Viv's POV Mason Hale pushes open the glass door of the tutoring center just as I'm seeing his name for the second time. The first was half an hour ago, when Priya handed me his file. MASON HALE. Statistics: D-. Star pitcher. Senior business major. Pro prospect. Heir to Hale Hotels. The second time is now, with the man himself standing in front of me, a training bag slung over one shoulder and his dark-blond hair looking like he ran a hand through it once and called it good. He looks almost exactly like the picture in his file, except in person there's an ease about him that immediately makes me think: trouble. I glance at the clock. 8:59. "I'm not late," he says. "Not yet." I slide his painfully bad grade report to the center of the table. Mason looks down at the D-minus and somehow still manages to smile. That's the kind of student I hate dealing with most-not the ones who are struggling, but the ones who look like struggling doesn't concern them nearly enough. I tap the grade with my pen. "Just so we're clear, you're not here because you need help with a couple of problems. Keep this up and you're going to fail Statistics." He sits across from me, and for the first time, his expression turns a little more serious. "That's why I asked for you." My pen stills. Asked for me? So the tutoring center didn't assign him at random? I look up. Mason has already leaned back in his chair like he didn't just say anything unusual, but my mind immediately goes back to Priya telling me, half an hour ago, that I'd been assigned to him-and the look on her face when she said it. Something doesn't add up. "You know me?" "I do now." Cute. I'm not interested in playing word games with him, so I open the textbook instead. Why he picked me doesn't matter. I just need to get him to a passing grade and move on with my life. Because unlike Mason Hale, I don't have the luxury of failing a class. My scholarship renewal is due in ten days, and that scholarship is pretty much the only reason I'll be able to stay here next semester. The form is sitting on my kitchen counter right now beside a stack of bills, and I don't wake up at 4:45 every morning to work at The Grind because I enjoy making coffee before sunrise. I need the money. And I need this tutoring job. So how famous Mason is, how many people on campus know his name, how many girls are obsessed with him-none of that has anything to do with me. At least, in theory. But when I glance down at his file again, my eyes catch on his last name. Hale. That strange feeling comes back. I felt it the first time Priya slid the folder across the desk. The name seems familiar somehow, and not because it's stamped all over campus or because Richard Hale sits on the board of trustees. It feels older than that. Like I've seen it somewhere that mattered. I just can't remember where. And the harder I try, the more uneasy I feel, as if there's a locked door somewhere in my memory and I know there's something behind it, but I can't get it open. "What are you looking at?" Mason's voice pulls me back. I close the file. "Trying to figure out how much work you're going to be." One eyebrow lifts. "And?" "Depends how cooperative you are." That gets a real laugh out of him. Suddenly I understand why Delia looked so entertained last night when I told her his name and said, "Viv, you are going to hate him." I'd just gotten home after a full day, my feet aching and the heater in our apartment making noises like it was dying. The second Delia heard "Mason Hale," she perked right up, asked if I meant the baseball player, then informed me that half the girls on campus probably thought he was gorgeous. I didn't understand why that was relevant. Being hot isn't going to pass Statistics for him. And after seeing his picture, my only real impression had been that he had the kind of smile that belonged to someone who'd never checked his bank balance before deciding whether he could afford lunch. Now that I've met him, I still think that. What surprises me is that he isn't as careless as I expected. I give him a few basic problems to work through, and yes, he gets plenty wrong, but he isn't clueless. Most of the mistakes come from gaps in the foundation, things he never properly fixed when they first started going wrong. If he's willing to put in the time, this is salvageable. That's a relief. I don't mind students who struggle. I mind students who do nothing and assume paying for help should magically make them smarter. So far, Mason doesn't seem to be one of those. "Here." I turn his paper toward him. "You don't actually misunderstand this part. You made one mistake in the previous step, and everything after that fell apart." He studies the page for a moment. "Sounds a lot like my life." I look at him. "If your whole life can be traced back to one bad calculation, you're probably doing better than most people." He goes quiet for half a second, and some of the humor leaves his face. I don't ask. I don't like people digging into my life, and I'm not interested in digging into my students' personal problems either. Still, for the first time, I get the sense that the Mason Hale in the campus photos and the one sitting across from me aren't exactly the same person. Not that it matters. I hand the pen back to him. "Do it again."

