Page 9 of When Hearts Collide

Starting today, things will be better, and maybe I won’t have to hide anymore.

Chapter 4

The sudden booming of thunder wakes me up.

I jolt up on the bed, my breathing coming out in rapid pants, my skin damp from a dream I can barely remember as a flash of lightning blankets the room in blinding white light.

Slowly, my senses come alive, my ears registering the hammering of rain against the windows, the sounds of tires screeching against wet pavement five stories below at street level, my nose taking in the moisture and earthy smell of the first storm of the season. My lips are parched as I mindlessly reach toward my nightstand for a cup of water, my brain still disoriented.

Where’s the water? I usually put a cup of water here at night before taking it to the kitchen in the morning—

Holy shit.

I grab my cell phone from the nightstand, noting the time. Three p.m.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m late for class, the most important class this year. I can’t believe this. Why didn’t I set an alarm? I thought I set an alarm—

My fingers swipe to the alarm app and I realize I mistakenly set the alarm for two a.m.

Fuck! How am I so stupid?

Leaping off the bed, I grab my messenger bag, stuff my laptop in it, praying it still has enough battery to last me through three lectures.

I dart into the bathroom for a quick glance at the mirror, letting out an “Ow!” when I stub my toe against the door frame, and take in my ragged appearance—messy, long brown hair, blue eyes, a pale blue tank top and black leggings. I hastily run a brush through my long strands. No time to change, this will have to do. Grabbing a cotton blazer from the hook behind the door, I quickly dart out of the bathroom and leave the apartment.

Fifteen minutes later—thank goodness I don’t live too far away from campus—I throw open the sturdy metal door of Kepper Hall room 201. My lungs are on fire from the mad dash from the parking structure to the building in the pouring rain. It’s a deluge out there—a scene from apocalyptic movies.

The door swings open with much more force than anticipated, making me lose my momentum. My messenger bag slides off my soaking wet body and lands on the floor in a loud crash, the textbook, laptop, and some supplies spilling over the dark tiled floors like blood splatter in a crime scene.

My heart leaps to my throat as my skin heats, and I feel several dozen pairs of eyes on me as the classroom falls into an abrupt hush.

Fuck my life.

My hands shake as I kneel to pick up the things which have fallen out of my bag. Students murmur, no doubt talking about the idiot who, not only is late on the first day of class but has also forgotten her umbrella and looks like a drowned rat in the New York subway system.

Then, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention.

“Students, this is an example of what not to do in life if you want to succeed. Preparation is the key to success, in the real world, and especially in this class.” A booming, deep masculine voice echoes in the room and the hushed whispers immediately silence as a chill befalls the classroom.

Heavy footsteps sound closer and closer, each thump a jolt to my heart, which is already careening out of control. My fingers tremble as I hurry to pick up the pens on the ground.

A pair of pristine, gleaming black leather shoes comes into my vision.

Blood drains from my face as I slowly look up from my squatting position on the floor and perhaps it’s the sheer panic from the last fifteen minutes finally catching up to me, the heated embarrassment of making a scene in the middle of class, the fact I forgot to eat breakfast or lunch earlier, or something equally innocuous, but the world literally blurs when I take in the tall, imposing man standing steps away from me.

My fluttering heart stops mid-thump. My lungs forget how to breathe. Goosebumps form on my skin that have nothing to do with how cold I was a moment ago from the rain and the wet clothes.

Perfectly tailored dark gray pants, struggling to hide the muscles underneath them.

Crisp white dress shirt under a slim-fit vest molded to what clearly appears to be a muscular chest.

Strong forearms crossed over said magnificent chest, the thick, mouthwatering veins amidst the light dusting of hair practically begging me to trace them.

Corded neck, an Adam’s apple rippling, leading to a cleanly shaven, angular jaw that seems to have one of those dark shadows even the sharpest razors cannot tame, slashing high cheekbones, and aquiline nose.

A thick head of tousled dark hair that looks effortless, like he rolled out of bed appearing like the god he is with no effort.

And startling, stormy eyes rivaling the thunderclouds outside. Eyes currently blazing with bloody murder.