Worth It

Jo’s POV

The parking lot outside Tennyson Hall had exactly one good spot. It was close enough to sprint to Intro to Torts without dying, and far enough from the dumpsters to avoid crossing paths with one very ornery raccoon.

And Beckett Hayes had been sitting in it every single morning for the past two weeks. Sophomore year at Ferris State, and he still hadn’t run out of ways to make her year miserable.

Jo whipped into the spot beside it, throwing her car into park with more force than her poor gearshift deserved. She was now close enough to the dumpster that she could see two beady little eyes staring out at her from under the lid, totally judging her less-than-stellar parking job.

She turned her head to glare at Beckett through their windows, taking in the smug tilt of his head where he sat in his truck, scrolling his phone like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like he hadn’t stolen the one good thing about her Tuesday. Again.

She grabbed her bag and hopped out, slamming her door with enough force to rock the car. Then she stepped forward and started rapping on his passenger window.

Keeping his eyes on his phone, Beckett held up one finger and went right on typing.

Did he... did he just tell her to hold on a second so he could finish a text?

Jo didn’t care if she looked like an overgrown toddler. She stomped her foot anyway.

Finally, flashing her a smirk, he rolled the window down.

“You’ve been parking here on purpose,” she seethed.

He gave her a lazy smile and leaned an arm over the steering wheel. “Good morning to you too, Jo-Jo.”

“Don’t you Jo-Jo me.”

She watched him roll the window back up and climb out of the truck. She took a step back as he came around the hood to her side and leaned against the fender, looking utterly unbothered.

She crossed her arms.

Then immediately uncrossed them, because he said, “That’d make a great photo. I’d call it Woman, Furious, Cardigan" — his hand going up in front of her like he could see the words hanging in the air.

“That’s my spot.”

“Didn’t realize the university issued you a deed.”

“It’s a courtesy. An unspoken agreement among decent people.”

“Huh.” He pushed off the fender, unfolding to his full and extremely unfair height, and looked down at her like he had nowhere else to be, which, infuriatingly, he probably didn’t. His dirty blonde hair was doing the thing it always did: like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into the truck without a mirror in between, somehow working in his favor anyway. She hated that she’d clocked that in the same half-second she was supposed to be furious. “Didn’t realize we were decent people.”

"I’m a decent person. You’re a menace with a truck.”

“That’s fair.” He said it so agreeably that it took the wind out of her sails a little, which she hated even more than the parking spot. Beckett reached out before she could track the movement and tugged the end of her ponytail, just enough to feel it, not enough to hurt. “You look like you’re about to color-code your notes. It’s only eight a.m.”

“Some of us have ambition,” she said with a slight lift of her chin.

He leaned down until they were eye level, barely an inch between their noses.

“Some of us,” he said quietly, “have a ponytail going lopsided.” He didn’t fix it. He never fixed anything. He just liked to point out that something was slightly wrong and then watch her scramble to correct it, like her own competence was a party trick he could summon on command.

He straightened back up and reached out, tugging the end of her ponytail again, lighter this time, just enough to make his point. She swatted his hand away before he could go from tugging to taking. She knew exactly where this went if she let it. The slow tug, tug, gone, and then another hair tie lost to whatever pocket dimension he kept exclusively for them. That move earned her a genuine laugh from him.

She took two firm steps back.

“I have an exam.”

“I know.” Something flickered behind his eyes, there and gone so fast she’d have missed it if she hadn’t spent her whole life learning to read him. “Good luck,” he said with a wink.

“I don’t need luck. I need my parking spot.”

He bent down again, close enough to whisper in her ear. “Take it up with campus security.”

She could feel heat rising in her cheeks, thanks to the intimate tone he used.

The words were barely out of his mouth before he hooked a finger under the strap of her tote bag and sent it flying off her shoulder onto the hot asphalt.

"Dammit, Beckett.”

She crouched to gather everything up. By the time she straightened, he was already walking away from her, one hand pulling back from her windshield in a way she’d have called suspicious if she weren’t so busy being furious.

“You’re the worst person I know, Beckett Hayes,” she shouted after him.

He looked back at her without breaking stride and gave her that signature grin. The one that made co-eds trip over curbs — and not figuratively, either. She’d counted four of them just last week.

“See ya at lunch, Jo-Jo."

She was still glaring at his retreating back, arms crossed again, when the pale edge of something under her wiper caught her eye. A parking pass. A visitor parking pass, the kind that got you into the lot right behind Tennyson Hall. The one reserved for guest lecturers and people important enough not to walk twelve minutes in the rain.

She turned to ask him where he’d gotten it. He was already gone.