“Don’t you have to have been a Boy Scout to make those sorts of promises?”

“Probably.”

“You’re terrible.”

“But you like it.”

An eye roll and a sigh. “You said you weren’t going to make noise.”

“I know, but I have to know what your deal is.”

“My deal?”

“Yeah, you know—what’s your story? Do you come here to study often? Do you ignore everyone, or just me? Why are you wearing that necklace?”

Her laugh is low and entertained. “Can we save that line of questioning for another day? I have a feeling if I start answering, I’m never getting anything done.”

Dammit, she’s right.

Now I’m the one sighing. “Fine.”

“Do your homework, Oswald.”

Sebastian

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

I look up from editing the text on the screen of my laptop, surprised to see Jameson Clark standing at the foot of my study table with a sly grin. Winter hat pulled down over her hair that hangs in one long chestnut braid over her breast. Jacket in one hand, laptop in the other, her pink cheeks are flushed.

I smile at the sight of those little amber freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. They’re sweet.

I want to lick them.

“You sure do come to the library a lot,” I tease. “Here, sit.”

My foot pushes out the chair opposite me and she pulls it the rest of the way out before hesitating, laptop poised on the corner of the table.

She drapes her jacket on the chair before taking a seat. “I could say the same about you. You seem to be here as often as I am.”

“True, but you know—got that scholarship.” I wink at her and she goes through the ritual of laying out her school supplies: pens, notebooks, textbooks, laptop.

Neon highlighter.

Her blue eyes soften. “I still can’t get over the fact that you actually study.”

“I still can’t get over the fact that you find me resistible.”

“Do your homework, Oswald.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because that’s your name?” She gives me a duh look.

“No. It’s not.”

Genuinely perplexed, her brows furrow. “It’s not?”

“Wait. You actually thought my name was Oswald?”

“Um, yes?”

I stare at her. “Wait. You actually thought my name was Oswald?”

“Do you hear an echo?”

I ignore her teasing. “You’re telling me you haven’t googled me yet?”

“Um, no?”

“Knock it off.” I give my head a mental shake, marveling at this information. “So let me get this straight—you have no idea who I am.”

She throws her pencil down on the wooden table and crosses her arms. “I have a feeling you’re just dying to enlighten me.”

Damn right I am! “Damn right I am!”

Jameson leans back in her chair with a patronizing expression. “Fine. Go ahead. I’m all ears, hanging on your every word, your majesty.”

Shit. Her blatant sarcasm kind of took the wind out of my sail. “Oz. As in Osborne.”

Jameson stares blankly before scrunching up her cute freckled nose. “Your first name is Osborne? Crap. That wasn’t even on my radar as a possibility.”

“No.” Impatient, my leg begins to bounce under the table. “My last name is Osborne.”

Her hands go in the air in surrender. “Yikes, don’t get all offended. How the hell was I supposed to know?”

Is she fucking serious?

“You know what? Never mind.” I reach over the side of the table, dig into my backpack, and whip out a textbook. Cracking it open, I do my best to ignore her.

“Come on, don’t be a baby. I told you, I didn’t know.” She’s quiet for a few seconds, and then, “Can I still call you Oswald? I’m sad now knowing it’s not your real name.”

Agitated, I turn to face her, slamming the book closed with a satisfying thud. “Do I look like an Oswald to you?”

She squints, sizing me up. “Hmmm, not really, now you mention it. Now that I’m taking a good look at you, you’re more of a Blake. Or a Richard.”

“Okay, now you’re fucking with me.”

“Me?” She points a finger at her chest. “Noooo.”

We both start laughing then, the clear sound of her lighthearted giggle doing bizarre shit to my stomach and heart that I can’t label—weird, fucked up fluttering and shit.

Annoying.

When we finally stop snickering, she leans in across the table and quietly asks, “So what’s your name?”

“I just told you—it’s Oz.”

“No.” Her head gives a little shake. “Your real name. It’s not like I can’t google it if I was feeling motivated, which I’m not.” She says the last part with a roll of her eyes. “What did your parents name you?”

For a few quiet heartbeats, I consider not telling her, making her work for it. But then—

“Sebastian.”

“Your name is Sebastian?”

“Yup.” I let the P sound pop.

Jameson studies me then, harder than anyone’s ever studied me before, blue eyes searching the rigid lines of my face. The strong jawline. The faded bruise under my left eye from being locked in a chokehold full of elbow.