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“The fuck you will,” I say, dashing to my car and peeling out of the empty lot.
I see his lights creeping up behind me on the road, but he doesn’t dare pass me. Although we go the speed limit, he jokingly swerves his car back and forth, trying to find a way to pass me on the desolate suburban roads.
We pull up at the house at the same time and run through the garage to the couch.
“Beat you,” I say, sitting my ass down first on the couch. He sits down beside me, slightly out of breath as he tosses the food on the table in front of us. I hand him his drink, which he slurps down.
“Ready to eat gourmet cuisine, milady?” he says, tearing open the paper on a hot taquito and shoving it into his mouth. I cringe at first, but damn, if it doesn’t smell amazing.
I open the paper bag, watching as ten taquitos and five hot dogs spill out onto the table. “Hungry?” I joke, grabbing a hot dog and packet of ketchup.
“I don’t even want to think how many calories I burned during the game. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“What was for lunch?” I ask, engulfing the hot dog.
“Protein shake, two burritos, and a salad.”
I nod my head, finishing my food, then going for another one. He tugs on my jersey again as he reaches for another taquito.
“Not going to lie, you look fucking hot in this.”
I feel my cheeks grow red with the compliment. How could he be thinking about that right now as I’m stuffing my tired face? I suddenly feel the urge to fix my hair and wipe any residual mascara under my eyes.
“Anyway, it’s late, and I have a midterm coming up tomorrow. I should be going to bed.”
“You have a midterm tomorrow? Why so late?” I ask as he sits up, shoving extra taquitos under his arm.
He raises a dark eyebrow and caresses my chin with his free hand, angling my face up towards him. “Let’s just say my life got turned around recently, and my classes didn’t follow suit with my own personal problems.”
“I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry again. I’m sick of it,” he says, rubbing his thumb on my jawline before pulling it back.
Why do I want to say sorry for saying sorry? Fuck. I give him a thumbs up and a goodnight, watching as he lugs his bag, food, and drink up to his room with him for the rest of the evening.
36
TAYLOR CROMWELL
It’s noon by the time I work up the courage to meander down the hall to Elijah’s door, wearing a pair of comfortable shorts and an oversized shirt to make it look like I’m not trying too hard. But my face is full of that effortless-style makeup that any man would have a hard time noticing. My knuckles tap at the door, and it swings open.
Elijah wears black joggers and a tight black shirt. He kind of looks like a sexy assassin with the way his tattoos crawl out of his shirt and down his muscular arms. His hair’s messy as if he just got out of bed, and he has a short beard growing, making him look older than twenty-one.
“Hey,” he says, his voice gruff.
“Hey, how’d the midterm go?” I ask, taking a step back, realizing I could have just sent a fucking text message.
He grabs my arm, using it to drag me into his dark room. I immediately get goosebumps from how cold his room is. He plops me down on his desk chair and turns on his monitor, showing me his midterm score. 80/100. Not terrible.
I look up at him where he hovers over the chair with a proud smirk.
“Nice, uh, nice work!” I say.
He spins me around and sits on his bed, so we’re sitting face-to-face. “I didn’t even cheat.”
“Quite impressive,” I say, leaning back into the chair. He leans forward to recover the distance lost between our bodies.
“Liar,” he says, snatching my hand in his. “You would’ve gotten a perfect score. But it’s good for me.”
