After a killer pop quiz during my Integrative Practice Seminar class, the last thing I wanted to do was spend the next two to three hours with a rich guy who had some kind of a chip on his shoulder, even if he was Elaine’s son. But a promise was a promise, and I liked to keep mine. So when he finally showed up in his Porsche Cayenne SUV, almost ten minutes later than we’d arranged, I was pissed.

I barely waited for the vehicle to come to a complete stop before I flung the passenger side door open and climbed in. I dropped my backpack on the floor near my feet and fastened my seat belt before turning to look at him. Unlike when I’d gotten a ride from his mom the day I met her, I didn’t take the time to enjoy the luxurious surroundings because I barely even noticed them. Instead, I glared at him like I was getting paid to do it. And I had to work hard to keep the scowl on my face. Although it was easy to ignore how awesome his car was, it was impossible to miss all of the hotness that was Dillon Montgomery.

His dark brown hair still looked like it needed a trim. His brown eyes weren’t laughing at the moment, but I remembered exactly what they looked like when they did. And I knew right where his dimple popped in his cheek when he smiled. There was no mistaking it—Elaine’s son was the football hottie I’d drooled over my first day on campus.

Holy shit.

“You’d better be Faith, or else my mom is going to be even more pissed at me than she already is if I’m not only late but picked up some random chick by mistake.”

“I’m Faith.”

“And I’m Dillon.” He shot me an unhappy look as he pulled away from the curb. “Something you should have confirmed before you climbed into my car. I could’ve been a total stranger.”

I forced myself to ignore the little thrill the flash of heat in his dark eyes gave me and flicked up my index finger to count off all the reasons he was completely wrong. “There are very few Porsche SUVs on campus.” My first point was made, and I moved on to the second. “Let alone silver ones that would pull up in the exact place where I was supposed to meet you.” His hold on the steering wheel tightened as I added a third finger to my count. “And your mother told me what kind of car you drive.”

“Still.”

“Still nothing.” I dropped my hand into my lap, curling it into a fist. “I might be smaller than you and a girl, but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’d be willing to bet that I have a lot more experience at judging people and situations than you do.”

“Shit,” he groaned. “I really put my foot in it, didn’t I?”

“Maybe a little bit.” I glanced down at his shoes, which had to at least be a size twelve, and tried not to think about exactly how big those feet were. And how they might correlate to the size of other, more interesting, parts of his anatomy. My cheeks heated, and I quickly jerked my gaze up to his face.

“I’m sorry. My mom told me you were a foster kid, and that’s why you work with high school students in the foster system to get them into college.”

I hadn’t expected him to be the kind of guy who apologized for something small like that, and it melted away most of my irritation from earlier. But it came right back when his attention shifted to the screen on the dash after there was a quick dinging sound.

“Hold on a second, I have a new text message.”

“Aren’t you in enough trouble already? Texting while driving is dangerous and illegal,” I huffed in irritation.

“Only if you’re looking at your phone while doing it,” he disagreed as he pressed a button on the screen and a voice came through the speaker system to ask if he wanted it to read his messages or compose a new one. Dillon told it to read his messages, and the text message Elaine had just sent was played.

I turned my head and stared at the screen on the dash, surprised to see it looked so much like the one on an iPhone. Once the message was complete, the system asked if Dillon wanted to reply.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Go ahead.”

Dillon rattled off a response to Elaine’s text, the car read it back to him, and he confirmed the message could be sent. Admittedly, I didn’t have a lot of experience with luxury cars, but the system in Dillon’s SUV seemed excessive. And impressive. I’d never seen anything like it before and didn’t even realize it was possible.

“You have Siri in your car?”

“It has an Apple CarPlay system that connects through my iPhone. It was a selling point that helped convince my parents to buy it.” He paused, and a muscle in his jaw jumped before he continued, “They’re big on car safety features.”

“It’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah.”

I wasn’t sure why, but the conversation fizzled out from there and we rode in silence the rest of the way to the high school. When we got there, I pointed out where he should park and we headed inside together. We were only a few minutes late, and the group of students I was meeting with were gathered in the classroom waiting for us. I hadn’t thought about what they’d read into me bringing Dillon along until I saw the speculation in the eyes of the students I’d gotten to know a bit over the past few months. A few of the girls were looking him up and down like he was a male stripper about to start a performance. And the guys sitting closest to them puffed up like a bunch of pissed off peacocks because they’d lost the attention of the girls to a bigger, hotter, older guy.

“Okay, everybody. I can see that you’ve already noticed we have a visitor today.” Dillon followed me to the front of the room. “This is Dillon Montgomery. He’s going to be helping me out from time to time so you might see him around again.”

“How’d you guys meet?” one of the girls asked, eyeing him up and down.

“We’re both seniors at Southeastern Florida State,” Dillon answered. When I glanced at him, he gave me a small shake of his head. I figured he didn’t want me to mention his mom was the one getting all the donations for the foster kids who were also students at our school. The kids already knew about it, but I hadn’t mentioned the name of the woman behind it all so he was clear on that front. I understood his desire to keep that fact to himself, and I gave him a nod.

“And Dillon is a genius at math, so I thought he could work with those of you who need some help in that area on SAT prep.”

A chorus of groans echoed around the room, the usual response to the mention of anything related to math.

