Almost Hating You

Eliza Williams believed in three things: punctuality, highlighters organized by color family, and never letting anyone see you sweat.

Especially not at Hawthorne Ridge Academy.

Perched on a forested bluff overlooking a glittering lake, Hawthorne Ridge liked to market itself as the premier academic institution of the East Coast—where ivy curled up stone walls, legacy plaques lined every hallway, and tuition cost more than most people’s cars. But beneath the glossy brochures and perfectly trimmed hedges was a world held together by whispered alliances and generational wealth.

It was beautiful. It was brutal. And Eliza fit into it like a carefully placed puzzle piece.

Which was why today felt…off.

Rain slid down the tall arched windows of Modern Ethics, tapping a soft rhythm that made the classroom feel smaller, tighter. The air smelled faintly of wet leaves and old books. Students lounged in their usual clusters—girls in pleated skirts gossiping quietly, boys tossing wadded paper into the trashcan as if the entire weight of their futures didn’t rest on their report cards.

Eliza’s pencil paused mid-sentence as the door opened.

The room shifted. Like the air inhaled suddenly.

A tall boy stepped inside, droplets running off the hood of his sweatshirt. His hair was soaked and messy, dark enough to look almost black; a few strands stuck to his forehead. He pushed the hood back slowly, revealing a sharp jawline, cheekbones that belonged in a magazine, and a split in his bottom lip that looked fresh.

The kind of boy people write rumors about before they even know his last name.

He walked with a confidence that shouldn’t have belonged to someone new. Shoulders relaxed. Eyes steady. Expression unreadable. The kind of presence that said he didn’t need to impress anyone—and he wasn’t going to try.

No Hawthorne Ridge boy had ever walked like that. Not even the ones who ruled the place.

Eliza sat up straighter before she realized she was doing it.

Across the room, Harper elbowed her lightly. “Who is that?”

“No idea,” Eliza whispered, staring at her notebook and definitely not at him.

Mrs. Calloway looked up from her attendance sheet. “You must be Weston Connors.”

The boy gave a short nod. “Wes is fine.”

His voice was low, textured—like gravel smoothed over by something warm. It cut through the room’s chatter, silencing even the usual troublemakers.

A few girls stared openly. A few boys narrowed their eyes. Everyone assessed him.

The transfer student.

A rarity at Hawthorne Ridge.

Eliza forced herself not to look again, but the pull was magnetic. Her gaze drifted upward anyway, as if lifted by a string she couldn’t cut.

And of course—he caught her looking.

Their eyes met for half a second. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away.

He just…held her.

Steady. Cool. A challenge and a question all in one.

Eliza’s heart thumped once, annoyingly loud.

She snapped her eyes back to her notebook.

Behind her, a chair scraped against the floor.

No. No, he was not—

He sat down behind her.

Directly behind her.

Wes Connors’s presence filled the air like a storm cloud. Heat radiated from him. She could feel it through her sweater. And the scent—cedar soap, rain, and something else, something she couldn’t place but immediately hated because it made her stomach flip.

He hadn’t even said a word yet and she already disliked him.

…almost disliked him.

Mrs. Calloway began lecturing, but Eliza’s focus kept slipping backward. She could sense him leaning back casually, sprawled out like the seat behind her was the most comfortable place in the world.

She didn’t realize her pencil had stopped moving until a warm breath brushed the back of her neck.

“You take notes like you’re solving world peace.”

Eliza twisted in her seat. “Excuse me?”

Wes tilted his head slightly, that split lip pulling into a subtle smirk. “Just an observation, Princess.”

Her pulse stuttered in indignation. “I am not your princess.”

He spread his hands. “Fine. Would you prefer royalty? Duchess? Supreme Commander?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“That’s the fun part.”

Her mouth fell open. She closed it immediately. “You can’t just—”

He gestured lazily toward her notebook. “You highlight, underline, timestamp, and annotate everything. Feels very Queen of the Universe.”

“That’s called being organized.”

“That’s called being intense.”

“Says the boy who walked in late to his first day soaking wet.”

He shrugged. “It’s raining.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“Then what did you say?”

“Just making conversation.” Another smirk. “Princess.”

Mrs. Calloway cleared her throat sharply. “Mr. Connors, is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

“No, ma’am.” He grinned at Eliza. “Not yet.”

Heat shot to her cheeks—anger, embarrassment, and something she refused to name.

Harper leaned toward her with wide eyes. “Oh my god. This is going to be the best semester ever.”

Eliza shot her a glare. “No, it won’t.”

Because Eliza Williams didn’t get distracted. She didn’t let boys get under her skin. And she certainly didn’t let strangers with tattoos peeking out from under wet sleeves make her forget how to breathe.

Wes Connors was a problem. A walking disruption.

And she absolutely, positively—

almost—

hated him.