Chapter 94 SUMMER TUTOR

Chapter 94 SUMMER TUTOR
SUMMER TUTOR

CHLOE JAMES (FL) 18YRS
ELIAS THORNE (ML) - 39YRS
CHLOE’S POV

I sit at the kitchen island, staring at my laptop screen like it’s written in another language. College entrance essays. Three of them, all due in less than a month, and every word I type feels wrong. I delete another sentence, groan, and rest my forehead on the cool granite countertop.

That’s when I hear the gravel crunch outside—the familiar sound of Elias’s old Jeep pulling into the guest house driveway. My stomach does that stupid flip it’s been doing all week.

Elias Thorne. My older brother’s best friend from college. Thirty-nine, published author, tall and lean with dark wavy hair that’s always a little messy, sharp hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a quiet intensity that makes people listen when he speaks. He’s been staying in our guest house for the summer to finish his third novel, away from the city distractions. My parents offered the place without hesitation—“anything for Alex’s friend.”

When Mom found out I was struggling with my essays, she suggested Elias tutor me. “He’s a writer, Chloe. He literally teaches this stuff.” I protested—loudly—but secretly, my heart raced at the idea.

He knocks once on the sliding glass door before stepping inside, a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He’s in a faded black t-shirt and jeans, barefoot like he’s already at home here. The late-afternoon sun catches the stubble along his jaw.

“Hey, kid,” he says, his voice warm but teasing. He’s called me “kid” since I was twelve, even though I’m eighteen now and definitely not a kid anymore.

I roll my eyes, sitting up straighter. “I’m not a kid, Elias. And I’m also dying here.”

He chuckles, low and easy, pulling out the stool beside me. He smells like coffee and the outdoors—probably from writing on the guest house porch all morning. “Show me what you’ve got.”

I turn the laptop toward him. He leans in, scanning the screen, one arm resting on the counter. His forearm brushes mine accidentally, and I feel the contact like a spark. He doesn’t move away immediately.

“It’s not terrible,” he says after a minute. “But it’s safe. Colleges want to feel you, Chloe. Not just read about you.”

I bite my lip. “I don’t know how to do that without sounding dramatic.”

He turns to face me fully, elbow on the island. “Then let’s start small. Tell me something true. Something you don’t put on applications.”

I hesitate. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Mom and Dad are out for dinner, Alex is still at his internship in the city. It’s just us.

“I’m scared I won’t get in anywhere good,” I admit quietly. “And that everyone will see I’m not as smart as they think.”

His expression softens. “That’s a start. Fear is honest.”

He scoots closer, our knees almost touching. “Now dig deeper. Why does that scare you?”

I swallow. “Because if I fail, it means I’m ordinary. And I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be.”

He studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. “You’re not ordinary, Chloe.”

The way he says it—low, certain—makes heat bloom in my chest. I look away, tucking hair behind my ear.

He clears his throat, shifting back an inch. “Let’s try an exercise. Close your eyes.”

I raise an eyebrow but obey.

“Picture the moment you felt most alive. Not happy—alive. Heart racing, every sense sharp.”

I think for a second. The memory comes instantly: last summer, sneaking out to the lake with friends, diving off the dock at midnight, the cold water shocking my skin, laughter echoing under the stars.

I describe it softly—the chill, the freedom, the way the moon lit everything silver.

When I open my eyes, he’s watching me intently, his lips parted slightly.

“That,” he says. “Write like that.”

His voice is rougher than before. The air between us feels thicker.

I turn back to the laptop, my fingers hovering over the keys. He stays close, reading over my shoulder as I type. Every time I pause, his breath brushes my neck.

After twenty minutes, I have a paragraph I don’t hate.

He reads it silently, then nods. “Better. Much better.”

I smile, turning to him. Our faces are closer than I realized. “Thanks.”

His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Then he stands abruptly, putting distance between us.

“I should get back to my own writing,” he says, grabbing his bag. “Same time tomorrow?”

I nod, trying to hide my disappointment. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He pauses at the door, looking back. “You’re doing good, Chloe. Really.”

Then he’s gone.

I sit there for a long minute, heart pounding, before saving the document.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.