Lessons in Loving You

Jackson's POV

There are three things every Ashbourne University student should know before the first weekend of a new semester.

One: never take an eight a.m. lecture if you value your will to live.

Two: never challenge Hunter Brooks to throw a party unless you’re prepared to lose your security deposit, your dignity, or both.

And three: if someone tells you that inviting half the campus to a party at a house with a strict occupancy limit is a bad idea, you should probably listen.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been particularly good at listening.

“You’re aware we’re going to get evicted, right?”

I glanced over my shoulder at Liam Bennett, who was standing in the middle of our living room with a red plastic cup in one hand and the expression of a man witnessing the collapse of civilization.

Behind him, someone had climbed onto our coffee table to dance.

The coffee table was losing.

“Evicted is such an ugly word,” I told him. “I prefer temporarily encouraged to relocate.”

Liam stared at me.

“Jax.”

“Yes, sunshine?”

“There’s a guy trying to surf on our kitchen counter.”

I looked toward the kitchen.

Sure enough, some idiot in a backward baseball cap was sliding across the counter on a baking tray while three girls cheered him on.

I winced.

“That’s actually impressive.”

“He’s going to die.”

“Then at least he’ll die doing what he loves.”

“Which is?”

“Making questionable decisions.”

Liam closed his eyes.

For a moment, I thought he might pray.

Instead, he drained his cup and pointed it at me. “I’m telling Hunter this was your idea.”

“Technically, it was Hunter’s idea.”

“You’re the one who said we should invite everyone.”

“I said we should invite people.”

“You posted the address on your story!”

“People need directions, Liam. It’s basic hospitality.”

“You added a fire emoji.”

“Atmosphere.”

He looked at me as though he was seriously reconsidering our friendship.

I clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.

“Relax. It’s the first weekend of the semester. We’re celebrating.”

“We’re celebrating the fact that our landlord is going to discover a new definition of property damage.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

A crash sounded from the kitchen.

We both turned.

The guy on the baking tray had apparently discovered gravity.

Liam slowly looked back at me.

I lifted my cup.

“To new beginnings.”

He shoved past me.

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink.

This was what I loved about the beginning of a semester. Everyone came back to Ashbourne with fresh notebooks, ambitious schedules, and the delusional belief that this would be the year they finally got their lives together.

Give it two weeks.

Someone would be crying outside the library. Someone else would be sleeping through a midterm. Half the football team would be surviving on energy drinks and bad decisions.

And I would be right there in the middle of it, making sure nobody died of boredom.

It was a public service, really.

“Jackson!”

Ah. There he was.

The king of questionable decisions himself.

Hunter Brooks appeared at the top of the stairs, looking entirely too pleased with the chaos unfolding below him. His light-brown hair was a mess, his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and he wore the smug expression of a man who had never once experienced a consequence he couldn’t charm his way around.

As president of his fraternity and the unofficial king of Ashbourne’s party scene, Hunter considered himself something of an expert in throwing parties.

He also considered cleaning up afterward someone else’s problem.

Usually mine.

“Your kitchen is under attack,” Liam informed him.

Hunter glanced toward the counter.

The guy with the baking tray was now sitting on the floor, surrounded by broken eggs.

Hunter nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“That’s your response?” Liam demanded.

“What would you prefer? A eulogy?”

“You’re both unbelievable.”

Hunter slung an arm around my shoulders. “See? This is why I like you, Carter. You understand the importance of keeping things light.”

“Of course. I’m a man of substance.”

“You’re a man who once submitted an assignment with the professor’s name spelled wrong.”

“Creative interpretation of the syllabus.”

“You got an A.”

“Because I’m charming.”

“Because you wrote a twelve-page analysis of a play you attended once and spent half the time watching the actress in the front row.”

“She was very committed to her craft.”

Liam made a strangled noise.

Hunter and I exchanged a solemn nod.

Some people simply didn’t understand art.

“Speaking of commitment,” Hunter said, “where’s the playlist you promised me?”

