NOAH’S POV

At long last, the hellish French class ended. I swear, if torture had a language, it’d be French conjugation. Penny, Nathan, and I finally stumbled out of the room like war survivors. Nathan and I looked like we’d been run over by a farm truck, while Penny had this annoyingly bright sparkle in her eyes, as if she’d just stepped out of a Parisian fairytale.

Nathan turned to me, brow furrowed, finger raised like an overdramatic mom. “Don’t. Do. This. Again,” he warned ...