I click back over.

“Hey, Brody,” I say. “Sorry that took so long, I—”

The honking wail of a dead phone line cuts off my apology.

I slam the receiver back on the base, wondering, yet again, how Quince manages to ruin everything.

In trig on Monday, Mr. Kingsley pairs us up to work on tangents. In some great grand scheme of fate or luck or both, I get paired with Brody.

Quince gets stuck with Tiffany (aka Courtney-in-training).

Finally, an entire class period of uninterrupted—except by Kingsley’s occasional lectures and reprimands—one-on-one time for me and Brody.

“Sorry about the—”

“Sorry I had to—”

We laugh, together, since we’ve spoken at the same time.

He smiles and says, “You first.”

“I just wanted to say sorry I was gone so long on the phone last night.” I glance at the offending interrupter, who—although bent over the textbook with Tiffany and seemingly intent on his work—is somehow watching me without looking at me. He’s reading about tangents, but I just know that he’s focused on me. Thank you, bond. “I couldn’t get rid of the person on the other end.”

“That’s funny,” Brody says, leaning over our paired desks. His right arm brushes against mine. “I was going to apologize for having to hang up. I had to go help with the dishes or Dad was going to ground me for a month.”

I force a laugh, but all I can really think about is the way the soft, curly hairs of his forearm are tickling across my skin. It’s the most intimate touch we’ve ever shared, to be sure. A sensation of warmth floods me, from my heart outward. My cheeks heat up and I feel—

I look up and find Quince’s eyes burning a hole in me.

He would. He just would ruin this moment for me by doing nothing more than look at me.

Fine. I can play dirty, too.

“So, Brody,” I say, leaning closer, making certain Quince sees me rest my fingers on Brody’s wrist. “What else were you going to say last night?”

I have to suppress my glee when I see Quince’s muscles tighten, one by one, starting with his jaw and moving over his shoulders and down his arms. It makes me feel powerful to know that I can make him so…jealous.

Ha! All this time, I’ve been using Quince to make Brody jealous, and it turns out I’m making Quince jealous in the process. Bonus.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” Brody says.

“Ask me now.”

His beautiful golden-brown eyes look directly into mine, and he asks, “Are you and Fletcher really an item?”

“Are we—” My jaw clenches. I do not want to be talking about Quince right now. Not when Brody and I are finally having an extended moment. So, rather than create a bigger mess of things, I simply say, “No. We’re not.”

That charade is definitely over. I’m done with playing the pretend fake girlfriend.

Brody leans back—away from me—and smiles. “Good.” He folds his arms behind his head. “Because you shouldn’t waste your time on that loser.”

My eyes flick to said loser, who is resolutely pretending to focus on his work. Emphasis on the pretending part.

I’m not sure why, but Brody’s comment irritates me. Quince may be many things—blowfish, biker boy, rude, obnoxious, arrogant—but he’s not a loser. Just because he’s not a news anchor or a swim star doesn’t make him a worthless member of the student body.

Wait a second. Why am I sitting here defending Quince? (Even if it was only mentally.)

“We’d better get to work,” I say, pulling out my textbook and opening to our assigned page. “We’ve wasted half the class.”

As we begin wasting the other half hurrying to finish all the work problems, my mind can’t focus on math—as if it ever can—and keeps thinking about Brody. And not the usual crush-fantasy-come-true thoughts, either. No, I keep wondering why he’s suddenly showing an interest. Why now, of all times? Is it because seeing me with Quince made him realize he has feelings for me? Or is this not about me at all? When the bell finally rings, Brody hurries off, saying he’ll see me at the after-school news-team shoot.

I’m still zipping my backpack closed when I sense his presence at my side.

I pretend he’s not there.

“You and your partner get your work done?” he asks. The question is simple, but his tone isn’t.

“Yes,” I say, hitching my backpack up on my shoulder and pushing to my feet. Quince is standing right there, so I end up face-to-face—or, since he’s got a few inches on me, face-to-chest.

“Move,” I insist, accompanied by a shove.

“What?” he asks, his voice mockingly light. “Problem in paradise?”

“No,” I snap. “Everything is just perfect.”

I push harder, finally moving him out of the way. But before I can get to the door, he moves in front of me, blocking my exit.

Rather than waste my breath, I just scowl.

“You’re a fool, you know,” he says, sounding all superior and condescending. “You’re not his type.”

“Oh, yeah?” I try to sound amused, but he’s definitely hit on a sensitive spot. Like I haven’t worried about that exact thing for the last three years. “Then how come he called me last night? Why is he paying attention to me and flirting with me?”

Although part of me just wanted to throw that in Quince’s face, another (skeptical) part of me wants to see if he confirms my doubts about Brody’s sudden turnaround.