“On my phone.”

“Your phone is in your hand.”

“Then we’re already halfway there.”

He snatched it from me.

“Hey!”

“You’re welcome.”

He disappeared into the crowd before I could retrieve it, shouting something about upgrading the music before the party reached its inevitable peak.

I watched him go.

“One day,” Liam said, appearing beside me again, “I’m going to introduce you to someone who hates you.”

I laughed.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I think it’ll be good for your character development.”

“My character is excellent.”

“Your character is a warning label.”

I was about to offer a devastating rebuttal when a girl passing by caught my eye and smiled.

I smiled back.

She winked.

I winked.

Liam groaned.

“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What?”

“You flirt with everyone.”

“I don’t flirt with everyone.”

He gave me a look.

“Okay, fine. Everyone with good taste.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet, you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

I patted his cheek.

“That’s the spirit.”

Then I disappeared into the crowd, because if there was one thing I was good at, it was making sure no conversation lasted long enough to become emotionally meaningful.

By eleven thirty, the party had reached a level of chaos that would have made the university’s disciplinary board spontaneously combust.

The music was loud enough to rattle the windows. Someone had spilled an entire bowl of punch across the stairs. Two freshmen were arguing about whether a Ravens football player could outrun a campus security officer, which seemed like a strangely specific hypothetical until I noticed one of them was already wearing running shoes.

I confiscated a bottle from a guy who looked approximately fourteen.

He told me he was nineteen.

I told him that was fascinating because I was pretty sure he’d arrived with his mother.

He left.

Problem solved.

I was halfway through negotiating peace between two girls who both claimed ownership of the same leather jacket when my phone buzzed.

HUNTER: Where are you?

ME: Being a pillar of the community.

HUNTER: The community says you’re needed upstairs.

ME: The community can file a formal request.

HUNTER: Jax. Seriously.

I looked toward the staircase.

Hunter stood at the top, gesturing urgently.

Behind him, a girl was shouting at someone about a missing shoe.

I sighed.

Leadership was exhausting.

I pushed through the crowd and climbed the stairs, dodging an enthusiastic couple who seemed determined to make the landing their own private honeymoon suite.

When I reached the top, Hunter grabbed my arm.

“We have a problem.”

“Is it the guy who threw up in the decorative plant?”

“How do you know about that?”

“I have eyes.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Is it the guy who broke the bathroom lock?”

Hunter paused.

“There’s a guy who broke the bathroom lock?”

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

We shared a moment of silent understanding.

Then he pointed down the hallway.

“Someone’s complaining.”

I blinked.

“About the party?”

“No, Jackson. About the weather. Yes, about the party.”

“Well, that’s rude. We’ve worked very hard on the weather.”

“She’s downstairs. She’s furious.”

I couldn’t help smiling.

“She?”

Hunter gave me a warning look.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

I placed a hand over my heart.

“Hunter, I am wounded. Deeply. Mortally, even.”

“You once told a professor that his parking ticket was a cry for attention.”

“It was a very aggressive ticket.”

“Go talk to her.”

“Gladly.”

I straightened my shirt, ran a hand through my hair, and headed downstairs.

A furious girl at a party?

Easy.

I’d been charming my way out of trouble since I was old enough to understand that a smile could get you further than an apology.

And if that didn’t work, there was always the smile with dimples.

It was practically a superpower.

I just didn’t know I was about to meet the one person in Massachusetts who appeared to be immune.

I found her in the entryway.

And, for the first time that night, I forgot what I was going to say.

Not because she was pretty.

Although, in the interest of honesty, she was.

She had blonde hair falling over her shoulders, an expression that could have curdled milk, and the sort of posture that suggested she had never once in her life apologized for taking up space.

She was holding her phone in one hand and a half-empty bottle of water in the other.

Her gaze swept over me.

Then she looked at the party behind me.

Then back at me.

“Jackson Carter?”

