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“Oh.” I chew on my bottom lip to stop from giggling. “He said he was a business major.”
“Yeah, he’s a real entrepreneur.”
“Fine then. Who should I go out with? Let’s hear some suggestions.”
He frowns. “Somebody who’s responsible. Somebody loyal, who will be there for you.”
“I’m looking for a fling, Rea. Not a dog.”
“Hey. Are you ready to go? Blake has an early class tomorrow,” Zoe says while staring a hole in Reagan’s head.
“Yeah, let me just go to the bathroom first.” I hop off the stool and my breasts brush against his chest. We both freeze. His body turns to stone and mine is ready to make a run for it lest he notice that my nipples are just as hard.
Without looking into his face, I dart away and make it as far as the dim, narrow hallway that leads to the ladies’ room.
A hand cinches around my wrist, stopping me. “What do you mean a fling?”
I turn and face him, mustering all the courage I possess. “I’m pretty sure you can find the definition of fling in Urban Dictionary.”
A guy coming out of the men’s room walks past us and Rea pins me up against the wall. “You’re looking for a fling?” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks genuinely hurt and unpleasantly surprised.
“Maybe.” I squirm.
He continues to stare at me like I’m the last clue in the Sunday crossword puzzle––unsolvable and annoying. Then I recall Zoe’s advice and plant a hand on his chest, push him back. “We have to go. The girls are waiting for us.”
Ten minutes later, standing by Zoe’s G-wagon, the lack of space becomes evident. Without waiting for direction, Reagan gets into the passenger side and pats his lap for me to get on. Whatever is going on in his head is well hidden behind a blank expression.
With my heart in my throat, I climb on. And as soon as I do, I’m immediately overwhelmed by every detail of him. Not a single one escapes me. His scent, his heat, his erection under my ass––the absolute sweet torture of it. There’s nowhere for me to put my arm so I’m forced to drape it around his neck.
“Is this okay?” I murmur.
“Fine.” He exhales and I feel the puffs of breath hit the sensitive skin on my throat. Then he arranges my legs and curls his hand around my thigh, leaving it there for the full ten-minute ride back to his house.
Being held by him, like this, feels so good, comfortable, familiar. He feels like he’s mine. Except he’s not. Zoe studies us out of the corner of her eye, stealing furtive glances, but doesn’t say a word. No one does. We ride the entire way in silence.
Chapter 16
Alice
“How’s your submission coming along?” Simon asks as Marshall’s class lets out.
“Really well. I told you I’m filming the men’s water polo team for a recruiting video, right?”
I’m filming today. Which means I’ll be spending time with Reagan. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that what Zoe said the other day didn’t affect me. It did. Mostly because I agree with her. I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes. The girls hanging out on the bleachers during practice. The ones on campus constantly vying for his attention. I can’t even blame them. I’m attracted to him too.
I’ve been gently ignoring his invitations to hang. Instead of switching stuff around to accommodate our time together, I’ve been declining. And even that’s been hard. Twice I caved when I got the disappointed pout. It’s an Alice slayer––that disappointed pout.
“Yeah. Great gig. How’d you land that?”
I don’t think I like the flash in his wily dark eyes. Nor the inflection in his voice. It feels like condescension and sounds like he’s insinuating something creepy. I really hope I’m reading too much into it.
The submission sample is coming along better than I had anticipated. It doesn’t hurt that the content is dynamic, the subject matter exciting. All that grace and raw beauty makes for an extremely powerful visual presentation.
We file out of the stadium seating and slowly move down the steps toward the exit.
“A friend helped me get it.” I go with the truth, which is nothing to be ashamed about. I know Simon has seen me with Reagan––getting dropped off and picked up at study group, eating lunch in the quad.
Simon runs his hand over his dark, curly hair, the action pulling his gray henley tight against his sinuous torso. My eyes run over his chest, his biceps, study the leather bracelets accenting his wrists, inspect the skinny black jeans. His lean thighs. It’s an automatic, unintentional reaction.
He really is hot. He’s got that tortured artist, too-cool-for-school look down pat. One that I am personally a big fan of.
For a half second Reagan’s voice whispers in my ear and it makes me wonder if he uses rock crystal deodorant (which doesn’t work) or writes lyrics in his spare time. Not my proudest moment. And the fact remains that Simon is definitely more my specie than Reagan. Even if he was interested in me––which he isn’t. I mean, Thoroughbred horses don’t mate with zebras. I need to stick with the other zebras.
