THE PLUS SIZE PLAYBOOK

Two

Mia pov

Sunday comes faster than I'm ready for.

I spent the morning doing my usual routine. Coffee, Yoga and Three hours staring at my closet trying to figure out what to wear before finally giving up and grabbing what I always wear. Dark jeans and an oversized sweater with my hair in a messy bun.

I'm not dressing up for Alex Sullivan.

I'm not doing anything for Alex Sullivan.

Except tutoring him. For money.

The library's empty when I get there at 2:45. Sunday afternoons are dead. No witnesses. No whispers. No one to see the golden boy slumming it with the plus-size nerd in the back corner.

I set up my workspace. Notebooks in a stack. Pens by color. Tablet ready with the syllabus I pulled from the English department's shared drive. I even brought extra highlighters. Different colors. For emphasis.

I'm not trying to impress him. I'm trying to be professional. There's a difference.

Alex shows up at 3:07.

Seven minutes late.

He's wearing sweatpants.

"The library has a dress code," I say flatly. "No pajamas."

"They're not pajamas." He drops into the chair across from me. "They're joggers."

"They're gray. They have a drawstring. They look exactly like what I sleep in."

Something flickers in his eyes. That dark thing again. "You sleep in gray joggers?"

"I sleep in whatever I want. The point is—"

"The point is I'm here." He leans forward. Resting his forearms on the table. "I'm on time. I brought my book. What else do you want from me?"

What else do you want from me.

The question hangs there. Heavy. Loaded. I don't know what to do with it so I ignore it.

"Let's start with the basics. What's your grade right now?"

"Forty-seven."

"Forty-seven percent? That's not failing. That's barely conscious."

His jaw tightens. "Yeah. I know."

"What's your biggest struggle? Grammar? Analysis? Actually reading the material?"

He has the decency to look sheepish. "All of it?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay. We need to start from the beginning. And we need to meet more than once a week."

"What?" His head snaps up. "I have practice. Games. Travel—"

"You have a failing grade in a required class." I hold up my tablet. "You need to raise that to at least a C- by midterms. That's three weeks away. Once a week isn't going to cut it."

He stares at the screen like I just told him his dog died. "Three weeks?"

"Three weeks." I set down the tablet. "So here's my condition. We meet four times a week. Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. Two hours each session. You bring your work, you do your reading, you actually participate. And you pay me upfront."

"Upfront?"

"Two hundred dollars a session. Cash. Paid before we start."

He lets out a harsh laugh. "You're kidding."

"I'm not." I meet his eyes. "You need me. You're on a deadline. And I have papers to write and a life to live. My time is valuable, Alex."

"Alex." His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "You called me Alex."

"Is that your name or isn't it?"

"It's my name." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wallet that probably costs more than my monthly rent. "Two hundred. Cash. And you'll actually teach me?"

"I'll try. Whether you learn is up to you."

He counts out the bills. I watch his fingers move. Notice the calluses on his palms from years of gripping a lacrosse stick. The small scar above his eyebrow. The way his shoulders are tense beneath that expensive designer t-shirt.

He pushes the cash across the table. "There. Now teach me."

I take the money. Feel the weight of it. Two hundred dollars. Enough to cover my groceries for two weeks. Enough to make this worth it.

"Fine." I pull out a highlighter. "Let's start with how to actually read a book."

Two hours later, I want to kill him.

Not because he's stupid. He's not. He's actually infuriatingly smart when he applies himself. Picks up concepts faster than most of my regular clients.

The problem is he won't sit still.

Bounces his knee. Taps his pen. Checks his phone every seventeen seconds like clockwork. Asks questions that are tangentially related to the material but clearly just excuses to get me talking about myself.

"What's your major again? English, right? That's like, all books and stuff?"

"All books and stuff is not how I'd describe it. And we're supposed to be discussing the Heathcliff-Catherine dynamic, not my career plans."

"Heathcliff's a dick."

"Be that as it may—"

"Like, seriously. The guy spends his whole life revenge-plotting because a girl picked someone else? Get over yourself, man."

I stare at him. "Did you actually read the book?"

"Skimmed it." He shrugs. "The point is, he's obsessed. And obsession isn't love. It's just... obsession."

"That's surprisingly insightful for someone who skimmed."

"I have my moments." He grins at me. "So what's your deal? You just spend all your time in the library? Don't you have, like, friends? Hobbies? A social life?"

"Would you focus?"

"I am focusing." He leans forward. Close. Too close. I can smell his cologne. Something expensive and woodsy. I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "I'm focusing on you."

My heart stutters.

"I'm your tutor," I say, steadier than I feel. "Not a distraction."

"Who says you can't be both?"

I stand up abruptly. Knock my chair back. "Time's up. Same time Monday."

"Mia." He catches my wrist. His fingers are warm against my skin. "Wait."

I look down at his hand. Then up at his face. "What?"

"I..." He seems to struggle with something. Swallows. "I'm sorry. For before. For being an ass."

"Which before? The last four years of ignoring me, or just today?"

"All of it." His grip loosens but doesn't let go. "I know I'm not... I know people think I'm just some rich jock who coasted through life. And maybe that was true, for a while. But I can't afford to fail this class, Mia. My dad—"

He stops abruptly. Like he's said too much.

"Your dad what?"

"Nothing." He releases my wrist. Steps back. "Monday. 3 PM. I'll be there."

He's gone before I can respond. His long legs eating up the distance to the exit.

I stand there in the suddenly-empty library. My wrist tingling where he touched me.

This is a mistake. A huge, catastrophic mistake.

But I'm already looking forward to Monday.

I pack up my things slowly. The notebooks. The pens. The highlighters he never touched. I'm trying to process what just happened. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he mentioned his dad and then shut down like a door slamming.

I don't know why I care.

I shouldn't care.

He's just a client. A paycheck. A means to an end.

But when I get home and open my bag, I find something I didn't put there.

A twenty-dollar bill. Tucked into my copy of Wuthering Heights.

With another sticky note.

For the coffee, see you Monday.