Chapter 011

KATY’S POV I close the door to Braydon’s room and sit on the edge of his bed, dropping my bag beside me. My eyes sweep the space because knowing him, it wouldn’t be shocking to find a used condom wrapper lying around. “I think we should start with marketing theories,” I say. “Then maybe look at how they apply in real life situations.” I flip open a textbook, pretending not to notice the way his eyes flicker toward me and then away, like he can’t stand the sight of me and also can’t help himself. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Whatever. You’re the one with the 4.0 GPA, remember?” The jab stings, but I bite my tongue. “Let’s start with Marketing Management then.” “Okay.” The one-word response grates on my nerves. It’s not like I expect him to serenade me or ramble on, but at least he could pretend to want this session. “Open page fourteen in your textbook and read the first line,” I tell him. He drags his hand across the pages, flipping them with a slowness that makes my skin crawl. “What part should I read, again?” I exhale and press my fingers against my temples. “Do you really want to do this tonight?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he snaps the book shut and swivels toward me, his eyes sharp. “You think I’m filthy, don’t you?” I freeze. The question catches me so off guard and from the look on his face, I can tell he could no longer hold it in. “What do you mean?” I manage. “Back there,” he says, his voice colder than usual. “The thing with the body count. You think I’m dirty, right?” I swallow, suddenly shrinking under his gaze. His eyes burn with something more complicated than anger, disappointment maybe. Like he expected me to be cooler, smarter, and I fell short. The thought of that makes my chest feel heavy, and I hate that I feel bad for letting him down. “That’s not what I meant,” I respond. “And besides… I just wanted Justin to get off our case.” “Really?” He arches a brow, his tone skeptical. “I don’t buy that, Katy.” I lick my lips, my eyes darting anywhere but at him: his lamp, the corner of his desk, the floor. “You started it by saying…” I stop, the words catching in my throat. God, how dumb would I sound admitting I was actually pissed he called me not his type? “Can you just let it go? I didn’t mean it that way.” He leans back in his chair. “Here’s a piece of advice,” he says. “Don’t judge people by what you assume you see. And newsflash: life isn’t all about grades. Out there in the real world, people have s*x when and how they want. Nobody’s keeping score but you.” My chest tightens as he pauses, his eyes flicking over me before he continues. “If it makes you feel any better, so you don’t feel dirty sitting here, I’ve only had eight s****l partners. And I’m always protected. I get tested regularly. I’m clean.” The bluntness of it makes my nose burn. He doesn’t wait for my reaction, but just turns back to his desk like the conversation never happened. My fingers knot tighter in the sheets. I should say something or apologize, but my brain stalls. All this time, I assumed he had some wild fifty-plus body count. Turns out, I was way off. And somehow, that makes me feel worse. I inhale. “I’m sorry, BrayBear.” I bite my lip. “And I don’t feel dirty around you. I was totally wrong for what I said.” He turns back slowly, his brow still furrowed. “BrayBear?” I press my lips together. “Your new nickname.” He stares at me, and for a moment I wonder if I just made things worse. Then he lets out a low huff, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You’ve officially lost it.” Relief trickles through me, though I try to hide it with a shrug. “It’s the best I could come up with.” “You know what, let’s just do Bray.” He mutters. “Yeah, I’ll accept that.” A small smile slips onto my face before I can stop it. He catches it instantly and shakes his head. “You seriously need some help, Peach.” The nickname softens something in me, but his voice is still edged, like he’s not fully letting me off the hook. Still, it’s better than his attitude. “Let’s get started now,” I say carefully, testing the air between us. Instead of staying on his chair, he pushes it back with a scrape and drops onto the bed beside me. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a second I think he’s about to launch into another lecture. But then his eyes flick toward the door. “You think Justin’s eavesdropping out there?” he asks. The tension finally cracks. A laugh bursts out of me before I can hold it in, and when it dies down, he’s smirking, leaning back like he just won something. “Was that a laugh?” he teases. “Did Katy Evans just laugh at my joke?” “What?” I nudge him with my elbow, trying to hide the grin tugging at my lips. He shakes his head like he’s figured me out and, without another word, flips open his textbook. For a second, I blink at him, thrown off by how easily he shifts gears. His eyes skim the page, and his voice is low but clear as he starts reading exactly where I asked him to. I’m caught staring. I know I shouldn’t be that surprised he can read, but for someone who acts like studying is a punishment, he goes through the entire line and page without stumbling. When he finally finishes, he slides higher up the bed and rests his head against the wooden frame, waiting for me to say something. “That…that was good.” I admit. He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I could read, did you?” My eyes widen. “Hey! I didn’t say that.” “But you thought it.” He responds, tilting his head like he knows exactly what’s going on in my head. I press my hand over my mouth to hide the smirk creeping in, and when I finally manage to stop smiling, I push us back on track. The minutes slip by faster than I expect. What starts with me prompting him to read a single line turns into him actually paying attention, asking questions, jotting things down, and even challenging me on examples. By the time I glance at the clock, nearly an hour has passed and we’ve covered five marketing theories. I shake my head with a sigh. He’s definitely smart, way smarter than he pretends to be, but he just hates putting in the effort. If he actually studied, he’d pull off amazing grades. Meanwhile, me? I’m only good at grades. The thought makes me restless, so before I can stop myself, the words slip out. “I know it’s a stupid question, but how do you even know you’re good at…” My voice trails off, and my eyes finish the question by landing down there. “At that. Do the girls leave reviews or something?” He catches it immediately, and a chuckle escapes him as he leans back, arms folding across his chest. “Peach,” he says, shaking his head, “what’s gotten into you?” I roll my eyes, but inside, the words sting more than I want to admit. Bryan’s text comes back to my vision: him telling that girl I wasn’t good in bed and that I didn’t know what I was doing. I press my lips together and push the thought down before it swallows me. “Just answer the question.” I push. He senses the conversation is delicate and inches close enough for his knee to brush against mine. “They do leave reviews,” he murmurs. “Not the way you’re thinking, though. They tremble, cry, beg, and scream my name. And yeah, they c*m. Every. Single. Time. That speaks for me.” Heat creeps up my neck, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral as my fingers twist tighter in the sheets. “So… what about them? Ever been with someone who was actually bad?” “Yeah,” he says easily, without even thinking. Then he smirks, leaning back like he’s enjoying this way too much. “But I always figure it out. Not a single girl has ever left my bed disappointed or unsatisfied.” “By satisfied, you mean…” My words drift off, and he crawls closer, before he nods. The room grows quiet. Too quiet. My fingers twist in my lap while my thoughts start to spiral, faster than I can control. Braydon tilts his head, watching me. Then he leans in until his face blocks my view. “What’s going on in there?” He asks and taps my temple with two fingers. I blink out of it, plastering on a smile that feels a little too stiff. “It’s nothing. Just… needed to clarify something.” “Clarify?” His brows lift. “Something like what?” I shrug. “Something personal.” My hand goes to my bag, ready to escape before I melt into a puddle. But then his voice cuts through. “Did Bryan say something?” I freeze. Did he hear something? Has it already been floating around campus? “Wh–what do you mean?” My voice comes out too thin. “You don’t bring something like that up out of nowhere,” he murmurs, leaning so close I can feel his breath on my lips. "Tell me what that i***t said, Peach. Or do I have to kiss it out of you?”