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Apparently, it’s impossible.
I run into him a mere eighteen hours later. Somehow, I thought I’d get a break. That there’d be some sort of guardian angel hovering above me who’d look out for me.
Joke’s on me.
If I have a guardian angel, they’re clearly blind.
It’s early Monday evening, and I’m in the library, pretending to work. Pretending. I’m reading the same sentence way too many times to even try and fool myself into thinking I’m being productive in any way, shape, or form.
And my fucked-up brain doesn’t stop there. A soundtrack plays in my head in a loop. Ryker, panting and turned on. The soft sounds of turning pages become sighs of pleasure.
I don’t get it. I don’t get my own obsession.
Why him?
Why the fuck him?
“Hey.”
It takes me a moment to figure out I haven’t imagined the voice. I snap my head up so suddenly a hot flash goes through the back of my neck.
“Shit,” I say, glaring at Ryker while I massage my neck.
He doesn’t look sorry. He doesn’t even look bothered by the borderline hostility. He just pulls out the chair next to me and sits down.
For the first five minutes or so I keep my eyes fixed on the textbook.
After that, I give up the pretense of working, slam the book shut, and turn to face Ryker.
“Yes?” I say.
He reaches out and takes the book. “Organic Chemistry as a Second Language.”
“Thank you. But I know how to read.” I yank the book back and randomly open it to a definitely-not-right page.
“You sure?” He stretches out his long legs, crossing one over the other. “Because I was watching you for a while, and you didn’t turn the page once.”
I stare at him. “Are you spying on me?”
He shrugs and slides his thumb along the edge of the desk. “I didn’t want to interrupt if you were in the zone, so I debated for a bit whether I should come over.”
“And landed on, ‘Yes, I should definitely fuck up Lake’s studying.’ Good choice.”
“You weren’t studying.”
Somebody’s all confident and calm now that he has his pants on and his dick tucked away.
Do not think about Ryker’s dick!
Oh, yeah. Well, now I’m definitely not thinking about his dick at all, because telling yourself not to think about something is historically proven to work wonders. Seeing the outline of his muscles through the shirt he’s wearing doesn’t really help with my concentration issues.
I gesture at the mess of books and notes covering my desk. “Do you think I’m keeping those around just as decorations?”
“Pretty much.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. I don’t really appreciate being called out like this. I’m still in the middle of my glaring when there’s a loud bang from somewhere behind us.
We both turn to look.
