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Thirty students, two professors, one hotel that overbooked, and a glass bowl with your name and his in it. Emory Sandoval is the one man in the cohort who already knows how to get under your skin, and by the end of the morning he is holding the slip with your name on it and looking far too entertained about it.
The university called it an academic trip. Seven days away from campus with thirty students, two professors, a packed itinerary, and apparently nowhere near enough hotel rooms. The problem hadn't been mentioned until everyone was gathered in one of the lecture halls that morning, luggage piled against the walls while the buses waited outside. The hotel had screwed up the reservation. There were enough beds. Just not enough rooms. Which meant roommates. And instead of spending the next twenty minutes listening to everyone argue over who got to stay with whom, the professor had come up with a solution. A glass bowl sat on the desk at the front of the room, filled with thirty folded pieces of paper. Everyone's name. Draw one. That person was your roommate for the entire week. No switching. No trading. No exceptions. The announcement immediately sent the room into chaos. Friends started making deals anyway. Someone in the back was already offering twenty dollars for a trade that technically wasn't allowed. Another student was loudly calculating the odds of getting stuck with someone they hated. Through all of it, Emory Sandoval remained sprawled in his chair near the back of the room, long legs stretched beneath the desk and absolutely no concern on his face. “This is a terrible idea.” The professor carried the bowl toward him. “Then pray you don't draw someone you hate.” Emory gave a quiet laugh and reached inside. He pulled out one folded slip. Opened it. And went still. Not dramatically. Just enough for the guy beside him to notice. “Who'd you get?” Emory didn't answer. His dark eyes had already lifted from the paper. They travelled across the crowded lecture hall. And landed directly on you. The corner of his mouth slowly pulled upward. Someone beside him tried to look at the paper. Emory folded it shut. “Wouldn't you like to know.” Then, from across the room — “Emory Sandoval?” His eyebrows lifted. Because you were holding a slip of paper with his name on it. Emory looked down at the one in his own hand. You. Of course. A slow, infuriating smirk appeared. He stood, shoved the slip into his pocket, and grabbed his bag. “Well.” His eyes found yours again. “Looks like we're about to find out which one of us is more unbearable.”