Chapter Nine : Cassie

Four months ago
I absolutely dread giving presentations.
The project I did is solid -- maybe even great -- but me? I’m a nervous wreck. I don’t like this s**t, never have. Still, it’s worth sixty percent of my grade, so I’ll just have to suck it up and slip on one of the many masks I’ve perfected over the years.
People know me for my terrific 4.2 GPA.
Okay, I lied. I don't think anyone here knows me.

You see, I’ve gotten so good at staying invisible, I’m sure half the class doesn’t even know I exist. I’d give myself a little pat on the back for that, if not for the sound that slices through my thoughts.

“Next. Group ten,” Mr. Wells calls out, his voice sharp and smooth at once. And then, of course, he adds, “Wait a minute. Why’s there only one person in this group?”

Oh god.
I absolutely don’t want to do this. This goes against every principle I’ve built for myself. But, of course, I have to. Gee, thanks, universe.

Slowly, I stand. My voice comes out quieter than I’d like, but clear: “Everyone else was already paired up, Mr. Wells, so I had to do the project alone.”

Aaaand cue the silence.
The soft hum of chatter dies down. Heads turn. People momentarily stop what they’re doing to glance over at me -- the nobody who’s suddenly at center stage. My stomach flips, and for a second, I think I might throw up the bagel I had for breakfast. (It was, btw, a fantastic bagel.)

Mr. Wells simply nods, mercifully sparing me from further questions. “Alright. The stage is all yours, Miss Reed.”
I exhale slowly. Okay. Time to slip on the mask -- the confident, slick, polished version of me. Nervous? Sure. But no one has to know that, not if I don’t falter. And I don’t falter. Perks of being a control freak.

No one gives a f**k about other people’s presentations really. I mean, I didn’t. So it’s only fair. Except…
I can feel it.
Someone’s staring daggers into the back of my skull from across the room.

The sensation crawls up my spine, prickling the back of my neck. I try to ignore it, focusing on my slides, my voice, my points -- but the weight of that gaze presses harder. Halfway through, I can’t resist anymore. I glance in the direction from where I can feel the stare.

And there he is.
Rath. Rath Ashford.

Golden boy of the college, or whatever ridiculous title people have crowned him with. Dark, perfectly tousled hair, sharp jawline, gray eyes the color of a brewing storm -- he’s hauntingly beautiful. And right now, those storm-gray eyes are locked on me.

....Huh
He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet.
Good for you, man, but I can. I don’t do eye contact, it freaks me the f**k out.

Maybe he’s laughing internally at the loser who ended up doing a group project alone. That would make sense. That fits the script. So why, then, do I keep sneaking glances at him in between slides?
What the f**k.
I don’t do adoration.
Get your head back in the game, Reed.
Stop gawking at someone you definitely shouldn’t.

The last slide clicks into place. I take a breath -- not too deep, just enough to steady the tightness in my chest. “Thank you,” I say, as calmly as I can, and step back.
I gather my things quickly, eager to slink back to my seat, when --

“Impressive work, Miss Reed,” Mr. Wells says, glancing up from his notes. “Very thorough.”
I feel the heat rush to my face.
Not because of the compliment -- but because of the eyes.
I can feel them still.
I risk another glance toward Rath, half hoping he’s looked away, half afraid he hasn’t.
He hasn’t.
His gray eyes are still fixated on me, unreadable.
And then, as if he knows exactly how much that stare is rattling me, the corner of his mouth lifts -- just slightly, just enough -- into an annoying smirk.

Oh, why that little-
I jerk my gaze away, heart hammering like it wants to break out of my ribs.
What the hell is his problem?

By the time I sit back down, my mind is spinning.
Okay, maybe he was just bored and looking around. Maybe I imagined that smirk. Maybe he does that to everyone -- yeah, that’s probably it. The golden boy playing his charming games.

I tap my fingers restlessly against the edge of my notebook, trying to push down the strange flutter in my stomach. I don’t do this. I don’t get flustered by guys. Especially not the likes of him.

So why is it that even as the next group starts their presentation -- even as the room moves on --
I can’t shake the feeling that Rath Ashford has just set something in motion -- and I’m not sure I'm ready for it yet.