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“Are you headed to that career-thing for journalism students now?” Alessandra asks.
I press my phone into my ear to hear my stepsister’s soft voice above the din of campus life around me. “I’m walking there now. But the event isn’t for journalism students. It’s for music students. CeeCee Rafael is the only journalist on the panel.”
“Who are the other panelists?”
“Bigwigs in the music industry, I guess.”
Alessandra gasps, which isn’t a surprise, considering she’s obsessed with music. “Who are the bigwigs?”
“I don’t know. I saw CeeCee’s name and looked no further. Hold on.” I quickly locate the event flyer and text it to Alessandra. “I’m praying I’ll be the only journalism major with the brilliant idea to crash a music school event to get a job.”
“Pure genius.”
“Only if it works.”
I have reason to be skeptical, unfortunately, based on the countless résumés I’ve sent out over the past two months, to no avail. Thankfully, I’ve got my bartending gig to fall back on after graduation next week, and my boss, Bernie, has already said I can pick up additional shifts through the summer. It was a nice offer, and I appreciate it, but if I’m being honest, bartending with my degree in hand would be soul crushing. Plus, working at the bar throughout the summer would be a tough commute if I have to move back to my dad’s house in the Valley after graduation, which I’m planning to do.
“CeeCee won’t care about your grades once she meets you,” Alessandra assures me. “Just come right out and explain why your grades tanked last year. She’s known for being really active with cancer charities. Oh my God! Georgie! I’m looking at the event flyer, and it says—”
Bam.
After turning a corner, I walk smack into the broad chest of the one person I have no desire to see: UCLA football god, Bryce McKellar. I first met Bryce months ago, while waiting in line for coffee on-campus, and sparks instantly flew. He wasn’t just physically gorgeous, but charismatic and cocky, too. Best of all, he had a bit of a dark edge to him. A dick-vibe. Which, unfortunately, is my thing, I’m not proud to say. But since I stupidly thought my relationship with Shawn, the biggest dick of them all, was still intact, I took off after getting my coffee and didn’t stick around to flirt with Bryce.
Of course, once I found out Shawn was a lying, cheating dirt-bag dick, I kept an eye out for Mr. Football, hoping to bump into him again. But, unfortunately, I never did... until a few days ago... which was when, out of the blue, like manna from heaven, I spotted Bryce standing outside Royce Hall, looking even hotter than he had at the coffee place months before. And, to my thrill, when Bryce’s eyes landed on mine, they lit up, every bit as much as they had during our first encounter at the coffee place.
Immediately, Bryce jogged over to me that day on-campus, and we made flirty small talk. “I’ve actually been keeping an eye out for you,” Bryce told me, flashing me his dazzling smile. But since we were both in a rush—Bryce to get to class and me to get to the campus gym to teach a spin class—he quickly got my number and promised he’d text me “really soon.” Which he did. Ten minutes later, as a matter of fact. And then again that same afternoon. And, again, later that night. But each time Bryce texted, he’d caught me at a bad time, and I could never text with him for long. “Damn, you’re even busier than I am,” Bryce texted. To which I replied, “Hustle beats talent, when talent doesn’t hustle, baby.”
We agreed to touch base the next day with an actual phone call, so we could compare our busy schedules and find a time to “connect”... which I prayed was code for “find a good time to have sex.” Because, Lordy, I’m ready to have some good, fun sex with a smoking hot guy. No strings attached. I haven’t had sex since Shawn, and I think I’m suffering from physical withdrawals. But since the last thing I want is another relationship right now, especially with another athlete, “no strings fun” is the only thing on my menu.
Unfortunately, though, things didn’t go according to my big plans. When Bryce and I finally had that phone conversation the following day—for a full hour, in fact—it quickly became apparent we weren’t on the same page. Not at all. As it turned out, Mr. Football wasn’t the sexy, cocky, bad boy I’d been projecting onto him. In fact, much to my dismay, he made it clear during our call he’s been raised by his God-fearing momma to be a one-woman kind of guy. To always, always look for a girl who, get this, is “wife material.”
