.

  "I treat my students like they will be treated in the professional world. You can't just switch out your co-workers when you don't get along, can you?"

  I shake my head in concession.

  "You've got to learn to work with all kinds of people. Advanced Biology Lab will be a terrific place to start."

  "Couldn't agree more, Professor." Weston's eyes remain glued to mine as he calls out to our lab instructor. He leans back against the wall, smug smirk growing bigger as he gently kicks the empty stool towards me. "Sit down, Barbie. You're holding up the class."

  "Quit calling me that," I mumble as I reluctantly lower myself onto the seat, scooting it as far away as possible from him. I grab my microscope and drag it closer to me. "This is a freaking nightmare."

  "Looks like you're stuck with me, babe," he says as he clicks his pen and grins. "Oh, and just a little heads up. I fucking suck at biology."

  5

  Fucking Barbie.

  Out of all the potential lab partners I could've been paired with, Rayne's feisty roommate was the last to cross my mind.

  I was expecting some socially-inept nerd to take a seat next to me—a skinny dude with thick glasses, greasy hair, and maybe a pocket protector or two. Someone whose ideal Friday night includes working on physics homework and hosting a Dungeons & Dragons meet-up in their mom's basement.

  I glance towards the blonde on my right.

  Heart-shaped face, piercing green eyes, legs that go on for freaking miles...

  Damn.

  I forgot how insanely attractive she is.

  Most definitely not the type of partner I was anticipating.

  I came to class this morning with a foolproof scheme to drop the course. I know this guy doesn't let just anyone escape the hell that this lab is supposed to be, but I planned to give it my best shot by causing a disturbance of sorts.

  Not anything major—I wasn't gonna blow up a Bunsen burner or start a chemical fire or some shit like that.

  I'm not a freaking psychopath.

  My idea was to "accidentally" drop a few test tubes, maybe knock over a handful of measuring glasses. Just enough to show I'm a liability in the laboratory. Nobody wants some dumbass klutz damaging all the equipment.

  Wasting the university's $$$ and putting students at risk for broken glass injuries?

  Double whammy.

  But now I'm starting to second guess the whole thing.

  Now I'm thinking that drop form may not be necessary.

  Barbie leans forward, fetching something from her backpack. Her black shirt gapes in the front, giving me an unobstructed view of her damn near perfect rack.

  Holy shit.

  Screw my plan.

  If this is what I get to look forward to every Monday morning, this 8 a.m. is gonna be jussst fine.

  She sits back up, pen and notebook in hand. My eyes are still glued to her chest when she clears her throat excessively.

  My pupils reluctantly bounce up, registering the glare that's taken ov
er her face.

  Caught in the act, but I don't give a shit. I mean, what the hell does she expect when she's giving me a front-row peep show?

  That I'm not gonna take advantage of it?

  Yeah right.

  "Could you not be a perv for like, I don't know, three seconds? Is that too much to ask?" she grumbles, tugging the neckline of her shirt up above her collar bones.

  "Three seconds? Sure." My mouth curls up as I continue. "But anything longer than that and I can't make any promises."

  Her reply is yet another scowl—one of the seemingly hundreds she's shot my way this morning.

  I know what you're wondering.

  What's the history here?

  Did I break-up her last relationship? Run over her cat? Leave her unsatisfied after a night in my bed?

  No, no, and hell no.

  Despite the fact that the pent-up disgust in her expression is worthy of a decade-long feud, the truth is, we barely know each other.

  I've literally met the girl twice.

  Is it even fucking possible to hate someone as much as she appears to hate me after two measly meetings?

  The answer to that is a resounding "yes", and I know exactly who to blame.

  Rayne Everett.

  Look, I'm no stranger to a girl warning her friend about my wicked ways. They think they're doing their BFF a favor, "saving" them from heartbreak or some shit like that, but let's call a spade a spade.

  They're cock-blocking.

  Most chicks ignore the warnings—good for me.

  But some eat it all up like a five-course meal.

  Barbie falls into the latter category. She'd made up her mind about me long before we even met, and that's the only reason she wasn't particularly receptive to my advances last semester.

  I mean, there's just no other explanation as to why she was immune to my wit and unwilling to fall for my charm.

  And judging by the anger brewing in her eyes right now, I doubt she's going to be falling for it anytime soon.

  "Alrighty, folks!" Dr. Benton's overly enthusiastic voice echoes off the walls. "First lab is a quick refresh on microscope skills. Not the most interesting content in the wide world of biology, but a good place to begin the semester nevertheless."