POV Noelle
"So if you have three-fourths of a pizza and you eat one-fourth, what do you have left?"
Zara stares at me like I just asked her to cure cancer with crayons. "Um… hungry?"
I bite back a laugh. "Well, yes, probably. But mathematically speaking?"
"Math is stupid."
"Math is everywhere, Zara. Like, if you want to split a candy bar with your friend—"
"I don't share candy."
Christ. This kid is going to be the death of me.
But honestly? The real problem isn't Zara's mathematical disabilities. It's that my brain keeps short-circuiting back to last night.
The kitchen. Owen backing me against the counter like some kind of beautiful predator, his hands braced on either side of me, his face inches from mine.
"You don't have a fucking clue what you're asking for, do you?"
My heart starts doing that thing again—that rapid-fire drumbeat that probably violates several noise ordinances.
The way his voice went all low and dangerous, the way his eyes darkened like he was imagining very specific things he wanted to do to me, the way he touched me…
And then he just send to bed after realized what I’m. Ugh!
And so I'd run.
Literally sprinted up the stairs like a scared rabbit because whatever was happening in my stomach felt like someone had plugged a live wire directly into my nervous system.
Butterflies. Were those butterflies? Because if so, Warren had definitely never given me butterflies.
Warren had given me mild interest and fed mine daddy issues, but not this weird fluttering sensation that made me want to both run away and lean closer at the same time.
"Miss Noelle?" Zara pokes my arm with her pencil eraser. "You're being weird."
"I'm always weird, Zara. Focus on your math."
"Are you thinking about a boy?"
Jesus Christ. Eight-year-olds are basically tiny psychics with pigtails.
"Why would you think that?"
"Because you have that stupid look on your face that my sister gets when she talks about her boyfriend."
"What stupid look?"
"Like you're gonna throw up but also maybe happy about it."
Out of the mouths of babes. "Finish your worksheet, you little smartass."
Zara grins and goes back to her fractions, but she's nailed it.
I do feel like I'm gonna throw up but also maybe happy about it. Which is a deeply disturbing emotional state that I'm not equipped to handle.
Twenty minutes later, I've successfully taught Zara that two-fourths equals one-half, and she's successfully taught me that my poker face needs serious work.
"Thank you so much for coming in today, Noelle." Pamela, the shelter coordinator, appears at my elbow. "The kids really respond to you."
"My pleasure," I say, and I mean it. These kids have been through enough shit without having to struggle with basic math too.
I pack up my supplies and head outside, where Owen is leaning against his car like a brooding statue with excellent bone structure.
We haven't spoken since the kitchen incident. Not this morning, not in the car ride here. The silence has been so thick you could cut it with a chainsaw.
"How was tutoring?" he asks as I slide into the passenger seat.
Small talk. We're doing small talk now. Like we didn't almost... whatever the hell that was last night.
"Educational," I say, buckling my seatbelt. "Zara thinks math is stupid and that I have boy problems. Kid's not wrong on either count."
Owen's eyes find mine in the rearview mirror for half a second before he looks away. "Can we stop for ice cream?"
"Ice cream?"
"Frozen yogurt. There's a place called Froyos like ten minutes away. I need sugar, and you need to stop looking like someone kicked your emotional support animal."
"I don't look like—"
"You look like you're about to spontaneously combust from unresolved sexual tension."
The words hang in the air like a confession I didn't mean to make. Owen's jaw ticks, but he doesn't comment.
"Okay," he says finally. "We can get ice cream."
The drive is awkward as hell.
Owen keeps clearing his throat like he wants to say something, and I keep staring out the window like the suburban landscape is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.
Every time I glance at his hands on the steering wheel, I remember how they looked braced on either side of me last night. How they felt beneath my shorts.
When we pull into the Froyos parking lot, Owen's phone rings.
"I need to take this," he says, already answering. "Business call."
"I'll just go in and order."
"Stay where I can see you."
I roll my eyes but nod.
The man has trust issues and control problems. It's like having a sexy, emotionally unavailable security system.
Inside, Froyos is doing its usual pastel-colored, aggressively cheerful thing.
I head straight for the bathroom because apparently my bladder doesn't care about frozen yogurt emergencies or existential crises.
I'm washing my hands when the door slams open behind me.
"Well, well. If it isn't daddy's little princess."
I spin around, and my blood turns to ice water. Warren is blocking the bathroom door, and he looks like he wants to murder me with his bare hands.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Looking for you, actually."
His voice is different. Colder. Like all the preppy charm has been stripped away to reveal something genuinely unpleasant underneath.
"My scholarship got revoked. Did you know that?"
"What? No, I…"
"Someone told the dean about what happened at the party. About our little encounter in the bedroom." He takes a step closer, and I instinctively back toward the sink. "Funny thing is, I can't think of anyone else who would've reported it."
"Warren, I didn't—"
"Don't fucking lie to me." His hand slams against the wall next to my head, and I flinch. "You cost me everything. Four years of pre-law, gone. My future, gone. All because you couldn't keep your mouth shut and legs closed."
"I didn't say anything!" My voice comes out higher than intended, which probably doesn't help my case. "I swear to God, Warren, I didn't report anything to anyone…"
"Then who?" He's leaning closer now, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something that might be desperation or rage. "Who else knew?"
"I don't know! Maybe one of your friends—"
"My friends wouldn't screw me over."
"Well, neither would I!"
His laugh is bitter as battery acid. "Wouldn't you? Little rich bitch gets her feelings hurt, runs crying to daddy—"
"I didn't run to anyone!"
"Then maybe I should give you a real reason to cry," he said with a wicked smile, going with his hand to my throat.
That's when Owen appears.
One second Warren is crowding me against the sink, and the next he's being yanked backward by the collar of his shirt. Owen moves like violence in an expensive suit—controlled, efficient, and absolutely fucking terrifying.
"Get your hands off her." Owen's voice is deadly quiet.
Warren stumbles, tries to regain his footing. "This is between me and her."
"Not anymore."
Owen positions himself between Warren and me, and suddenly the bathroom feels about ten degrees colder. Warren's all swagger and trust-fund confidence, but Owen is something else entirely.
Something that makes smart people very nervous and stupid people very dead.
"You're going to leave," Owen says conversationally. "And you're not going to come near her again."
"Or what?"
Owen's smile could cut glass. "Or I'll make sure you have bigger problems than a revoked scholarship."
Warren looks at Owen, then at me, then back at Owen. Whatever he sees in Owen's expression makes him step back. Smart boy.
"This isn't over," he says to me.
"Yeah," Owen says. "It is."
Warren leaves, and I realize I've been holding my breath for the past thirty seconds.
"Are you alright?" Owen asks, his voice gentler now.
I nod, even though I'm shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. "Yeah. I'm fine."
"Let's get you home."
"Can we still get ice cream?"