Look, I'm not stupid. I'm just really bad at Statistics.
Bad enough that Coach is threatening to bench me if I don't pull my grades up. Bad enough that Professor Colby assigned me a tutor.
Enter Bennet Marlowe: certified genius, overpowered paladin in shiny armor, and the most annoyingly attractive guy I've ever failed to impress. He's all sharp edges and sharper wit, hiding behind oversized sweaters and reading glasses that have no business making me lose focus. He's also completely off-limits. It's hard to learn anything when all I can think about is whether he'd let me kiss him if I got the answer right.
And yet, I keep finding excuses to see him. Crashing his D&D night. Convincing him to see a movie with me when my date bails. Walking him home and standing too close on his doorstep. Kissing him clumsily near said doorstep.
And somewhere between pivot tables and probability, I'm starting to think maybe I'm not just bad at Statistics. I'm catastrophically bad at keeping my hands to myself.
I've got one semester to pass this class and keep my scholarship. Falling for my tutor is definitely not the kind of extra credit I signed up for.
Contains mature themes.
