“No,” I say honestly, because I still don’t know how to trust him. Because I still couldn’t trust Isabel. Because even if Jenna just tripped and fell into Salem’s lap, I’m the one who brought her to his room for poker night, and I’m the room she stopped by on the way to his, I guess, and I’m the idiot who thought I was helping him with a hopeless crush on someone else entirely. But mostly, because I’m the one sitting here in clothes barely a step up from pajamas and hair a mess and no clue what I’m doing or whether I’ll ever be able to trust my instincts with guys again, while he’s turned himself around in no time at all. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my lab report.”

“You’re kidding me.”

I refuse to dignify that with even a meeting of the eyes, choosing instead to focus on the work he interrupted. “Nope. Why don’t you head off and do something brilliant like break out a crack pipe in Headmaster Gibbons’s office? Seems like you’re losing your edge.”

Okay, that might’ve taken things a bit far, and the angry sweep of his books back into his bag confirms it. I wait for the sound of him storming off, but instead, a shadow looms over me and cool, minty breath dances over my cheek. “You wanna know something true, Skeevy? Something secret?” he whispers dangerously. “I got caught on purpose so I could give Sabrina an out because I could see she was dying being around Molly. Feel free to yank that one from your bitchy insult box.”

And then I get the storming off, but it’s not remotely satisfying.

In fact, I can’t even bring myself to let it stand. I jump up, leaving my books behind, and grab him by the wrist before he can leave the room, corded leather bracelets imprinting on my palm. “Wait, please. I’m sorry.”

He turns, slowly, but his mouth quirks up in the tiniest of smugly edged smiles, the kind you might see on a cat who’s spotted a mouse for dinner, and I know I’m forgiven. “Hold on, I wanna get that on a recording. Replay it a whole bunch of times on nights I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“Oh, shut up and accept the apology.”

The smile blooms into something slightly more whole, and he follows me to the table, spreading out his books. We work in much more (mostly) pleasant silence for a while, but by the time I finish my report, the feelings I buried for my apology have morphed into something that has me impatiently tapping my pen against the desk.

Finally, it clicks what I need. “I want a Bad Girl Day.”

He blinks in my direction, biting his lip against a laugh. “Excuse me?”