Slumped in his seat.

Cocky smirk on his lips.

Eyes glaring back at the professor.

Lowering his glasses, the professor says, “A lot more makes sense now.” Looking at me, he keeps his voice low. “Return to your seat, and like the cadavers, please give me the respect I’ve earned during our ninety minutes together.”

“Yes, sir.”

My body feels like fire as heated embarrassment consumes me whole. I return to my seat, sinking into it while wishing it had a hole I could disappear into forever. The girl beside me whispers, “Don’t worry about him. He’ll forget all about it soon enough when someone else pisses him off. Just lay low until then.” She leans back in her seat.

“I will.” Oh trust me, I will. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, she leans over again, and whispers, “And quite the coup scoring a date with a Westcott.” She wags her brow once. I’m about to ask her how she knew, but she points at my phone. “Couldn’t help but see the text.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Note to self: everyone can see everything in this auditorium.

A text comes in . . . from Harbor again: You okay?

I debate if I should reply just in case I get caught again. The professor is caught up in writing a timeline across the whiteboard that I remember reading about online. So I text: Sorry, I can’t reply. I’ve died from a peculiar strain of mortificationitis.

He texts a reply: I know just the cure for that.

My fingers slide against the screen: Oh yeah?

The next text reads: It’s a cure-all. Trust me.

It is too.

The moment he kisses me after class, I forget all about what happened inside. With his lips pressed to mine, I realize that he may be bad for my school career, but he’s oh-so-good in every other way.

* * *

“Why are we driving so slow?” I ask Dane impatiently.

I’m anxious to get back to Beacon after our shift at the DeRoy’s anniversary party. A lot of the same faces were there that attended the last week’s party, including the Westcotts. Mrs. Westcott even came by the buffet specifically to say hello to me. She’s very sweet.

Still, there was no way I would dare mention my late-night date with Harbor to her. For one, meeting at midnight makes me feel more like a booty call than a proper date. And two, being nice to me as part of the catering crew is one thing. Dating the part of the catering crew is quite another. I’m not sure where she would stand on that part of the equation.

Dane’s been lost in his thoughts most of the way back, the truck absent of our usual small talk. “Dane?”

He glances away from the road like I woke him from a slumber. “Huh?”

“The speed limit is sixty. You’re going what, like forty-five tops?”

His eyes glance down at the dash, and then he says, “Oh.”