Page 11 of Breaking the Ice

When he turns that panty-melting smile on me, it makes my knees weak, but it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a playboy who sleeps around and just got another girl’s number. A girl who he already slept with—and forgot about.

I scowl and gesture at our surroundings. “Are you lost?”

“No?” He glances around, then checks the clock. “This is Elementary Math, right? Because I’ve definitely sat through the wrong class before and⁠—”

“Of course you have.” I shake my head, cutting him off. “I just meant, you usually sit in the back.”

“Yeah.” He smiles again, eyes twinkling like a Disney prince, and my stomach drops to my toes. Why does my traitorous body react like this to him? It’s so inconvenient. “But this really smart girl I know told me I need to pay attention and stay awake, so I thought I’d try it.”

“Hmm.” I try not to preen, not let him see that his compliment softens me.

“We might as well be friends, right?” he asks with a shrug like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“No.” I shake my head.

“Why not?” Evan blinks. It never occurred to him that I might turn this proposition down?

“Because I don’t like you.” I enunciate clearly so he understands. Tutoring with him wasn’t awful, and he was a decent scene partner. But he’s still one of the most irresponsible people I’ve met. I don’t waste my time on guys who sleep around.

“What’s not to like?” He gestures at himself up and down, and I will my cheeks not to heat, not to look at his biceps on display in his t-shirt.

I tick off points on my fingers. “You talk during class, you show up late and unprepared, and you’re a hockey player.”

Evan smirks. “All true, but not all of those things are bad.”

“What’s so great about hockey?” I stare at my desk, pursing my lips.

“Everyone knows hockey players are the best in bed.”

I cough, choking on air, but he doesn’t seem to require a response. Don’t picture it, girl. Think about anything else.

Thankfully, he doesn’t elaborate but shifts in his seat, patting his pockets. “You got a pencil I can borrow?”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously, you didn’t bring a pencil?”

He shrugs, still grinning.

Giving him a once-over, I notice his black joggers and tight gray hockey t-shirt—and lack of anything else. I refuse to linger over the way his shirt stretches across his chest, making my mouth water.

“What are you going to write on if I lend you a pencil?”

Evan reaches out and messes up my hair like I’m his kid sister. Ugh, my attraction is definitely one-sided. “I’m going to ask you to borrow some paper, of course.”

I mean to frown, but a laugh pops out of my mouth instead. I smooth my hair. His complete lack of guile and remorse is almost refreshing. He doesn’t put on any pretense, and his authenticity makes him comfortable to be around.

“You remind me of the little boys in my practicum,” I tell him, my voice gruff as I tear a piece of paper out of my spiral bound notebook. I hand him a pencil, too.

“Because I’m so adorable?” he asks, framing his face and batting his angelic lashes at me.

“No, because you can’t be left unsupervised.”

Instead of arguing, he nods his head. “Yeah, that tracks. Where’s your practicum?”

“Armstrong Elementary. Music with Mrs. Hartman.”

His eyes light up, and he straightens in his chair. “Yeah? I love those kids. I had them last week in gym class.”

“You’re at Armstrong, too?” I ask, and he nods enthusiastically before our conversation is cut short by the start of class.