Sienna pov

This week drained me.

By Friday night I couldn’t shake off the memory of Rhett’s stare in class—the way it pinned me down and stripped me bare made me feel like I was the only one in the room. No jokes. No smirks. Just that look.

I told myself that it meant nothing, that he was playing another game and that Rhett Carter didn’t have layers, he didn’t have depth—he was just tattoos, sarcasm, and ego stitched together in human form.

But Saturday proved me ...