SUMMER

The town of Cloverbrook is a desolate wasteland. All right, that's an exaggeration, but being surrounded by nothing but mountains and forests, it really is in the middle of nowhere.

Not to mention how everything seems to be stuck in the nineties. There's still a video store open for Pete's sake. Not a DVD store, a video store. Despite that, when I step out of my car and get a good look at the culinary school campus, it exceeds expectations. I half-expected it to be a catfish situation.

I smooth down my skirt as I walk over a cobblestone path, taking in the vine-covered redbrick buildings and towering oak trees. It's like the campus is in a bubble separated from the rundown town. But I have to admit, the suburbs aren't too bad either.

Even though the campus is on the small side, it takes a little searching to find the right classroom for freshmen. A printed 'orientation' sign stuck to the door leads me in.

My stomach is a mess of squirming eels. I can't believe I'm here. With only a couple minutes to spare until nine, I make a mental note to get here at least a half hour early tomorrow. It's not like me to cut it so close. I wouldn't have if it weren't for the hold up earlier.

The classroom is buzzing with chatter, students leaning on desks or finding seats. I approach the girl sitting next to the first empty chair I see.

"This seat taken?"

Concentrating on the study guide booklet I recognize, she jumps at my voice but quickly smiles. "Nope. All yours."

With smooth, fair skin, a round face, and straight cherry-brunette hair, she reminds me of a porcelain doll. Before I can introduce myself, a cheerful-looking woman who must be in her late thirties tells everyone to take their seats and settle down. She's flanked by a tall man with snowy hair and wrinkles. They're both wearing spotless white chef uniforms.

"Okay, everyone," the man says in a commanding voice. "Welcome to the Cloverbrook College of Culinary Arts. The name is a bit of a mouthful, but you'll get used to it."

The class chuckles, but his face remains tight.

"Or Clocul, if you want to avoid the mouthful," the woman chimes in with a much warmer tone.

He nods and continues talking. I can't help but tune out and glance around at the strangers who I'll be getting to know in time. About sixteen of us all together, and most of the class looks like they're straight out of high school like me. I scan down the second row from the front, backtracking when a familiar body stands out among the rest.

Oh god. You've got to be kidding me. The sharp jawline alone is enough for me to recognize the boy who watched my little meltdown mere hours ago.

Please, little is an understatement, Summer. Anyone who saw a person standing on the street in their pajamas, surrounded by trash and cussing themselves out, is bound to think they're a raving lunatic. You are no exception.

What are the chances of this guy being in my class, let alone in culinary school? Freaking small towns.

The man's voice tunes back in. "Anyway, I'm Dean Weller, and this is the freshman year head chef and professor, Chef Kent."

Trying to focus on the introduction, my mind can't let go of the embarrassment I'd shaken from earlier. I sneak a peek at Skater Boy again. He's slumped back in his seat, arms loosely folded while he listens. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Who's to say he'd even recognize me, anyway? It was such a brief interaction.

As if he can sense my gaze on him, he shifts and meets my eyes. A look of blankness, thought, then knowing. He faces the front again, long, tattooed fingers moving over his mouth to cover a smirk. Fantastic.

I force myself to pay attention, temporarily shoving this aside in my head.

"Today marks your first day in culinary school," the dean says. "But don't only think of your time here as studying. From here on out, you're a part of this industry. The hours are long, the work is grueling, and dedication and passion are key."

"Don't let that put you off, though," Chef Kent hastily interrupts. "It's also really fun. Follow the rules and everything will go well during your time here, and in the industry."

The dean steps forward. "Yes, it can be fun, but working hard is still a necessity. And being late is not an option."

He glares at a robust boy with spiky blonde hair who seems to have sneaked in and was about to sit down in the back row.

"If you're late in the industry, you're fired."

The boy gulps and plops down.

"Anyway..." Chef Kent says. Dean Weller steps back again, giving her the floor. "This week will mostly be your orientation, you'll have time to get used to campus and the routines. This is the classroom where your theory lectures happen, but you'll spend the most time in the kitchen for practical work. After we've given you the rules, you'll get your uniforms that must always be worn in the kitchen. We'll supply you with the essential equipment like your chef knives, and after that we'll have a class on safety and how to handle those knives. Sound good?"

The class mutters in blanket agreement.

"Great." Chef Kent beams, tucking her dark bob behind her ears. "Before all of that, it's important for you to know now that culinary school isn't only about cooking. Communication and teamwork are a crucial part of working in a kitchen, whether it's learning in here or working out in the world. You depend on who you cook with, and you should be open with the people around you."

Skater Boy lets out a short cough, which sounds more like a poorly disguised scoff at her words.

She continues without skipping a beat. "So, to kick things off, I'd like to go around the classroom. Introduce yourselves, tell us where you're from, and throw in a little fact about yourself."

She gestures to the mousy girl at the end of the first row. One by one, names and facts are said. A lot of them say they love cooking—which is a given. Why else would you be in culinary school? As I thought, most of the class have recently graduated high school, but there are two in their early thirties. Grant and Julie. Both say that they're changing their career paths.

The next person who speaks catches my attention instantly. A girl with a wild mane of raven curls, and part of a tattoo displayed on her thigh. Her low-cut top is drawing a lot of eyes to her as well.

"I'm Charlotte, but everyone calls me Charlie," she says, her electric eyes sweeping the room. "Eighteen, from Cloverbrook, and a fact? I don't know, um... I guess I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue."

"Prove it!" a guy's voice from the back hollers, each one of them looking at her like wired, drooling dogs.

