Nicklaus hadn't shut up since.
"You're not wondering how I know your name?" he asked, his tone halfway between curious and smug.
I kept my eyes ahead, mouth pressed into a thin line. If he wanted me to bite, he was going to be disappointed.
"Because if I were you," he continued, clearly not deterred by my silence, "I'd want to know. I'd be thinking, 'Who is this mysterious, devastatingly handsome stranger who waltzes in, sits next to me, and calls me by name?'"
"Devastatingly humble too," Freya muttered under her breath.
Nicklaus smirked. "Exactly. But seriously—"
"Seriously," I cut in, my voice flat, "we're going to be late."
He tilted his head. "You're a tough audience, Maeve."
I didn't answer. The more I ignored him, the better. The last thing I wanted was to give him an inch in this verbal tug-of-war.
We were almost to the door of our next class when a sharp voice cut through the low hum of hallway chatter.
"Miss Sinclair."
