Jaxon: There are worse ways to die

It’s not the answer I’m expecting, but now that he’s said it, I can totally see how that movie would appeal to this guy who has gone out of his way to rescue me over and over again. Even Die Hard makes sense when I put it in that light. A main character who’s willing to die if it means keeping other people safe.

There’s a lot more to Jaxon than the person I met at the bottom of the stairs my first day here. I mean, he’s still the jerk who told me not to let the door hit me on my way out. That’s not something I’m likely to forget any time soon. But he’s also the guy who saved me from Marc and Quinn. And the guy who carried me all the way back to my dorm room last night. That has to count for something, right?

Plus, I can’t believe how different he is when there’s no one else around. When it’s just the two of us texting and he’s not so busy trying to convince me that he wants nothing to do with me…and, more, that I should want nothing to do with him.

I wish I could ask the real Jaxon Vega to please stand up, but the truth is, I’m kind of hoping he’s the guy who’s been texting me for the last two hours. And if he’s not…well, I guess I don’t want to know that yet.

Me: Favorite ice cream flavor?

Jaxon: Don’t have one

Me: Because you like them all???

Me: Which, btw, is the only acceptable answer to not having a favorite

Jaxon: I think we both know there are a million different reasons I’m unacceptable and ice cream choice barely makes the list

That line shouldn’t make me swoon. It shouldn’t, especially when it’s so obviously a warning. But how can it not when it’s delivered by the same boy who said Rogue One is his favorite movie?

It’s pretty obvious Jaxon is the villain of his own story. I just wish I knew why.

Jaxon: Favorite song?

Me: OMG, I can’t choose

Jaxon: What if I said you had to?

Me: I can’t. There are too many

Me: You?

Jaxon: I asked you first

Me: Ugh. You suck

Jaxon: You have no idea how much

Me: Okay, fine

Me: Atm, Niall Horan’s Put a Little Love on Me and anything by Maggie Rogers

Me: Of all time? Take Me to Church by Hozier or Umbrella from Rihanna

Me: You?

Jaxon: Savage Garden Truly, Madly, Deeply

Jaxon: Anything by Childish Gambino or Beethoven

Jaxon: Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” is my new favorite, though

I drop my phone because…what do I say to that? How am I not supposed to swoon over this boy? Like, seriously? How am I not supposed to swoon? It’s impossible.

I pick my phone back up with shaking hands. He hasn’t texted anything else, but to be honest, I don’t expect him to for a while. That was…a lot.

Instead, I swipe open my Spotify app. And play “Brown-Eyed Girl”…on repeat.

I’m still listening to it when Macy stops by around noon to check on me. “What are you listening to?” she queries, nose wrinkled.

“It’s a long story.”

She eyes me speculatively. “I bet. You should tell me all about—” She breaks off when she sees the remains of my very big breakfast. “Where did you get the waffle?” she demands, crossing the room so she can scoop a little of the leftover whipped cream out of its bowl and suck it off her finger. “It’s not Thursday.”

I stare at her, baffled. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means the cafeteria only makes waffles on Thursdays. And we only get whipped cream on special occasions.” She dives back into the whipped-cream bowl, holds up a finger covered in the sweet, fluffy stuff. “Today is not a special occasion.”

“Apparently, it is,” I answer with a shrug, and I try to ignore the way her words warm me up all over. “At least for me.”

Not going to lie, it feels like a special occasion. How can it not when I have texts on my phone from Jaxon right now telling me this is his favorite song?

“I can’t believe my dad had them make you—” My face must give it away, because she breaks off mid-sentence. “This breakfast didn’t come from my dad, did it?”

I don’t know how to answer that. I mean, if I try to pretend it’s from Uncle Finn, she’ll just ask him about it and find out the truth. If I tell her it’s from someone else, she’s going to want to know who sent it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her. I kind of like the idea of this Jaxon—the one who tells me vampire jokes and sends me waffles with fresh whipped cream—as my secret. At least for a little while.

But the look on Macy’s face says she’s not about to be put off. And that she’s got a pretty good idea of where the food came from, even though I haven’t answered her yet.

Which leaves me with only one option, really. A downplayed version of the truth. “It’s really no big deal, okay? My ankle’s bothering me, and he was trying to help.”

“Flint?” she asks, eyes wide. “Or Jaxon?” She says the last in a whisper.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

“Oh my God! It was Jaxon! He talked Chef Janie into making you waffles. I didn’t even know that was possible—she’s really tough. Then again, if anyone could do it, Jaxon could. I mean, the boy is terrifyingly efficient. And he always gets what he wants.” She grins. “And I’m pretty sure what he wants right now is you.”

A knock sounds from behind her, and I’ve never been more relieved to have someone come to my door in my life. “Can you get that? My ankle still hurts.”

“Of course! I want first crack at interrogating Jaxon anyway.”

“It’s not going to be Jaxon,” I tell her, but just the idea that it could be has my palms sweating a little. I sit up straighter, try desperately to fix the mess that is currently my hair as Macy opens the door.

Looks like the panic was for nothing, though, because it isn’t Jaxon. It’s a woman, carrying a large yellow envelope.

I tell myself I’m not disappointed, even as the sudden butterflies in my stomach kind of fall back down with a thud. At least until the woman, who Macy calls Roni, hands her the package. “I’m supposed to deliver this to Grace.”

Macy whips her head around to look at me even as she takes the large envelope being thrust into her hands. Her eyes are huge, but I can’t blame her. I’m sure mine are just as big.

I don’t know what else Macy says to Roni to get her out of our room, because every ounce of my attention is focused on the envelope in her hands. And my name written on the front of it in the same bold scrawl that was on the earlier note.