Rosetta Wells knows exactly what kind of boy Beau Maxwell is.
Quarterback, campus golden boy, Dean Di Laurentis' best friend, an annoying Malone's regular, a professional flirt, and a walking bad idea with pretty eyes and a reputation that follows h...
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Rosetta Wells was going to be late, not of her own volition, but because her left overall strap had chosen violence. It wasn't ordinary violence, either... it was personal. The kind where the strap slid off every twelve steps, catching on the edge of her cropped tank, dragging the little white bow at the strap sideways, and making her look less like she'd gotten dressed on purpose and more like she'd been assembled in a wind tunnel by a team of interns who hated her.
Her right hand held two iced coffees while her left held her phone, keys, the strap of her tote bag, and what remained of her dignity after speed-walking across campus with denim trying to assassinate her.
Her bag thumped against her hip with every step, packed with her laptop, a sketchbook, two folders, five pens, three lip products, and a crumpled Malone's schedule that had been living at the bottom of her bag since freshman year, and before Allie convinced Della to switch to an online schedule method.
She had nine minutes to get to philosophy. Well, eight, according to her lock screen, which she kept checking, as if time might change out of pity.
"Move with purpose, babes," she muttered as a guy in a Briar hoodie stopped dead in front of her to type with both thumbs. "Some of us are fighting for our lives." The guy didn't hear her. He had earbuds in and the posture of someone who had never once been aware of another person in public.
Rosetta sidestepped him, nearly losing Hannah's coffee, and caught it against her chest. She gasped so sharply that a girl nearby glanced over. "I'm fine," Rosetta told her, and the girl blinked as she kept moving.
Her outfit had been cute in the apartment mirror, like, actually cute. The denim overalls were baggy in the way she liked, loose through the legs, the bib folded crooked over the navy-and-white crop top underneath. The top had tiny bows at the straps and white trim that made her feel sweet without looking twelve. She'd paired it with chunky white sneakers, silver jewelry, and her hair down because she'd woken up with the red-brown ends doing something romantic instead of feral.
Now her hair stuck to her lip gloss, coffee sweat slicked her fingers, and the left overall strap had abandoned teamwork. Still cute, though, frazzled cute counted, right?
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down.
Han🎶: where are you?
Rosetta pinned both coffee cups between her forearm and chest, nearly bit the straw of one to steady it, and thumbed back a response.
Rosie🌹: en route. carrying the nectar of survival.
Another buzz came before she made it ten feet.
Han🎶: class starts in five.
Rosie🌹: then class should have considered my needs before scheduling itself so far away.
Han🎶: did you get mine?
Rosetta scoffed so hard a curl blew off her cheek, as if she would walk into a building with coffee for herself and nothing for Hannah. What was she, raised by wolves? Evil wolves? Wolves without sisters?
