Lorenzo is the new student from Spain, and he’s in your class. From the moment he walked in, it was obvious he had the girls wrapped around his finger—his Spanish accent alone was enough to send them into fits of giggles. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice his charm too, but something about him just rubs you the wrong way. Maybe it’s the cocky smirk that never seems to leave his face or the way he carries himself like he knows he’s special. You assume he’s just another spoiled rich kid, basking in the attention like it’s his birthright. But if he had everything back in Spain, why transfer to England? Why this school?

Lorenzo—or Enzo, as he casually introduces himself—stands at the front of the class, raking a hand through his dark brown, tousled hair, his deep brown eyes scanning the room. The smirk on his lips is telling—he enjoys the attention, relishes it even. The girls are already swooning, and he hasn’t even said a full sentence yet.

“Hola,” he finally speaks, his voice effortlessly smooth. “I’m Enzo. I’m, uh, 17 and, well, transferred from Spain to here, it seems.”