As I step into my cooking class, I’m greeted by the teacher’s aide, a dark-haired guy I’ve yet to see until today who is channeling his inner Adam Levine and killing it.

He grins, holding the paper in his hands close to his trim chest. “Jameson, I bet.”

“You should consider gambling.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, my dad would love that. Station four.”

With a quick thanks, I head where I’m instructed, and not two minutes later, Ransom, Arsen, and Beretta slip inside.

Arsen slips onto the chair at my side while the other two continue on to the far back corner station.

His entire body shifts, fully facing mine, and he stares, straight-faced, directly into my eyes. He waits for me to squirm, but instead, I lift a brow and he faces forward before his grin slips over his lips.

I shake my head, fighting my own, and look to the front of the room.

I try to focus on the teacher when he begins to speak, but I can’t stop cutting quick glances toward my partner.

Or tracing the curves of Arsen’s shoulders beneath his T-shirt.

With his forearms flat on the desk, one hand molded over his other closed fist, he leans forward, stretching the finely made cotton to its finest, fullest edge.

His skin is tan and like the mahogany in his dark blond hair, likely a gift from the sun.

He looks over his shoulder, the opposite way of where I’m sitting, toward his friends, and his neck shows its strength.

He’s peeled a dress from my body.

He’s tugged me on top of him.

But I have yet to witness the depth I imagine his voice holds.

Is it low and gravelly or crisp and clear?

Oh my god, why does it matter?!

I place my elbows on the tabletop and use my hands as blinders, blocking out any and all things from right to left.

The teacher has us watching a ridiculous film about the safeties of the kitchen, anyone with a decent set of parents or solid caretaker should already know, so I slip from class and head to the bathroom.

I text my sister to see how her first college class went, and all she sends back is a snooze emoji, so I know she doesn’t have the time to help me pass mine. Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I step out the door, and come face-to-face with Beretta.

I jump, but quickly rebalance. “Okay. You really need to dial back this whole Joe Goldberg thing. It’s getting a little weird now.”

“Weird would be admitting I know what color your bedroom’s painted.”

My brows furrow, a subtle hint of panic curling in my abdomen and his far too mindful ass senses it.

His grin widens. “Ask me, Trouble, see if I’m bluffing.”

“And give you the satisfaction of answering? Negative.”