Hate To Love You

The fluorescent lights of Brighton Hall hummed, doing little to dispel the gloom I felt. Another Monday, another Managerial Finance class, another session of enduring Brody McKinnon's incessant chatter from the row behind me. He and his current 'groupie,' Kimmie Sanders, giggled like banshees, making concentration impossible.

I gritted my teeth, a silent plea to the universe for a moment of peace. It was a futile wish, I knew. Brody McKinnon, Whitmore's golden boy and hockey god, seemed to possess a sixth sense for my presence, always managing to park himself directly behind me. It was infuriating, baffling, and, if I were honest, a little unsettling.

"He's just doing it to mess with you, Nat," Zara had said once, shrugging off my complaints. "He loves to get a rise out of you."

She was right, of course. He delighted in pushing my buttons, and I, regrettably, seemed to have an endless supply. Today, however, my patience was thinner than usual. I'd woken late, missed my vital caramel mocha, and was operating on a severe caffeine deficit. This was not a good combination for dealing with Brody.

With a huff of pure aggravation, I spun in my chair, delivering my most potent, perfectly honed death glare. Our eyes met, and a knowing smirk, slow as molasses, spread across his ridiculously handsome face. He mouthed one word, a silent taunt that sent a fresh wave of heat through me:

Jealous?

As if. I whipped back around, my teeth clenched so tightly I feared they might shatter. This was Brody McKinnon's effect on me, every damn time. The class dragged, an eternity of muffled whispers and my own simmering fury, until Dr. Miller finally dismissed us. I practically bolted, desperate to put as much distance as possible between myself and him.

I didn't make it five steps.