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Even though there are hundreds of people in this crowd, Elias O’Shea’s eyes land directly on me. His gaze locks with mine.
Holy shit.
My heart races.
He and his friends are walking over to us.
“It’s Elias O’Shea,” some girl gasps.
Yes, it is.
And he’s far more gorgeous than any human being has any right to be. Tall and athletic, with that thick, slightly unruly dark hair and those denim-blue eyes, he’s magnetic. Every single girl is watching the four of them and especially him. His cool confidence fits him like a glove. He doesn’t have to work at it. He’s not cocky about it. There’s something almost regal about him.
Girls are literally swooning as the four of them walk past.
A strange mix of curiosity and caution tugs at my emotions.
The saner side of my subconscious tries to talk sense into me. You can’t have him—even if there was the remotest chance of him wanting that to happen. He’s a senior and a football god. The entire country knows who he is. Legions of women are obsessed with him. He’s also at the very top of the list of your no-go zone, as we’ve already discussed a number of times. You know this.
But the little devil on my other shoulder, who for some reason I picture as a sassy little mermaid who wants to play, still wet from her swim in the crystal clear turquoise water of the Caribbean (which I’ve never seen but she has) and holding her tiny pink pitchfork, is reacting to Elias O’Shea like he’s already mine. Would you look at that guy? He’s freaking perfect. Every urge you own is simmering, waiting to be unleashed. By him. Isn’t that what you came to college to do? To break free? To grab everything life has to offer with both hands? Grab him. He’ll feel better than anything ever has.
I shut her down, but I’m riveted.
I didn’t know it was possible for anyone to be so beautifully…in proportion. He’s the ideal combination of athletic, tall, lean and buff. Just completely hard-bodied and sculpted. He’s still wearing his Wildcats t-shirt and jeans, now with a leather bomber jacket that’s open. He could be a cover model for both GQ and Sports Illustrated. Then again, maybe he already is.
Time seems to stand still as Elias and his friends approach us. The connection, as his eyes stay locked on mine, is extreme. I bite my lip, torn between wanting to run and wanting to allow myself to feel the outrageous pull of him.
“I told you not to stalk us,” Isla scolds them.
“Good luck with that, Isla,” West tells her, his voice dripping with mischief. “My house is obsessed with you people.”
You people? What people? I have no idea what he means. Why would they be?
These boys—okay, men, like seriously—have the presence of gladiators. Which I guess in some ways they are. They’re emitting clouds of hundred-proof testosterone that’s roughly equivalent to crack for every female with a heartbeat.
The crowd circles them from a distance. Some of the bolder girls move closer.
“Westie-e-e,” a blond girl teeters up to West in her full-length dress and sky-high heels—which can’t be easy on the soft grass—and practically wraps herself around him. “Why didn’t you call me back last week? I gave you my number but I didn’t have yours. You promised you’d call me!”
Anyone else might find this awkward. She’s basically announcing to everyone that he blew her off. But West’s blue eyes twinkle with humor and also a chivalry that makes a few girls sigh as he slings his arm around her. “That’s because I lost it. Come dance with me.” He pulls her toward the dance area and she follows along, unsteady but clearly ecstatic.
“Do you remember my name?” I hear her ask him as he leads her away.
I can’t really blame West or the others for making the most of being the most desirable men on campus. They’re young, they’re hot and they’re superstars. Of course they’re going to live life to the fullest and jump into bed with whoever they want. They can literally take their pick.
I wonder if Elias does.
Of course he does. Look at him.
Gabriel’s cool about his stardom. He’s the Tristan to Elias’s King Arthur, a knight with a MENSA membership, maybe. The four of them are handsome in different ways. Gabriel’s the mysterious dark-horse with a perceptive edge. West is the fun-loving and sunny Gawain (I saw that movie a while ago, the version with Clive Owen and I was sort of obsessed by how those hot, tough-guy men cared so much about each other). West is the golden retriever who always sees the lighter side of life and keeps his friends from taking things too seriously. Jake’s the Galahad, loyal and steady and all-American. You get the feeling he would take a bullet for any one of his friends.
And Elias is the leader. The alpha. The absolute A-list of everything biology has to offer.
Would you stop? You have no business even going near anything biological.
Still burning under Elias’s gaze, I take a sip of the drink Isla gave me. It’s some kind of punch that tastes like it might be half lemonade and half tequila. Yikes. She wasn’t kidding when she said she’s ready to let loose.
Jake reaches for the cup Isla’s holding but she twirls away from him and tips back the rest of it, drinking all of it. Not that there was much of it left.
