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PROLOGUE

CONNOR MADSEN

“Jones, Madsen. Pike, Stills,” Mrs. Shipley lists the final two partner pairings from her desk, and students start shuffling toward the kitchens at the back of the room.

Stretching from the tiny, plastic chairs we're forced to sit in, I find my partner, Hailey Jones, glaring at the crumbs lingering on the linoleum counters—evidence of the previous class’ shoddy cleaning skills—before wetting a sponge at the far left sink.

Since this is home economics, the classroom isn’t the normal school layout with desks and a whiteboard. Instead, our class size is small to accommodate the limited kitchen space. Four mini kitchens are set up at the back of the room complete with sinks, stoves, ovens, and a dishwasher, while there's a fifth ‘primary’ kitchen by Mrs. Shipley’s desk.

My older brother Cormac likes to complain about how they had to wash the dishes by hand when he took the class; they didn't get to be lazy with dishwashers.

So, I like to call him an ‘old man’ and shrug.

Why work harder when I can work smarter, right?

Winding through shuffling students, my eyes find Hailey again.

We shared the same home room in middle school and have talked a handful of times since she and her family moved to High Ridge six years ago.

It’s less than I'd like, honestly, but Hailey can be shy.

She's a bit of a bookworm—always hanging out in the library with a stack of textbooks and her best friend, Saige. Her backpack overladen with binders, while mine remains light with a few notebooks and the plastic tumbler for my protein shakes.

I’m the typical jock. The football team’s starting quarterback.

Our paths don't cross often.

So, when I saw Hailey the first day of home ec—honey blonde hair in a ponytail and attention focused on Mrs. Shipley rather than chatting with her tablemates—an overwhelming sense of satisfaction settled in my gut.

Finally, a chance to talk with the quiet beauty.

Because Hailey Jones might be the prettiest girl in our entire school.

Some of the guys on the team may disagree, preferring one of the perky cheerleaders, but I've never gone for stereotypes. And Hailey has the sort of timeless beauty that shines from within and radiates outward.

From her gentle kindness to the bulky glasses framing her green eyes to the lush curves that have only filled out as we got older.

My gaze always finds her wherever we are.

If I was less of a pining stalker, I might have done something about this crush before our senior year of high school, yet here we are.

My best chance at claiming Hailey as my own lies in a home economics class that smells like old, burnt food.

Could be worse, I think. It could smell like the boys locker room—sweaty socks and jocks.

“Hey, are you ready to make some pancakes?” I ask, sliding in next to her at the counter where she’s scrubbing at a stubborn, unidentifiable stain. And if I'm a little closer than needed, so what? She doesn't move away, which has to be a positive sign, right?

“Oh, yeah.” A sweet flush blooms on her cheeks as she rinses the sponge then dries her hands on the tea towel draped over the oven handle. “Just wanted to clean the space first.”

“No worries. Wouldn’t want to get food poisoning because some asshole from third period couldn’t bother cleaning.”

She opens cabinets and starts arranging our ingredients on the gleaming counter. “Right? I feel bad for Mrs. Shipley. I’ve overheard her complain to Ms. White about that class. Apparently, they don’t care at all. Even the chance at eating the treats they make isn’t a good enough incentive to motivate them.”

“Damn, I know this is supposed to be an easy A, but you’d think it’d get boring fucking around for ninety minutes straight.”

Hailey shrugs as she sets a bag of apples aside. “I’ve never understood the desire to willfully be so rude and sabotage your own education.”

“That’s because you’re a good girl,” I say with a wink.