Chapter 79: I’m Not Jumpy

NORA’S POV

Rain tapped steadily against the high arched windows of Study Room 4C.

Outside, the Briar campus was drenched in a chilly mist, with wet amber leaves plastered to the brick walkways three stories below. Inside, the study room was warm, smelling of dry-erase cleaner, strong espresso, and old textbooks.

The wall clock above the whiteboard ticked quietly: 8:58 AM.

I set my laptop on the table, unzipping my backpack to arrange our materials: two fresh packs of chisel-tip dry-erase markers in four colors, three sets of laminated Macroeconomics formula sheets, and a thick stack of blank practice exams.

Right as the second hand swept past twelve to strike nine o’clock, the glass door swung open and Knox walked in.

He wore a dark charcoal Briar Athletics hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark sweatpants, and clean training sneakers. His dark curls were damp from the rain, clinging to the nape of his neck in loose waves.

In his left hand, he carried his worn black leather notebook. In his right, he carried a cardboard drink carrier holding two cups.

"Morning, Bookworm," Knox rumbled.

"You’re on time," I noted, raising an eyebrow as I tapped my watch. "Two days in a row."

"Told you," Knox smirked, stepping across the linoleum floor. "I take my academic commitments very seriously when there’s a tyrant running the room."

He set the drink carrier on the table between our binders.

One cup was a large black drip coffee with two cardboard sleeves. The other was a tall iced vanilla latte with light ice and oat milk—my exact regular order from the student café.

I blinked, looking from the cup up to his sharp jawline. "You remembered my coffee order?"

"You ordered it every Tuesday morning at the diner before your eight AM lecture," Knox said casually, unzipping his hoodie just enough to show the dark base-layer underneath. "Two pumps of vanilla, oat milk, light ice. Not hard to remember."

A strange, warm flutter twisted in the pit of my stomach.

I reached for the cold plastic cup, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks as my fingers brushed his knuckles. "Thank you. That’s... surprisingly considerate of you, Sheridan."

"Don’t get used to it," Knox drawled softly, pulling out a chair and turning it backward to rest his forearms across the backrest. "Now, what are we tackling today before I lose my mind to supply curves?"

"Today is the final gauntlet," I said, putting on my best authoritative tutor tone as I uncapped a bold blue marker. "You have a midterm test on Tuesday morning. Professor V is notorious for throwing multi-layered scenario questions that combine monetary policy, fiscal stimulus, and international currency fluctuations."

Knox let out a low groan, leaning his head back against the chair. "Sounds thrilling."

"It is thrilling if you want to keep your hockey sweater on your back," I countered, tapping the felt tip against the board with a sharp clack. "Stand up, Cap. Grab the red marker."

Knox let out a dry chuckle, but he stood up without a single word of complaint.

For the next three hours, we covered all three whiteboards in dense, colorful diagrams. Whenever Knox struggled with an abstract concept like the Keynesian spending multiplier or open-market operations, we converted the formulas into spatial hockey plays.

The Federal Reserve became the head coach calling an aggressive line change. The money supply became the neutral zone. Lowering interest rates was opening up the passing lanes to speed up puck movement across the ice.

Watching Knox work was mesmerizing in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

He didn’t slouch or check his phone once. He stood beside me with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. I watched his arm muscles move as he drew arrows on the whiteboard. He frowned in concentration, his jaw tightening whenever a problem challenged him.

"So if the Fed sells government bonds on the open market," Knox said slowly, his red marker hovering over the money market graph, "they’re pulling cash reserves out of the commercial banking system. That shifts the money supply curve to the left, which drives interest rates up, discouraging consumer borrowing and cooling down inflation."

I looked at his graph, then at his face. "Perfect," I breathed, genuinely impressed. "That’s exactly right."

Knox turned his head to look at me, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his lips. "See? I’m not just a pretty face with a slapshot."

"I never said you were a pretty face, Sheridan," I retorted automatically, taking a sip of my iced latte to hide my smile.

