Stone Creek by Davis, Lainey (reading diary .TXT) 📕

He looks around for half a second, sees me, and sits opposite me without comment. He doesn't even have anything with him. Who the hell walks around a college campus with no backpack? I find myself wondering where he even keeps his student ID, but that leads me to stare at his mesh shorts looking for a pocket. Staring at Neal Sweeney's mesh shorts makes me blush, which makes me lose my composure.

I knew he was good looking from his picture online. He's got a strong jaw and bright blue eyes. When I saw the picture online I thought maybe it was just a trick of the monitor, but no. His eyes really are a vibrant, glowing blue. Neal's eyebrows and lashes are dark brown, but the hair on his head is multi-toned. Some of it is so blond it's nearly white, but other streaks are the same dark as his eyebrows. All of it curls wildly from his head, falling all different directions. I've never seen hair like his, and to my horror, I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers through those springy curls.

I'm staring at him, flushed and open-mouthed, when he raises an eyebrow and finally speaks. "Do I have something on my face?"

His voice startles me back into professional mode. I put on my stern voice and say, "No. I'm staring at you because I've been waiting for you to apologize for being late. Do they not teach manners when your coach talks about sportsmanlike conduct?"

He scoffs and settles deeper into the chair. "There was a line for the trainer after practice."

There is a prolonged pause where I realize he's not going to apologize to me, and I feel a power struggle emerging. "Look, Neal, you don't have to like what we do here and it's actually no skin off my back if our work doesn't help you bring up your math grade. But you do have to treat me respectfully or I'm out."

Another long silence. We're up to a half hour past our scheduled start time. I decide I'm going to bill for the full hour and I sigh, shove my notebook back in my bag, and rise to walk out. As I pass his chair, he shoots a massive hand out and grabs my knee. He doesn't touch me harshly, but the electric shock I feel from his hand throws me off guard and I can't help myself. I gasp. Loud.

People stop their conversations to stare and Neal promptly retracts his hand. "Ok!" he shouts. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept you waiting. Will you please help me?" I stare at him, but people have resumed their chatter and the room feels normal again. "Is that what you want to hear?"

I nod my head, still reeling from the unexpected explosion I felt when Neal Sweeney's hand touched my body. I shake my head a few times and sit back down. "Thank you for your apology. I'm going to give you my cell number. I would appreciate it if you can let me know if you're running late next time."

He nods. I'm back in control of myself now, barely thinking about the proportion of his massive fingers to other body parts that must be equally massive, hidden inside his mesh shorts that surely don't have a pocket for his ID. Before I can help it, I'm staring at the bulge in the center of his shorts. No, Dahlia. Do not think about mesh shorts and potential massive penis size. No. You are here to talk about equations.

"So," I say, ripping some pages out of my notebook and handing him my pencil. "You'll also need to bring school supplies when we work."

He nods. "I have all my stuff back in the locker room. I knew I was running late, so I came here as soon as I was done icing my knee." He starts twirling my pencil between his fingers. I notice that he is left handed, like me. "You see? I do have some manners."

I pull out the syllabus his professor sent me. I'm sort of shocked by how many privacy rules get broken for "special case" students like Neal, because I've got not only his entire academic and sports schedule, but also his math syllabus and the urging of his professor to maintain open communication. Literally everyone at this school is invested in this dude passing basic college math.

"Tell me how to say your name," he says. I had emailed him earlier, telling him where to meet me and to look for the short girl with the bright red pi t-shirt and orange glasses.

I smile at this. "What? Dahlia? You don't know that flower?"

"Very funny. I'm from Maine, not the Yukon. We've got flowers. No. Your last name."

But then Neal does something fully unexpected. Just as I'm about to open my mouth for my phonetic Polish name routine, he puts his massive hand back on my knee. Only this time, he starts rubbing his thumb along the sensitive skin beneath my jeans. I pull my leg away as if he'd burned me. Really, he did burn me. Never in my life has my body responded to another person this way. How the hell does he manage to set my insides on fire just by acting rude and touching my leg?

"Neal, it's really important that you understand that we need to maintain a professional relationship," I stammer, much less forcefully than I need to sound.

He laughs and then sighs. I'm probably the first girl who didn't rip off her panties for him. He looks around the noisy student union and says, "Do we have to meet here each time? Most of the guys meet their tutors in the locker room building."

I shake my head. I'm about to start talking when