Mason's POV What Viv doesn't know is that I wasn't randomly assigned to her. I asked for her. My advisor gave me several tutors to choose from, and after looking through the list, I gave him one name. Vivian Castellan. Even Jules thought that was suspicious. Worse, he might be right. The first time I noticed Viv wasn't today. It was a few weeks ago in the library, when she was arguing with a professor about a grade. She didn't cry. She didn't raise her voice. She just stood there and laid out her argument point by point until the professor was the one who stopped talking. I watched a little longer than I needed to. After that, I noticed her at the coffee shop. Then in the library again. Once near the tutoring center. I'm not even sure what shift she works at The Grind, only that she always looks tired and like she'd rather die than admit it. Worn Converse, hair twisted up without much effort, usually carrying books from one place to another the second she finishes whatever she's doing. The strangest part is that she barely seems to notice me. That sounds arrogant. At this school, though, it's unusual. So when my advisor asked which tutor I wanted, I gave him her name. I told myself it was because she was the best. That's what I told Jules too. He said I'm a terrible liar. Now that I'm sitting across from Viv, I'm starting to wonder if I really did create a problem for myself for no good reason. She gives me absolutely nothing. If I'm wrong, she tells me I'm wrong. If I don't know a formula, she makes me work it out again. If I make a joke, I'm lucky if I get half a glance before she pushes the problem back toward me. It's new. And somehow still easier than the phone call I got from my father this morning. At six-thirty sharp, he calls. The first thing he asks is why I'm not at the house. The second is whether I'll meet the Hendricks' daughter. The third is finally what he actually cares about. My D-minus in Statistics. To him, it isn't just one bad grade. It's another thing that could cost me my place on the team, hurt my draft chances, and embarrass the Hale name. He's not entirely wrong. I'm one semester from graduation, and if I screw this up badly enough, it could affect everything that comes after. But Statistics isn't what I'm really worried about. My right elbow is. It's still aching from practice. Three months ago, when the pain first started, I could tell myself I'd simply thrown too much. Now it's happening more often. Today one of my pitches went badly wide because the pain hit at exactly the wrong moment, and I had to grit my teeth and throw again until Coach was satisfied. I haven't told him. I haven't told my father either. Jules knows something is wrong, but not how bad it might be. Because if the diagnosis comes back wrong, I won't just lose a game or two. I could lose the one future I've actually chosen for myself. Compared to that, Statistics feels simple. If I don't understand something, I learn it. If my grade is bad, I fix it. At least this is a problem with an answer. Viv slides another question toward me. "This time, don't rush into the math. Read the conditions first." I glance at the problem, then at her. She frowns. "Why are you looking at me?" "Trying to figure out if you're this mean to all your students." "You're not the first person to ask." "And the answer?" "Do the problem." I look down and laugh. Fine. Jules got at least one thing right. I really did choose my own problem. Halfway through the question, I realize Viv is watching me. Not my face. My right hand. I loosen my grip on the pen automatically. My elbow must have twinged, and I probably moved it without noticing. "What?" I ask. Her eyes shift away almost immediately. "Nothing." For some reason, I don't believe her. She goes back to checking my work, and I don't explain. We've known each other for less than an hour. She doesn't need to know about my arm. Just like I don't need to know why, when she first saw my file, she stared at the name Hale for so long. But I noticed. And the look on her face wasn't the usual recognition that comes with my family name. It looked like she was trying to remember something. "Viv." She doesn't look up. "Stuck again?" "No." I hesitate, then let it go. She finally raises her head and gives me a suspicious look. I slide the paper toward her. "Finished." She scans it, picks up her red pen, and circles two answers. "Two wrong. Better than I expected." "Is that a compliment?" "You can take it as one." I laugh. She's already looking down at the next problem. And suddenly I have the feeling that this tutoring arrangement, which is only supposed to last until I drag my Statistics grade back from the dead, might not be as boring as I expected. What I don't know yet is that the thing about Vivian Castellan that will matter most won't be whether she can save my D-minus. It'll be the one thing she can't remember herself. Hale.

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.