"You didn’t have to," Knox murmured in a low, teasing drawl. "Your eyes say enough, Bennett."

My heart gave a sudden, violent thud against my ribs.

I looked away quickly, capping my blue marker and pretending to examine my color-coded flashcards on the table.

That was the problem.

Every time Knox moved into my personal space... every time the faint scent of cedar and rain drifted off his shoulders, or his deep voice dropped into that intimate, husky register, my traitorous brain betrayed me.

Images from the fever dream flashed without restraints behind my eyelids: his hands gripping my hips, his hot mouth trailing down my collarbone, the weight of his body pinning me down.

And on top of the dream was Friday afternoon’s real-life memory on the quad: the scorching heat of his chest pressed flush against my back on the synthetic ice, his lips brushing the crown of my head as the crowd roared around us.

I swallowed hard, feeling an unbearable wave of heat flush my skin from my collarbones straight to my cheeks.

"Nora?" Knox’s voice broke through my thoughts.

"What?" I squeaked in a higher voice than usual.

Knox was leaning with one hip against the edge of the table, his head tilted slightly as his dark, piercing gaze tracked the frantic rise and fall of my chest.

"You’re zoning out," Knox said quietly, his tone devoid of its usual arrogance. "You’ve checked the clock four times in the last twenty minutes, and you haven’t corrected my spelling on ’disequilibrium’ once."

"I am not zoning out," I lied, clearing my throat and grabbing the large felt eraser from the metal tray. "I’m just making sure we stay on schedule. We have forty-five minutes left before the library closes for Sunday maintenance, and I want to clear this board for a timed mock exam."

I turned my back to him, stepping up to the large center whiteboard.

The top section of the board was covered in a complex aggregate expenditure model I had drawn earlier that morning, reaching almost to the top aluminum frame.

I raised the eraser above my head, standing on the tips of my white sneakers to reach the upper right corner.

My sweater hem rode up slightly at my waist as I stretched my arm upward, scrubbing at the stubborn dry-erase marker.

Suddenly, the air behind me shifted.

I heard quiet footsteps walk across the floor.

Before I could turn around, Knox was standing right in my space.

His frame completely shadowed mine from behind. I felt his body heat against my back, close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest against my shoulder blades.

My breath caught in my throat, freezing solid in my chest.

Knox reached his right arm up.

His massive, calloused hand came down directly over mine on the handle of the felt eraser, his fingers completely swallowing my small ones in an effortless grip.

The contact was electric; a searing jolt of raw static snapped straight down my spine, making my knees tremble.

Without much effortless, Knox used his height to guide my hand across the top corner of the board, wiping away the equations in two clean, sweeping strokes.

He didn’t step back.

He stayed right there, caging me in against the whiteboard. His broad chest was hovering less than an inch from my spine, his left hand coming to rest flat against the white enamel board beside my shoulder, completely blocking any exit.

The intoxicating aroma of cedar, clean soap, and crisp autumn rain washed over my senses, clouding every rational thought in my head.

I could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing right behind me.

Slowly, Knox leaned down.

His warm breath brushed against the sensitive curve of my neck, stirring the loose chestnut curls resting on my shoulder. A deep, delicious shiver rippled across my skin, making every hair on my arms stand on end.

"You’ve been jumpy all morning, Bookworm," Knox rumbled in a low, gravelly rasp right against my ear.

I gripped the edge of the marker tray with my free hand just to keep my balance, my heart thundering like a trapped bird against my ribs.

"I’m not... jumpy," I whispered, my voice trembling despite my desperate attempt to sound composed.

Knox turned his head slightly, his dark, hypnotic eyes locking directly onto mine from inches away.

The amusement in his expression had faded, replaced by an intense, smoldering heat that stole every ounce of air from my lungs.

"Where’s your head at today, Bennett?" Knox murmured. "You’ve looked at me three times like you’re trying to solve a puzzle you can’t figure out."