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“Mm-hm.” I turned a page. My knees were trying to shake. I was trying to stop them. I froze when the rim of the water bottle touched my lips.
“Drink some water, Christina.”
Accepting the bottle, I took a long gulp. “Where’s yours? Don’t make me drink alone.”
He grinned. “You’re the one who’ll need it. I don’t soak the sheets and cry into the pillow.”
“What is your deal?” I flared.
“I’m being honest. You’re back; you obviously want more.”
I took another drink and set the water bottle on the shelf. Shutting his book, I stuffed it between the other volumes.
“I don’t know how you major in this shit. I fell asleep after half a page.”
Such a lie. My body was electrified, my nerves humming, my blood loaded with stimulants. Patrick, in front of me, was an unmoving mountain.
His eyebrows lifted. “I never told you my major.”
“Really? I thought I heard you moan it in the middle of the night. ‘Oh, baby,Econ.’You talk in your sleep, has anyone told you that? C’mon, I see you trying not to laugh. You think I’m funny.”
His brows stayed raised, waiting for an explanation more acceptable thanI stalked you online.
I gestured at his full shelves. “No one has this many Econ books unless they’re majoring in it. Plus, you’re obsessed with money.” I smiled brightly. “Now ask me my major.”
Patrick’s eyes were on my legs. Like Dexter’s had been in Student Senate. As before, they were crossed, my skirt hitting at mid-thigh. This time, they were jiggling.
“What’s going on with you?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said automatically.
“You can’t stand still.”
“I’m fine.” I flushed hot under his scrutiny.
“Are you on something?”
“No,” I lied.
A hand dropped on my shoulder. I stilled under the weight. Jesus, his palm burned through my blouse. He eased me against the wall.
“What’s your major, Christina?” he asked softly.
I tried to breathe. “Marketing.”
He inclined his head. “You like money too.”
“It’s not aboutmoney.It’s about figuring out what people want and giving it to them.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
I winced. “It’s my major, not my life.”
“Mm-hm.” His thumb slipped into my blouse and stroked my collarbone. I swallowed and gestured around the room to his posters: the Colosseum, a stone fountain with a worn Latin inscription, a cobbled alleyway.
“So, you did your junior year in Rome? James told me,” I added hastily.
“Yep.” In the blink of an eye, his face opened up and shut down.