“Hey, now,” Dillon chided. “Math isn’t that bad.”

“Good luck convincing them of that,” I laughed before getting him setup at a table with the group of students who were scheduled to take the SAT next month. Then I joined the other kids and looked over the progress they’d made on their college applications. It took about an hour to answer all their questions and work through any issues they had. After I sent them on their way, I walked over to where Dillon was still working with the other group.

“Thanks for the help, man. You should be a teacher or something. I learned more in an hour with you than I did all year long in math class,” Ian told Dillon as he shoved his stuff into his backpack. He was a basketball player who hadn’t gotten a scholarship to a division one or two team and thought that meant he had no chance at a college education. Now that he knew he could get his tuition covered by the state, he was hoping to get accepted to at least a DIII team so he could get some time on the court while he earned his degree. “But I still gotta say it; I don’t see how any of it relates back to real life.”

“C’mon, dude. You said you play basketball, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You might not realize it, but you use a ton of geometric concepts while playing the game.” Dillon leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement. “The dimensions of the court, diameter of the hoop and ball, and length from the three-point line to the hoop are all standard measurements for any basketball court. Then there’s the path the basketball will take when you take a shot, which is dependent on the angle at which it’s shot, the force applied, and the length of the player’s arms. Geometric principles are why you need a smaller angle when you shoot from the free throw line than a field goal. And statistics are essential for analyzing a game and determining individual strengths and weaknesses.”

“I love basketball, but it ain’t exactly real life unless you’re drafted into the NBA and making millions,” Ian pointed out.

“Are you still gonna play, even if you never get drafted?”

“Hell yeah, I am. My foster mom likes to joke that I was born with a basketball in my hand, and I’ll probably be buried with one in it too.” Ian chuckled, shaking his head.

“Then it’s real life for you.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But that’s just me.”

“Okay. But if you look hard enough, you’ll probably be able to find math in most things. Take me for example.” I took a step closer, curious about what Dillon would choose to share with the kids about his personal life. “I’m a fan of blackjack, which is all about math.”

He pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket and laid them face up on the table. “It’s based on conditional probabilities. What you’ve already seen affects what you’re going to see. If an ace is dealt, that’s one less available.” He pulled an ace out of the deck and set it to the side. “Knowing how the cards are going to be dealt works to a player’s advantage because asking for a card is one of the only decisions that’s entirely up to us. But the dealer doesn’t have the same freedom. They have to take one if the total of their cards is below seventeen, and they can’t take one if it’s between seventeen and twenty-one. So lower value cards favor the dealer because it’s less likely they’ll bust.” He pulled out an assortment of twos, threes, and fours. “The opposite is true for picture cards. They favor the player because the more of them left in the deck, the more chances there are for the dealer to bust.”

Ian asked the question I figured we were all thinking. “Dude. Are you talking about counting cards?”

Dillon shrugged his shoulders, shuffling the cards together before putting them back in his pocket. “Unless you have a photographic memory, you can’t count all the cards because casinos typically use six to eight decks at a time. But some players develop techniques to help them keep track, and they use math to do that too. They might keep a running tally by assigning a value every time they see a card. Plus one for cards two through six. Minus one for picture cards, aces and tens. No change for seven through nine. A high tally would favor the player because it means more face cards remain than lower value ones, and they’ll place their bets accordingly.”

“Okay.” I walked around the table and placed my hands on Dillon’s shoulders, absently noting how muscular they were. “I think that’s enough math lessons for today.”

Dillon twisted his neck and flashed me an apologetic grin over his shoulder. Unwanted butterflies swirled in my belly, and I quickly yanked my hands away from his shoulders and took a step backwards. His eyes flashed with male satisfaction and his grin grew wider. Determined to ignore the impact he had on me, I shifted my focus to the students. “Your test date is coming fast, so you’ll need to squeeze in as much extra study time as you can without neglecting your regular coursework. Maybe set aside some time during Thanksgiving break when you don’t have as much homework.”

“Ugh. Studying over break sucks,” one of the girls complained.

“Yeah, but you guys are in the homestretch. This test score is one of the last things you need to get into college. Trust me, it’ll be worth the extra effort.”

“I guess if you could get into college while recovering from a transplant, then the least I can do is a little bit of studying over a holiday break that isn’t even that big of a deal since I don’t have a family to celebrate it with anyway.”

The other kids nodded in agreement, and I snuck a peek at Dillon while everyone finished packing up. His brown eyes were wide with shock. I quickly looked away before he could ask me anything, and focused on saying my goodbyes as the kids all headed out. We both kept quiet—for which I was incredibly grateful—as Dillon helped me clean up the room. When we were back on the road, I turned to him and asked, "Were you really teaching my kids how to count cards?”

His lips tilted up at the edges. “Maybe just a little.”

“It’s a good thing none of them have any money to gamble or else they might learn to enjoy blackjack as much as you do.” His lip tilt turned into a full-fledged grin, and I glared at him. “I don’t know why you’re grinning at me! Look at what your affinity for gambling got you.”

“What?” He pointed at his face. “The black eye?”

“Yeah, for starters.”

His grin grew into a blinding smile. “It was worth it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s the reason I met you.”

Shit. Those damn butterflies took flight in my stomach again.