Four Of A Kind

Chapter 65: [2.38] This Isn’t Kindergarten, It’s War

The Valentine Manor library smelled like old paper and lemon polish. Two stories of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loomed over Cassidy like judgmental witnesses to her academic inadequacy. The massive oak table in front of her held a single math textbook, three mechanical pencils, and the shattered remains of her pride.

She was wearing glasses.

Okay. Deep breath. You can do this.

The frames were black and simple. She hated them. Hated the way they made her look like a try-hard. Hated that she needed them at all because her stupid eyes couldn’t focus on stupid numbers without them. But tonight wasn’t about looking cool. Tonight was about winning.

It’s just a bet. A stupid bet you made because you’re an idiot who can’t keep her mouth shut.

The library doors opened.

Cassidy’s brain stopped working.

Because that wasn’t Isaiah Angelo who walked in. That was someone else entirely. Some imposter wearing Isaiah’s face but wrapped in packaging that made absolutely no sense.

He wore dark jeans that actually fit his legs instead of whatever thrifted nonsense he usually threw on. A crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing forearms she’d never noticed before. A navy blazer that sat on his shoulders like it had been sewn directly onto his body.

The clothes weren’t flashy. No logos. No statement pieces. Nothing that screamed money.

But they whispered it.

They whispered it really, really loudly.

Wait. Hold on. Since when does scholarship boy clean up like that?

Isaiah walked toward the table, his posture loose and unhurried. The lamplight caught the angles of his jaw. His two-toned hair looked intentional now instead of like a cry for help. Even the dark circles under his eyes somehow added to the whole aesthetic.

Do clothes really make that much of a difference? Because he doesn’t look like he’s pretending anymore. He looks like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here.

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

And it’s really annoying.

His dark eyes found hers. Held them.

Really, really annoying.

Something in her chest did a weird flutter thing that she absolutely refused to acknowledge.

Also kind of. No. Stop. NOT hot. Annoying. We’re sticking with annoying.

“You’re wearing glasses,” Isaiah said.

Cassidy’s hand flew to her face like she’d forgotten she had them on. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking they look fine. But sure. I’ll shut up about how they look fine.”

Her face heated. She shoved the glasses higher on her nose and glared at the textbook. “Can we just start? Some of us have better things to do than stare at your face all night.”

“You were staring at my face?”

“I was NOT.”

Isaiah’s lips twitched. Just barely. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one that died before it could fully form. “Alright. Let’s see where we are.” He gestured at her backpack. “Show me your last quiz.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Why not?”

She picked at a hangnail on her thumb. “I lit it on fire.”

Silence.

“Okay,” he said. “Plan B. Let’s log into your student portal. We can pull up your assignment history from there.”

That’s it? That’s all he was going to say?

“I don’t remember my password.”

“Did you try your birthday?”

“Obviously.”

“Your sister’s birthday?”

“It’s the same.”

“Fair point.” He leaned back in his chair. “Okay. I might have some old worksheets in my bag. Hang on.” He stood up and headed toward the library doors.

Cassidy watched him go.

The blazer really did fit him perfectly. The way the fabric moved when he walked made it look expensive without trying to look expensive. Which was somehow more expensive than actually looking expensive.

Why isn’t he yelling at me?

The other tutors would have yelled. Or done that passive-aggressive disappointment thing where they sighed through their nose and looked at her like she was a lost cause. Tutor Number Four had actually put his head in his hands and muttered prayers under his breath.

Isaiah just… solved the problem. Moved on. Like obstacles were minor inconveniences instead of catastrophic failures.

It’s infuriating.

Why is it infuriating?

The doors opened again. Isaiah returned with a stack of worksheets and something else tucked under his arm. A small velvet bag that clinked when he set it on the table.

He sat back down. “New plan.”

“What kind of new plan?”

Instead of answering, Isaiah loosened the drawstring on the velvet bag and poured the contents onto the oak surface.

Poker chips. Red, white, and blue. They scattered across the table like casino confetti.

Cassidy stared at them. “What.”

“The old way isn’t working.” Isaiah sorted the chips into three neat piles. “You don’t respond to lectures. You don’t respond to disappointment. You respond to competition.” He pushed a stack of ten red chips toward her side of the table. “So from now on, this is a game.”

“This is stupid.”

“Hear me out.” He tapped the red chips. “You start with these. Each one is worth one point. For every question you get right on the first try, you take a chip from me.” He patted his own pile. “For every one you get wrong, or I have to explain the process… you give one to me.”

“We’re not in kindergarten.”

“No. We’re in a high-stakes wager where one of us ends up as the other’s pet for a day.” His eyes met hers. “Unless you’re scared.”

Cassidy’s jaw clenched.

Scared? SCARED? I’m not scared of anything, you smug, well-dressed scholarship boy.

“Fine.” She grabbed her pencil. “Let’s go.”

Isaiah slid the first worksheet across the table. “Solve for x.”

The problem stared up at her. Numbers and letters tangled together in a language she’d never been fluent in. 3x + 7 = 22.

Okay. Okay. Subtract seven from both sides. That’s what he said last time, right? Isolate the variable.

Her pencil moved across the paper. 22 minus 7 equals… fifteen. So 3x equals 15.

Divide by three.

x = 5.

“Five,” she said.

Isaiah checked his answer key. Looked up at her. Nodded once.

Yes!

He pushed a red chip from his pile to hers. “Good. Next problem.”

The second question was harder. Something about distributing parentheses. Her pencil hovered over the paper while the numbers rearranged themselves in her brain, refusing to stay still long enough for her to process them.

Two times three plus two times x. That’s six plus two x. Right? No. Wait. Is it two x or x plus two?

She wrote down an answer. “Eight.”

Isaiah’s expression didn’t change. “That’s one for me.” He reached across the table and calmly took one of her red chips, adding it to his own pile. “Let’s walk through it.”

Damn it.