The Ice Queen's Secret Trophy Husband

rivilege. Christopher pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt up. It was a cheap

rary, holding a cardboard car

s were hot. He shifted hi

is," a voi

rrounded by her court-three girls who looked like cl

subtle but expensive. She stopped in front of him and didn't

sugar-free vanilla, e

d, forcing a dopey smile onto h

giggled. "God, Brielle, he's like a los

rting to Christopher with a mix of a

a hand. "Some sort of 'safety escort' program for the se

y that he was paid to be there. She treated him li

" Brielle

hristopher trailed five paces behind,

. Brielle and her friends marched to the middle ro

p the aisle, a

of the lacrosse team. His fa

d by years of dodging foster brothers and a

e required

toe on Preston's snea

the coffee carrier. He hit the floor hard. His knees slammed in

offees di

erupted i

eston jeered. "Trippi

up, clutching the coff

ntic. His fac

t. Her eyes narrowed. She looked

voice cut through the

om wen

g your pet?" P

ly. "And that coffee costs more than your G

He muttered something an

lipped. She saw the dust on his knees. She saw the way

d, her voice softer than u

hanks,

he back corner and sat do

conomics. Christopher ignored him. He took

wn until the paper tore. It looked like scribbles to anyone else, a mess of ink a

oss the page, creating

le glanced back. She saw h

or me, she thought.

hest. Guilt? No, Harris women di

. Christopher met

r the notebook. "I... I tri

rawings. The top page was just gibberish note

knee. The jeans were torn. There was a scr

ng," Christ

ched into her bag and pulled out a Hello Kitty b

band-aid. He looked

you, Br

buzzed in

re are you?

cold drop of sweat

ry. Studying. Trying

it s

. And sooner or later, he