I smiled.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone who would like to know why there are approximately eighty people in a house designed to accommodate twelve.”

I glanced around.

“Seventy-eight, actually.”

Her eyes narrowed.

I probably should have stopped talking.

I didn’t.

“Two left when they realized the punch was nonalcoholic.”

She stared at me.

I offered my best smile.

It had gotten me out of a parking ticket, a missed assignment deadline, and one memorable incident involving a mascot costume and the dean’s office.

It was a good smile.

A reliable smile.

A smile with a proven track record.

She looked entirely unimpressed.

“Are you always like this?”

“Charming?”

“Exhausting.”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

Interesting.

“Okay,” I said, raising both hands. “Let’s start over. I’m Jackson. You seem upset. I’d love to help.”

“Wonderful. You can start by turning down the music.”

“Absolutely.”

“And getting people off the stairs.”

“Done.”

“And telling whoever owns this house that the front door has been left open for the past twenty minutes.”

I glanced at the door.

It was, indeed, open.

A cold breeze swept through the entryway.

I shut it.

“There. Three miracles in under thirty seconds.”

She looked at me as though she was contemplating whether murder would be worth the paperwork.

I was starting to like her.

Which was probably a terrible sign.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Why?”

“So I know what to call you while you’re ruining my evening.”

“Your evening seems to be doing a perfectly good job of ruining itself.”

I pressed a hand to my chest.

“That was cruel.”

“Good.”

I grinned.

She looked away, clearly deciding I wasn’t worth the oxygen.

That was new, too.

Most people at Ashbourne knew who I was. Being the Ravens’ starting quarterback had a way of making you recognizable, even to people who had never watched a football game in their lives.

Add a decent GPA, a face that had apparently been described as unfair by several people who had been drinking, and a reputation for throwing parties that became campus legends, and you got a rather specific kind of attention.

People generally liked me.

Or wanted something from me.

Sometimes both.

This girl seemed to want me to disappear.

I found that strangely compelling.

“Come on,” I said, falling into step beside her. “You can’t just walk into my party and start issuing orders without introducing yourself.”

She stopped so abruptly that I nearly walked into her.

“Your party?”

“Well, Hunter organized most of it.”

“Then why are you taking credit?”

“Because I have excellent instincts.”

“You have a serious problem with accountability.”

I laughed.

She looked at me with such genuine disbelief that I almost laughed harder.

Almost.

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” she asked.

The question landed more strangely than it should have.

For half a second, I thought about the phone calls from my father. The ones where he asked about football before asking how I was doing. The scholarship I couldn’t afford to lose. The pressure to be the kind of quarterback who could turn a promising college career into a professional contract.

I thought about the way everyone seemed to have a plan for my future except me.

Then I smiled.

“Only football.”

She didn’t smile back.

“That explains a lot.”

I tilted my head.

“You’re really determined to dislike me, aren’t you?”

“I’m not determined to do anything. You’re making it remarkably easy.”

I laughed again, but this time it came out a little quieter.

She was good.

Annoyingly good.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me guess. You’re a freshman. You heard the stories about me, decided I was a walking red flag, and came here to personally deliver my character assessment.”

“I’m a junior.”

“Then you should know better than to believe everything you hear.”

“I don’t.”

“See? Progress.”

“I prefer to judge people by their actions.”

I spread my arms.

“Excellent. Then you’ll be pleased to know that I just closed the front door.”

“And yet, your house is still a disaster.”

“Temporary setback.”

“Your kitchen looks like a crime scene.”

“An artistic crime scene.”

“Someone is dancing on a table.”

“He’s very talented.”

“Someone else is crying in your downstairs bathroom.”

I paused.

“Is it the guy who lost the shoe?”

She closed her eyes.

I thought she might actually scream.

Instead, she took a slow breath, as if reminding herself that assault was frowned upon in university housing.

“You know what your problem is, Jackson?”

I leaned against the wall.

“Please. I’ve been waiting all night for a professional opinion.”

