At my back, his chest rises and falls with long, full breaths, and my lids decide to close.

Suddenly his lips are at my ear, parting, but all that comes out is a half-exhaled chuckle.

“Ms. Filano.”

My eyes fly open, and every other pair in the room is now on me, thanks to Mr. Gant’s critical tone.

Arsen, in absolutely no hurry, removes himself as my blanket and steps beside me.

Mr. Grant crosses his arms, taking a few short steps into the main aisle with his focus on me. “Something wrong?”

I might be losing my mind.

I might feel hot all over with only a second’s foreplay… in the middle of a cooking class, with a guy I basically just met, like a practiced hussy.

Are those things ‘right’?

I shrug to myself.

Hell if I know.

I look to the expectant man with gray-speckled hair and a mustache that would make Gomez Addams proud.

“Define wrong?” slips from my lips without thought.

Two memorable chuckles follow, as do a few others from around the room, but those come from people who are most definitely not on the same page.

Mr. Grant’s eyes widen before he can stop them, but he returns to his desk with a simple, “See me after class.”

As he turns away, I pull the gloves from my hands and toss them in the trash can near our feet. My eyes shift to Arsen.

His are already on me, a deep frown curved along his forehead, and the longer he stares, the deeper it gets. With a hint of reluctance, he looks over his shoulder.

Toward his friends.

Friends, I have a feeling, he’ll have long after this year is over.

Or maybe not.

They’ll probably fuck him over, or vice versa.

Every real relationship turns sour eventually.

Convenience and precise understanding are so much smarter, cleaner.

Necessary.

It has to be.

I don’t look away from the task at hand until the bell rings and we’re sliding our dough into our slot in the fridge.

Thankfully the teacher is occupied with another student, so I’m able to slip from class without a lecture on etiquette. A second after my heels cross the threshold of the room, my phone dings with a text from Scott.

Scott: I’m wearing white on Saturday. You should, too.

And just like that, the self-proclaimed capo demands confirmation our little interaction was simply banter between rich kids with superiority issues.

With a long inhale, I do my part.

Better to pet a persistent dog than attempt to shoo it away, everyone knows it only makes them more eager.

Scott will get his dance, and he knows it.

Ah, how the circle of the high society goes round.