Page 11 of Stay Toxic

In short, she still thinks I’m a bigoted dick, but she believes I’m faking it.

I tell myself it’s not my responsibility to change her perception of me. Who cares what someone I don’t really know thinks of me? But that’s the issue. I care. I’ve always put too much stock in other people’s thoughts.

“Right. I’m here to ask about the pool? In The Dome. How do I sign up to use it?” I’m quick to add, “I don’t want to try for the team, but I assume students can make use of it from time to time?”

She nods. “Absolutely, all our facilities are open to the entirety of the student body. There are hours reserved for the team, and others reserved for the swimming club, but outside of those, you can just show up any time.”

“There’s a teamanda club?”

She nods. “The team represents Rothford University during meets, but the club is just swimming lovers a little too fast and serious to want to share the pool with casual users. You can be part of the swimming club without being part of the college’s actual team.”

“I see. How do I apply to get into the club?”

I’m not a sporty person as a rule, but I know for a fact that if I don’t find a way to use up whatever calories I ingest, I’ll be in trouble with the Powers That Be. It’s just not worth it. Swimming is the least terrible of all the options I’ve tried. I hate running with a vengeance. My DD breasts make it a particular form of torture. And I’m just not the kind of person who enjoys team sports either. I know I’ll use the pool on a regular basis so I might as well sign up for it.

“Just use your online student portal,” the receptionist says. “There’s no fee for up to three Rothford clubs. That’s covered by your tuition. Should you sign up for more than three, there will be a nominal fee of ten dollars per extra club.”

Ten dollars. That seems rather ridiculous, given that the tuition to this place is a high five figures per year.

“Thanks for letting me know. While I’m here, can I check my Dear Stranger mail?” I ask, a little too eagerly.

It’s only Tuesday after all. No reply is due until Friday. But I sent my letter on Monday night; maybe my pen pal is almost as impatient as me.

“Sorry, I don’t see any letter for you.” She gives me a smile that’s anything but sorry, not hiding that she finds me a little pathetic.

I can feel a blush rising up my face. “No problem. Thanks for your help.”

I bring up my phone for something to do. I don’t have any messages, of course—Tanya’s in rehearsal or barre class at this time, and we already arranged to meet for lunch—but I open the student portal to sign up for the swimming club. No time like the present.

My peripheral vision alerts me I’ve reached the glass door at the front of the building when I unexpectedly find a large shadow obscuring my way. I drag my eyes away from the phone, and find my lips parting in surprise.

“You, me, a doorframe again. We gotta stop meeting like this, pervert. What are the neighbors going to think?” Sebastian attempts to pulverize whatever brain cells I currently possess by shooting me a smile that displays freaking dimples.

Men who look like him shouldn’t have dimples. It’s just not fair.

In the light of day, he’s considerably more beautiful than I remember, which is saying a lot. He already took my breath away on Sunday night, but now I catch the exact shade of his eyes. They’re a deep cerulean blue, in contrast with his tan and dark, wavy hair.

Was he that tall on Sunday? I’m not exactly a short girl at five-eight, but he towers over me by a whole head.

“Sebastian.” Is it me, or do I sound a little too breathy? “The neighbors will think considerably less if you stopped calling me pervert.”

“What shall I call you, then? Voyeur? Peeping Tom?”

“I was getting into my room.” I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. “It’s not my fault you were having a party in there.”

He bends his large, muscular frame forward, his grin widening, as his voice drops to a whisper. “But then you stayed,” he reminds me. “You watched.”

Something in his tone shoots straight to my core, and now I’m fidgeting nervously, heat gathering between my legs. Great. He’s literally making me wet in a large, public hallway.

“Ever heard of shock?” I shoot back, glad that at least my ability to talk in his presence is better than it was two days ago.

“I have, in fact,” he retorts. “Given the fact that I’m in my last year of med school.”

He’s going to be a doctor? Damn. If his clientele doesn’t have a problem when they walk into his office, they’ll have heart issues on the way out.

“I’ll tell you what, though. Shock doesn’t make you bite your lip and blush like a schoolgirl. That’s more of a symptom of desire, Hestia darling.”

“It’s Tia,” I retort. “And I wasn’t blushing, or biting my lip.”