“The first two years, I was online only,” I mutter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?—”
“Where’d you get the hoodie?”
“Huh?”
“The hoodie.” His gaze trails down my body, making my heart pound through the worn fabric.
This is why I don’t like him. Why I don’t like being around him. Why I’d prefer to keep our interactions to a minimum or better yet, absolute zero. If only I was so lucky. Here he is, making it impossible.
“Not sure why my clothes are any of your business. Or are you hoping to steal those from me, too?” I challenge.
“Says the thief,” he mutters.
I scoff. “Wow.”
“Answer the question,” he pushes. “Where’d you get the hoodie?”
Refusing to admit the truth, that I could barely afford it at Goodwill, let alone the full-priced version I’m sure they carry at the campus store, I lie. “I’ve had it forever. Why?”
He steals my space, crowding me even more in the middle of the quad while people shuffle around us. It’s as if the sexy fighter intimidating women is simply par for the course around here. Then again, maybe it is. He’s Jagger Harden. The man’s used to getting away with murder. A lack of respect for a person’s bubble with a side of intimidation is probably nothing but a blip on their radar.
So why the hell am I still standing here?
His fingers find the tattered hem blanketing my torso. “You’ve had this forever, huh?”
I force myself to nod while ignoring the way my body is oh so aware of his every move. Seriously. He’s so close, I swear I can feel the gentle brush through the fabric, yet I can’t convince my hand to swat him away.
“Have you always been a liar, or…?”
My jaw drops at the accusation. “Excuse me?”
“It’s mine,” he growls, though I don’t know if he’s annoyed or just passionate.
Okay, that does it. Snapping out of my funk, I look down at the thrifted sweatshirt. “What?”
“I said it’s mine.”
“Must be a lookalike,” I insist. Because, seriously? It’s not possible. The odds alone are…ridiculous. Right?Right?
Please tell me I didn’t buy this man’s hoodie.
“A lookalike, huh?” Jagger threads his fingers through a small hole just above the thick band along the bottom, his fingertip skating against my bare skin hidden beneath. My gut squeezes in response, no matter how loud my logic yells at me. “Where’d this come from?”
Focus, Violet!
“What? The hole?”
His chin dips.
Shit. I have no idea where the hole came from, but I do know there’s no backing down now. Not when he already thinks I’m a thief and a liar. I clear my throat, trying to focus on our conversation despite the way his fingertip brushes against my bare skin. “Regular, uh, regular wear and tear.”
“Got caught on some barbed wire when I was jumping a fence,” he reveals.
Damn, that does make more sense. Wish I’d thought of it, but it’s too late to change my answer. “Coincidence,” I toss back at him, doubling down despite the ridiculousness of it.
His mouth lifts, but I can’t tell if it’s a snarl or a smile. Yeah, I have a feeling I’m walking on thin ice.
“When did you steal it?” he demands.