Chef Kent laughs, raising her hands. "Unfortunately we don't have cherry stems lying around, maybe another time. Let's keep it moving."

The girl next to her then introduces herself. Crystal. A beautiful, willowy girl with deep umber skin and dark eyes that resemble those of a cat. She twirls her finger around a long braid as she speaks, her voice breathy and light. It's Skater's turn after her. He reluctantly sits up with a sigh when Chef Kent tells him to go. I have an excuse to focus on him now.

"Yeah, so I'm Ashton," he says in a tone laced with nonchalance. How can a voice so husky sound just as smooth and syrupy? "Nineteen, from here, just finished high school..."

Nineteen. I wonder if he was held back a year in school.

"Hmm... what else, what else?" his tone falls into mock thought, sarcasm lining his words. "Man, too bad I don't carry around a diary full of my hobbies and dirty little secrets. Sorry to disappoint, everyone!"

The class laughs, and he grins like he had been waiting for it. His eyes flit back to Kent as he feigns a worried expression.

"Guess this prevents us from actually starting what we came here to learn, no?"

She exchanges a glance with Dean Weller, as if they expected a student like this in the class. I swear I can see her quash an eye roll.

"Of course not. This is only an exercise to get to know your classmates. If you don't want to take part, we'll move on. But I suggest you store the attitude away and learn to join in for the future."

"Yes, Ma'am." He gives her a stern salute before slumping down again.

What a jackass. His attitude makes total sense considering the way he watched me earlier. His eyes had been laughing at me, like I was some light morning entertainment to start his day.

Two more people go before reaching our table. The girl next to me speaks first.

"My name's Lola, I grew up in Cloverbrook and..." she pauses in thought, her voice slightly unsteady with nerves. "I'm seventeen. I love foreign food, and winter is my favorite season. Uh, yeah that's all." She lets out a big breath.

My turn. I clear my throat before speaking. "I'm Summer, I'm eighteen, from Philadelphia and..." I search the boxes in my mind for a fact that doesn't relate to cooking. "And I love art. Painting, sketching, anything like that."

❖❖❖

After being given a handout of general rules, we're told to wait for our chef uniforms in the hall. Well, it's not really a hall. More like a large common room with vending machines, couches, and a wide window overlooking the courtyard.

Older students cut through as our class hangs around, waiting for our names to be called to another room to try on our uniforms before they're given to us. We had to email our sizes weeks ago, but I guess now they need to see if changes need to be made.

I carefully read through the rules before Chef Kent pops her head out of the room and calls me. The pants are a little snug around my hips, and the sleeves a bit long. Other than that I'm set. When I leave the room, the number of students has thinned to about four. The next to be called is Nick, the lanky guy chatting with Ashton by a vending machine.

Maybe this is a good time to clear the air, explain that incident this morning. Coming to a new town, starting my trial year... I don't want to give off the impression that I'm a ticking time bomb. My explosive temper is nothing but an ugly part of myself I like to keep in check, and I never intended on showing it to anyone here.

I walk over and plaster on a confident smile. "Hey. Ashton, right?"

He's facing the machine, weighing his options before punching a number into the keypad. "Well, if it isn't the crazy cupcake girl."

"Yeah. That's what I wanted to talk to you about." I watch him retrieve the lollipop he bought, turning to me once he's got it.

My breath catches, thoughts wiped clean as I take in the full sight of him up close. From a distance I could tell he was good-looking, but not to this extent. He's striking.

A genetic jackpot of blessed features merged into one beautiful specimen. Strong, angular face, deep olive skin which only accentuates the two pools of honey set beneath dark brows, a shallow dimple on his chin, and thick black hair. No, off-black. Dyed into an ashy charcoal. His jacket stretches over broad shoulders, and I can only imagine the ink on his fingers travels under—

"You done eye-fucking me or what?"

"What? I wasn't—" My voice gets trapped in my throat, heat prickling my face. Ashton smirks as he unwraps the lollipop. He must be used to being looked at like that by girls, and if he's not, those girls would have to be blind. But the fresh-looking hickey on his neck says it all.

I collect myself and get back to my point. "Look, all I wanted to say is that what you saw this morning was just bad timing. I'm not crazy or anything. I don't go around yelling at myself all the time, or wear pajamas in public either. What you witnessed was a result of stress-induced frustration, that's all. So I think it would be good if we start fresh. Since we're in the same class, it'll be nice to get to know–"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Cupcake." He raises his large hands for me to go silent. "This, what you're doing, it's a waste of time. As much as I enjoyed that little scene this morning, let me clear something up real quick. I grew up here, okay? I already know the people from high school, and I don't intend to get to know everyone else. The only thing I'm here to do is get my qualifications so I can find a good job. That's it. I'm not in the market for making new friends, because I don't need 'em. And that includes you."

His attitude was apparent from the get-go, but I'm still taken aback by his uncalled-for bluntness. "God, why are you so rude?"

He chuckles, leaning against the vending machine. "I don't like sugarcoating. Some people consider that an admirable quality... better than being fed lies. So just stay out of my way and we're good, all right?"

Stay out of his way? Who does he think he is? My blood is boiling from the audacity of this guy.

I watch him brush past me and saunter over to the couches. The way I react to this could set the tone for the year. I could be the person who gets walked over, or the person who doesn't back down from confrontation.

I've always been a fan of the latter.

A/N: Please tap the star to vote!

Only three chapters in, but what do you think of Summer and Ashton so far? Stick around for the next update :)