Chapter 3 Rules of Engagement

Viv's POV

I gesture toward the empty seat across from me.

"Are you planning to stand there all morning, or are you going to sit down?"

His crooked smile appears.

"You always welcome people this warmly?"

"Only the ones who make me wait."

"I thought I was on time."

"You are. Don't ruin the moment by making me regret it."

He laughs and pulls out the chair opposite me.

Up close, he's even more irritatingly good-looking than his photograph suggested. His dark blond hair sticks out beneath his baseball cap, and his green eyes have the relaxed confidence of someone who has never worried about whether he belongs in a room.

I push his textbook across the desk.

"Page 247."

He glances at it.

"Straight to business. I respect that."

"Wonderful. Turn to the page."

He opens the textbook, then looks at me again.

"Before we start, should I know anything about you? Favorite color? Hobbies? Secret hatred of baseball players?"

"Yes."

His eyebrows rise.

"Yes to which one?"

"My secret hatred of baseball players."

He laughs, and I open my notebook.

"All right. Statistics. What do you understand about standard deviation?"

He considers the question.

"That I don't understand it."

"At least we're starting with honesty."

"I can be honest. I'm also charming, handsome, and occasionally misunderstood."

I pick up my red pen.

"Unfortunately, none of those things will help you pass."

"Not even handsome?"

"Especially not handsome."

His smile widens, but I point to the first question in his textbook.

"Work through this one."

He picks up his pencil.

For a few minutes, the room is quiet except for the scratching of graphite against paper. I watch him work, expecting him to give up as soon as the question becomes difficult.

Instead, he makes an attempt.

It's wrong.

I circle the mistake in red.

He looks at the page, then at me.

"You could have just told me."

"I did. The circle is the part where I told you."

"Do you always correct people like you're marking their final exam?"

"Only when they make mistakes."

"So, all the time?"

I slide the paper back toward him.

"Try again, Mason."

He looks at me for a moment before returning to the question.

The first thirty minutes are less painful than I'd expected.

Mason isn't stupid. He just keeps trying to do everything in his head instead of following the steps. Once he stops turning every explanation into a joke, he begins to understand the material.

Then he makes the same mistake for the third time.

I circle it.

He drops his pencil.

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"That pen. Do you have some personal attachment to it?"

"It's a pen, Mason."

"It's red. Aggressive choice."

"It's the color of correction."

"Could've fooled me. I thought it was the color of hatred."

"Would you prefer I use green?"

"I'd prefer you tell me I'm doing well once in a while."

"When you do well, I'll tell you."

He leans back in his chair.

"You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

"Statistics isn't supposed to be easy. That's why you're here."

For the first time since he arrived, his smile slips.

He looks down at the problem and rubs his forehead with his thumb.

"I've been trying to understand this for weeks," he admits. "Every time I think I've got it, I get the answer wrong."

"Then stop guessing and show your working. You keep skipping steps because you want to get to the answer quickly."

"That obvious?"

"Painfully."

He looks at the page again.

"Fine. Show me what I'm missing."

I move my notebook aside and explain the calculation one step at a time.

He follows along, asking questions whenever he loses track. When he reaches the answer, he checks it twice before looking at me.

"That's right, isn't it?"

I examine his work.

"Yes."

He waits.

I raise my eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just thought there'd be a red circle or something."

"Don't tempt me."

He grins, and I have to look back at the page to hide the small smile threatening to form on my face.

We move on to another problem.

This time, he gets it right without my help.

"See?" I say. "You can do it when you actually pay attention."

"Was that a compliment?"

"Don't get used to it."

"I'll treasure the moment."

I shake my head and write down the next question.

He still makes jokes, but he no longer uses them to avoid every difficult question. When he gets something wrong, he tries again instead of pretending he never cared about the answer.

Teaching him is easier than I'd expected.

I refuse to let that become a problem.

After another incorrect answer, he pushes his pencil away and stares at the page.

"This is pointless."

"You're learning."

"I'm getting half of it wrong."

"You're getting half of it right, too. That's an improvement."

He looks at me.

"Why do you do this?"

"Tutoring?"

"You clearly have the patience of a prison guard."

"People pay me to help them understand things. I help them understand things. It's not complicated."

"You make it sound like you don't hate every second of it."

"I don't hate tutoring."

He studies me for a moment.

"You hate me, then?"

"I don't know you well enough to hate you."

"That's encouraging."

He laughs and picks up his pencil again.

"Finish that question."

He does.

By the time I check the clock, nearly ninety minutes have passed.

I close the textbook and gather my notes.

"That's enough for today. Review chapters four and five before Thursday. I expect you to come prepared."

He nods.

"I will."

"You said that with suspicious confidence."

"I can be responsible when properly motivated."

"And what motivates you?"

He looks directly at me.

"Depends who's asking."

I put my notebook into my bag.

"Your grade is asking. Try listening to it."

He laughs and stands, slipping his textbook into his bag.

"Same time Thursday?"

"Nine o'clock."

"I'll be here."

"On time."

"You're never going to let those five minutes go, are you?"

"Not if you keep bringing them up."

He shakes his head, still smiling.

Then he pauses beside the table instead of heading for the door.

"What happens if I make you like me?"

I stop packing.

For a moment, I think he's joking. It's the sort of thing I'd expect him to say to any girl who refused to give him the attention he wanted.

But he isn't laughing.

I meet his eyes.

"What happens if I make you care?"

His smile fades just enough for me to notice.

Neither of us speaks.

Then he straightens, picks up his bag, and walks out of the tutoring room.

I remain beside the desk, my notebook open and my red pen still in my hand.

My chest feels tight.