“You think everything is a joke.”

The smile stayed on my face.

It was practically muscle memory by then.

“Not everything.”

“Just everything that might require you to act like an adult?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

She was looking at me differently now. Not like a girl who was impressed by the football player or amused by the party boy.

Like she was actually seeing me.

And somehow, that was more uncomfortable than the idea of the entire university discovering the state of our kitchen.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said lightly.

“You’re right.”

She tucked her phone into her pocket.

“But I know enough to recognize someone who thinks being liked is the same thing as being a good person.”

For once in my life, I didn’t have a clever response ready.

The silence stretched between us.

Somewhere behind me, the music changed to a song that Hunter had apparently decided was essential to the survival of the human race.

The girl glanced toward the living room.

Then she looked back at me.

“Turn down the music. Get your friends to clean up. And stop acting like everyone else is here to make your life entertaining.”

She stepped around me.

I turned, watching her walk toward the front door.

“Wait.”

She stopped, though she didn’t turn around.

“At least tell me your name.”

A pause.

Then, finally, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Chloe Anderson.”

Chloe Anderson.

I repeated it silently, letting the name settle somewhere in the back of my mind.

She had a pretty name.

A sharp tongue.

And absolutely no appreciation for my dimples.

A tragic combination.

“Well, Chloe Anderson,” I called after her, recovering enough of my usual confidence to grin, “it was a pleasure being verbally destroyed by you.”

She gave me a look over her shoulder.

“The pleasure was entirely one-sided.”

Then she opened the door and walked out into the night.

Just like that.

No lingering glance.

No asking for my number.

No turning back to see whether I’d watched her leave.

She simply disappeared down the front steps, leaving me standing in the entryway of my own party like an idiot.

I stared at the closed door.

Then I laughed.

Not because she’d been funny.

Not because I’d won.

But because, for the first time all night, someone had managed to surprise me.

“Well?” Hunter asked, appearing beside me with a fresh drink. “Did you fix it?”

I kept looking at the door.

“What’s her name?”

Hunter followed my gaze.

“Chloe Anderson.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Oh.”

I turned to him.

“What does oh mean?”

“It means Chloe Anderson is probably the last person on this campus you should annoy.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s smart, stubborn, and has absolutely no patience for your usual routine.”

I grinned.

“So, she’s single?”

Hunter stared at me.

“That is not what I said.”

“But it’s what I heard.”

“Jax.”

“What?”

“Leave her alone.”

I took the drink from his hand and clinked it against his.

“Relax, Brooks. I’m not going to do anything.”

Hunter looked unconvinced.

I couldn’t blame him.

I wasn’t convinced, either.

Because the thing was, I wasn’t thinking about her because she was pretty.

Or because she hadn’t laughed at my jokes.

Or even because she’d looked at me like I was the single most irritating man she’d ever encountered.

I was thinking about her because, for a few minutes, she’d made me feel as though I was standing in front of a mirror I hadn’t asked to look into.

And I didn’t particularly enjoy what I’d seen.

So, naturally, I decided to do what I always did when something made me uncomfortable.

I made a joke.

“Think she’ll come to the next party?”

Hunter groaned.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I choose to receive it as one.”

He walked away, muttering something about needing better friends.

I took another sip of my drink and glanced toward the door one last time.

Chloe Anderson.

She’d walked into my party, dismantled my ego in under five minutes, and left without giving me a single reason to believe I’d ever see her again.

Most people wanted something from Jackson Carter.

Attention. A date. A favor. A story they could tell their friends.

Chloe had wanted me to take responsibility for my own mess.

And somehow, that was the most irritating thing anyone had ever asked me to do.

I smiled to myself.

This semester was going to be interesting.

I just had no idea how interesting it was about to get.

Because Chloe Anderson had made one very serious mistake that night.

She’d told me exactly what she thought of me.

And now?

Now I wanted to know what she’d think when she actually got to know me.

Which, in hindsight, was probably the beginning of all my problems.