The chamomile and honey running down my throat soothed me, and it sparked just the right energy in me to concentrate on the essay I had to write on the most influential villains in literature. I slurped up the last of the tea, catching the gooey honey on my tongue, and got up from the table. Quinn, lying on the couch with his knees up, peered over his book, Muscular System. “Sneaking off to your room now?” “That was the plan,” I said, setting my cup in the dishwasher. “Like every other evening.” He lowered the book to his chest. “Exactly. Like every evening. Don’t you want to spend one evening in the living room with me?” “Why? You’d just be a distraction.” He grinned, and I was reminded of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. “Oh would I?” I wiped my hands on my jeans before picking up the laptop at the end of the table.
