Four Of A Kind Chapter 107: [3.9] A C- is a C-, But a Vulnerable Look from

I looked over Cassidy’s work, scanning each problem with the critical eye I’d developed during our sessions. The first five problems looked solid, and she’d even caught her own sign error on problem three, circling it in red and correcting it without prompting. Progress.

"These look good," I said, tapping the page. "You’re starting to get the hang of it."

"Whatever," Cassidy muttered, but her mouth twitched at the corner – almost a smile before she suppressed it. "I’m still losing in our overall count."

"True, but you’re catching up. At this rate, you might actually win our bet."

Her purple eyes flashed up at . "You think I won’t?"

"I think you’re giving a run for my money." I pulled the graph paper closer. "Now, what’s the issue with the quadratic formula?"

Cassidy pointed to problem six with her pen. "I keep getting the wrong answer. I’ve tried it three tis."

I leaned forward to examine her work, noting how she’d ticulously color-coded each step. The formula was written correctly at the top: x equals negative b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus four ac, all divided by two a. Her substitution of the values looked right, but sothing was off in the calculation.

As I traced through her steps, I felt her staring at . Not her usual glare – sothing more contemplative.

"Are you okay today?" she asked suddenly.

I looked up, surprised by the question. "What?"

"You seem..." She twirled her pen between her fingers. "I don’t know. More out of it than usual? And you’re always kind of out of it."

I hadn’t expected this. Cassidy Valentine, the girl who threatened to ruin my life the first ti we t, was asking about my wellbeing? I must have looked as shocked as I felt because her cheeks imdiately flushed.

"Whatever, forget I asked," she snapped, returning to her familiar defensive posture. "It’s not like I care. I just need you functional enough to explain this stupid formula."

"I’m fine," I said, recovering. "Just didn’t sleep much last night."

"Why not?"

"Thinking about stuff."

"What stuff?"

I raised an eyebrow. "You’re suddenly interested in my life, Valentine?"

"No!" Her blush deepened. "I told you, I need you functional. And clearly you’re not if you can’t even catch that I multiplied wrong here." She jabbed at the paper where she’d miscalculated b squared.

I smiled despite myself. "Actually, I was about to point that out."

"Sure you were."

"Here," I said, circling the error. "You got 49, but four squared is 16, not 49. That’s why your answer is wrong."

Cassidy stared at her mistake, then pressed her palms against her eyes. "Stupid. That’s so stupid."

"It’s a simple arithtic error. Even I make those."

"Yeah, right. Mr. Perfect-At-Everything."

"I’m far from perfect at everything."

"Na one thing you’re bad at," she challenged.

I considered this for a mont. "Sleep. I’m terrible at sleep."

"That doesn’t count."

"Making good life choices?"

She snorted. "You’re working for my family. That’s evidence enough."

I laughed, and she looked surprised by the sound, as if she hadn’t expected to actually amuse . For a mont, we shared sothing almost like camaraderie before she cleared her throat and returned to the problem.

"So I square the four correctly, get 16, and then continue from there?"

"Exactly."

She reworked the problem, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. I watched her, noticing how her hair fell across her cheek, how she absently brushed it back with the back of her wrist rather than her fingers to avoid smudging the ink.

Was she the one who kissed ?

The thought ambushed again, and I quickly pushed it away. Focus on the job, not the mystery. But sitting here with her, watching her work through problems that had once seed impossible to her, I couldn’t help but wonder.

"Got it," she said finally, sliding the paper toward . "Two and negative three."

I checked her work. "Perfect."

She grinned, a full, unguarded expression of triumph that transford her face from beautiful to breathtaking. Then, realizing what she’d done, she schooled her features back into casual indifference.

"Of course it is. I told you I’d get better."

"You did. I just didn’t expect it to happen so quickly."

"I learn fast when people actually teach right." She took a long sip of her boba tea. "So what did you think about our idea for the fall fest?"

"Your idea?" I tried to rember what she was referring to.

"Yeah, from horoom? The Halloween-thed maid cafe? Harlow wouldn’t shut up about it on the way ho."

Right. The festival booth that Patterson was so strangely invested in. I had completely forgotten about it in the chaos of my day.

"I think it could work," I said. "Thed cafes are always popular."

"That’s what I said! But Miss Perfect thinks it’s beneath the Valentine dignity or whatever." She rolled her eyes. "Vivi’s so boring. It’s just a school festival."

"What would the cafe involve exactly?"

"Costus, decorations, food. The usual." She twirled a strand of wine-red hair around her finger. "We’d serve snacks with a Halloween the. Cookies shaped like ghosts, drinks with fake blood, that kind of thing."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

"Everything worth doing is a lot of work. Isn’t that what you’re always saying about these stupid math problems?"

I smiled. "Touché."

"So you like the idea?"

"I think it’s great. I’m just surprised you’re so into it."

"Why? Because I don’t seem like the school spirit type?" She leaned back in her chair, her uniform top riding up slightly to reveal a strip of pale skin. "Maybe I just want to see my classmates embarrass themselves in ridiculous costus."

"That seems more on brand."

She smirked. "What, you don’t think I’d look good in a maid outfit, calling you ’master’?"

The question caught completely off guard. I nearly choked on air, and Cassidy’s expression shifted from teasing to triumphant. She’d managed to get a reaction out of , and she was savoring it.

"That’s not what I—"

"Relax, scholarship boy. I’m joking." She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Unless you’re into that sort of thing?"

"I plead the fifth."

"Coward." She gathered her papers together. "Anyway, I need to go change for tennis practice. Sa ti tomorrow?"

"Sa ti tomorrow," I confird, still feeling slightly off-balance from her teasing. "And don’t forget to practice those quadratic problems before bed."

"Yes, sir," she said with a mock salute. "Wouldn’t want to disappoint my math master."

I groaned. "Please stop."

"Make ." She stood, gathering her books. "Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know what weird things you’re into."

"Says the girl who brought up maid costus."

"It was a legitimate question about the festival booth!" she protested, but her flushed cheeks betrayed her.

As she moved toward the door, I couldn’t help but call out, "For what it’s worth, I think you’d rock a maid costu."

She froze, her back to . For a mont I thought I’d gone too far, crossed so invisible line in our fragile tutor-student relationship. Then her shoulders relaxed, and she looked back over her shoulder, her expression a mixture of surprise and sothing softer.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She tucked her hair behind her ear, a gesture I’d never seen her make before. It was oddly vulnerable.

"Good to know," she said quietly, and then the mont was gone. Her familiar scowl returned. "Don’t get any weird ideas though."

With that, she was gone, leaving alone in the library with my thoughts and the lingering scent of strawberry perfu.