Change of Course (Change of Hearts #3) - Sierra Hill Page 0,3

tries to speak, but it comes out as an awkward croak, giving me an evil thrill that maybe I affect him more than he lets on. His charming, lopsided smile fades as he introduces himself to the class.

“Kyl—” he clears his throat again. “Kyler Scott. I’m a fourth-year fashion and design student with a dual degree in multimedia art design. Better to have both just in case I fuck up in the fashion world.”

The class roars with laughter at his self-deprecating comment but my gaze remains steady. He licks his lips and shrugs his shoulders with a “devil-may-care” nonchalance. My eyes travel down his torso, over the black T-shirt that fits tight across his chest - under which I know is a smooth, taut chest with nipple rings in each copper penny nipple - a jean jacket hiding what I explored for hours in our night together. And his black skinny jeans wrap snuggly around his hips and legs, which I remember being on the thinner side, but were perfectly muscular when wrapped around my hips while I was driving into him.

I swallow thickly, forcing my eyes down to break the connection as he sits down again, and I will my thickening cock in my pants to stay put and stand down.

Well, this is going to be a thoroughly distracting inconvenience this semester.

“Thank you, Mr. Scott. It sounds like you’re a busy man.” I eye him squarely, my jaw ticking just a bit because I know just how busy he is with all his extra-curricular flings. And I can’t help the jealous intonation in my reply. “You must not have much time for a social life.”

I don’t expect an answer, but he provides one anyway when he says, “Oh, you’d be surprised. I get around.”

The little twerp.

2

Kyler

I need to get out of this class as fast as possible because I can already taste blood from the spot where I’ve worried my lip so raw over the past fifty-five minutes as I’ve listened and watched Professor Lucas Mathiasson strut around the front of this lecture hall.

And strut he did. As if to taunt me.

Asshole.

Hot asshole.

My hands have turned white from how tightly I balled them into fists. I think the seat mate next to me thinks I have some nervous tick from the way she kept scowling at me every five minutes over the annoying leg jiggle I couldn’t keep under control.

Over the past six weeks, I did my best to dodge the ever-persistent Luc – that’s the name he gave me the night we first met – and then as luck would have it, I ran into him at a kid’s birthday party of all places earlier this month.

It was a party my friend Brooklyn hosted for Caleb, the boy she is nannying for, and who just happens to be the godson of Lucas. Why does the world have to be so small when I’m trying to avoid the one man who could do me in?

That day at the birthday pool party, I stuck as close to Brooklyn and my roommate, Peyton, trying to avoid Lucas as best as possible but he eventually cornered me near the pool shed. Where he engaged me in a heated discussion over my ghosting game.

“Why are you avoiding me? Was I that bad of a lay?” Lucas asks, with vulnerability running through his dreamy eyes, as he shoves a tense hand through his deliciously golden-brown hair. My own fingers twitch from the sensation like an invisible string is attached to my hand.

“What? No. That’s not it at all. I thought I told you I’m not looking for seconds. We had fun and parted ways. It’s not you, Luc, it’s just the way it is.”

I throw a hand in the air and gesture to him. And then because I’m a masochist, I take a longing perusal over his attire. He’s the quintessential pool party attendee, looking ever-so-stylish in his black knit Polo shirt, pressed linen chino shorts, Tom Ford sunglasses, and canvas slip-on sneakers. He could easily grace a Tommy Hilfiger ad campaign.

Luc lifts his sunglasses to his head and stares at me with the same seriously green eyes that I locked onto the night at the bar, narrowing his brows together as if trying to figure out if it’s the truth or a lie as he inhales a breath stilted from frustration.

And then all the worry seems to dissipate when he gives me a pointed look and crosses his arms at his chest. “And