One Tiny Lie A Novel

you know one person in the room now.”
    He has a point, I think, as I look around at a sea of unfamiliar faces. “And I suppose you’re going to sit beside me every single class?”
    “I don’t know. You seem like an angry student. I’m not sure I want the prof associating me with you.”
    I shift away from him intentionally, earning a derisive snort. “So the fact that you saw my schedule has nothing to do with picking this course?” I ask.
    “What? You think I’m taking this just because you’re in it? Why would I do that?” There’s a playful quirk in his brow.
    Good question. But I still know it plain in my gut: he’s here because I am. I just don’t know why. “How’d you get in, anyway? I thought there was a wait list for this.”
    I see his fingers running back and forth over that worn leather band around his wrist. “I know one of the ladies in the registrar’s office.”
    “Perhaps the one you had over on Saturday night?” I blurt out, the image of that stupid red sock still burning in my mind, reconfirming how wrong he is.
    He pauses and then turns to look at me, cocking his head. “Are you jealous, Irish?”
    “Of what? That you’re such a douche bag that you drop off your girlfriend and have another woman in your bed within hours?”
    “I didn’t have anyone in my bed,” he says defensively, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip slowly. I fight the urge to look down at it.
    “You didn’t?” I sigh with relief. And then I realize that I just sighed with relief. Why am I sighing with relief?
    He shakes his head, clicking his pen a few more times. “Up against the wall . . . in the shower . . .”
    I start gathering my books in order to change seats before the professor begins, but Ashton’s hand lands on top of mine, holding it in place. “What does it matter? You were with Connor in his room anyway, weren’t you?”
    “No, I . . .” Heat creeps up my neck. “We were just talking.” I shake my head. I don’t know why it matters, really. What he does behind his girlfriend’s back is sleazy, but he’s right—it’s none of my business. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. “It doesn’t matter, Ashton. I just thought you regretted messing around on your girlfriend.”
    “I never said that ,” he answers softly, releasing his grip of my hand and shifting in his seat as the professor affixes a microphone to his collar, ready to begin the lecture. “I said I regretted messing around with you .”
    My jaw clenches as my pride takes another hit. “That makes two of us,” I mutter, hoping that came out convincing, knowing that it doesn’t make me feel any better.
    “Nice skirt, Irish,” he murmurs, his eyes now very obviously on my thighs. I instinctively smooth the simple black skirt, wishing it were longer.
    I struggle to keep focus for the next hour, Ashton’s words weighing on me. I grab onto bits and pieces of what Professor Dalton says, sometimes even an entire point. And then a brush against my knee or my elbow makes me jump. I adjust in my seat. I squirm. Several times I glare at him, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. And he doesn’t take notes, I notice. I see him scribble a few lines on a page, but I doubt they have anything to do with this lesson.
    By the time the class wraps up, I’m ready to run up the stairs. Or stab him in the leg with my pen.
    As the professor writes our first assignment on the board, I hear Ashton mumble, “Now I remember why I never wanted to take this class.”
    “There’s still time to drop it,” I snap back.
    Mock horror twists Ashton’s distractingly beautiful face. “And not enjoy your pleasant company twice a week for an entire semester? Heavens, no!”
    I shake my head with resignation. “Okay, seriously, Ashton. Back off.”
    “Or what?”
    “Or . . . I’m going to tell Connor.”
    “No, you won’t,” he says softly.
    “Why? Because you think he won’t want me after? I have a feeling you’re wrong.” I don’t have that feeling at all. In fact, I have the feeling that Ashton is right. But I also have the urge to have the upper hand on him. For once, dammit!
    Leaning to the side until his shoulder presses against mine, he murmurs, “No . . . because you’re in love with me.”
    A strangle gurgling sound escapes my throat.
    Upper hand gone.
    My heart hammers in my throat. I’m really not sure how to respond to that but my gut says that I have to, partly to