HANNAH
He’d better not be doing what I think he’s doing.
It’s Thursday afternoon, and to my unfortunate lack of surprise, Lucifer has beaten me to The Chair again. With the dwindling light outside the window, it would be nice to have a lamp just over my shoulder instead of relying on the fluorescent lighting high up above me.
A luxury my nemesis is not taking advantage of.
Because he’s sleeping.
The guy has his feet propped up on the table again, fully reclining in The Chair, with his head tilted back. At first, I thought he might just be giving his eyes a break from the textbook in his lap.
But the slack jaw letting out faint snores is undeniable.
Hot fury pounds at my temples at the sight of my precious chair being used as this asshole’s makeshift bed. He passed out and is therefore unable to appreciate the fact that he has the best seat in this building.
I can’t just let this go. I’ll implode with self-righteous anger if I have to sit here, watching him take advantage of The Chair.
Fists clenched, I shove up from my seat, abandoning my Organic Chemistry notes, and march the few steps it takes to end up beside him.
Yep, there’s no doubt.
Lucifer is definitely asleep.
Using the end of my pen, I jab him in the arm. In his sleep, he frowns, but then he just turns his head to the side, his eyes remaining closed.
Bastard.
My poking method proving unsuccessful, instead, I grab his shoulder and give it a shake before stepping away from him. Some people wake up dramatically, and I don’t want to get hit.
I shouldn’t have worried though. Lucifer takes his time in shrugging off sleep, slowly blinking the haziness out of his eyes as they wander around, eventually landing on me.
“Hmm, what?”
“You were sleeping.” I hope the curt edge in my voice will help cut through some of that dopey tiredness on his face. This guy needs to be fully conscious for me to properly chastise him.
“Oh. Okay.”
Not even a smidgen of remorse. And Lucifer doesn’t go back to reading his notes or decide to get up and vacate The Chair to someone who actually wants to use the seat for its intended purpose.
Instead, he just stares at me.
“No. It’s not ‘okay.’ ” I use air quotes to emphasize the stupid word he mumbled. “If you want to sleep, go back to your dorm. The library is for studying. You can’t just claim the comfiest chair in the building and pass out in it.”
His answer comes with a slow smile that somehow makes me angrier. “And you’re what, library security? Here to kick me out?”
My breath comes out in a big, hot, angry huff, like a fire-breathing dragon.
“Don’t get snarky with me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Shorty.”
For a moment, words leave me, and I’m left gaping at the asshole in silence. Then, the power of speech restores itself in a searing rush, and I straighten up to my five-foot-one stature, fists on my hips as I glare down at him.
“Height is a genetic feature that can’t be controlled and is a pointless thing to mock.” With rage smoldering in my eyes, I let my next words growl from my throat. “Being a dick, on the other hand, is a choice.”
During my tirade, the guy watches me, his smile widening to a grin.
I ignore it and finish my declaration. “You are a dick.”
Before Lucifer can respond, I storm back to my table and sit down. Hard. Briefly, I consider leaving altogether, but I won’t let Lucifer drive me out of the library. I have just as much of a right to be here as he does, and I won’t let petty insults intimidate me.
A few minutes pass in tense silence, and I resolutely don’t look over at The Chair or its undeserving occupant.
“I’m Nathan.” The guy’s smooth voice fills the quiet in this back corner of the library, and I’m surprised enough to glance up at him. He’s leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, searching eyes focused on me. “And you are?”
My name sits just behind my lips, manners pushing me to give it to him.
But he already has everything.
Through my annoyance, I can still see how attractive his face is. Not in the chiseled male model kind of way. More like the I can be hot, but I can also be goofy way. And his T-shirt molds over a nicely toned body, lean and muscular, like a swimmer.
So, he’s good-looking, and he has The Chair.
But he doesn’t get my name.
With determined nonchalance, I return to my notetaking and answer in a dismissive voice, “I’m Shorty, apparently.”
When his light chuckle drifts across the quiet space, I ignore the goose bumps it raises on my arms.