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Her blue eyes settle on the fallen guy, and for the first time in two weeks and a half, she says a single word.
“Nice.”
I freeze. So does Max.
She walks in, picks up a book from her desk, and stuffs it into her messenger bag. With that, she turns around and closes the door behind her.
My heart pounds so hard the drumming leaves no energy for my lungs to take in air. I try to take a few deep breaths, but it doesn’t work. Flashes of heat and cold travel up and down my body. The contents of my stomach spin like a top. My head throbs in tune with my pulse.
Meanwhile, the boy sits up on the floor, running his hands through his hair and messing it further. Is it as soft as his skin?
Oh, crap. I’ve gone and lost it.
I need to get his scent off me. It’s addling my brain and not letting me think. I take his T-shirt off in one motion, ball it up, and throw it at the back of his head.
Slowly, Max plucks the garment off himself and turns back to me.
He chokes on his own saliva.
Weirdo.
Pounding his chest, he manages to say, “Boobs.”
“What?” Of course I have boobs. What is he talking about?
I look down. A shriek tears from my throat.
I’m in my bra. Tangled with the gray of his T-shirt is the white of my crop top. That obviously didn’t stay in its place.
“Please, lightning strike me!” I cry as I grab my pillow and hug it against my chest.
The door opens again. My roommate takes another look at the scene, marches up to her desk, and swaps out the book she grabbed earlier for a different one. She pauses at the door once more, her eyes swinging between me and our, uh, guest.
She says, “Have fun.”
I can only breathe again when she shuts the door firmly.
Max Cassiano explodes into laughter. It bends him over, having robbed him of the poise needed to sit straight. Damn it, he has a really pretty laugh. Deep, all the way from his belly, and as free as a kid’s. Too bad it’s at my expense.
There’s a dirty jersey on my bed, so I put it on while he rolls onto his side, laughing. I jump off the bed and grab my pillow, then pelt him with it.
“Stop. Freaking. Laughing!”
He’s too weak to fend off the attacks and just lets me pummel him. I pound his chest a couple more times, but the fight has left my body, taking my soul with it. I fall, sitting on the edge of the mat.
“I am socially dead, am I not?” My voice is thin and airy. “Everyone and their mom must have seen what a mess I was yesterday. And now my roommate thinks we did something.”
“Who cares what she thinks?” His body is still racked by chuckles as he separates our clothes. He returns the favor by pelting my face with my top, but I don’t even react. “What matters here is that you learn your lesson and never challenge me again.”
“You cheated.” I kick his thigh, but it only stubs my toe.
“Did I?” The question is muffled as he works his T-shirt over his head, his arms into the holes, and—goodbye, abs.
“Well, yeah. You kept dribbling beer all over yourself.”
“So did you, Tinker Bell.” One of his knees is up, and he places his elbow on top. There’s something sly in his eyes as he glances up at me. “In fact, I remember beer making your clothes stick to your?—”
My stomach roils with nausea, a.k.a. the consequences of my actions want to make themselves visible. “Anyway,” I say, swallowing with difficulty. “Thank you for all your help, but it’s time you go. I have a hangover to nurse, and you’re not helping.”
