“Seriously, Han, it’s weird. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally on board with you crushing on someone. It’s been, what, a year since you and Devon broke up? But I just don’t understand how you, of all people, are into a jock.”
Discomfort climbs up my spine. “Justin is…he’s not like the rest of them. He’s different.”
“Says the girl who’s never spoken a single word to him.”
“He’s different,” I insist. “He’s quiet and serious and from what I’ve seen, he doesn’t bang anything in a skirt the way his teammates do. Oh, and he’s smart—I saw him reading Hemingway in the quad last week.”
“It was probably a required reading.”
“It wasn’t.”
She narrows her eyes. “How do you know that?”
I feel the blush rising in my cheeks. “Some girl asked him about it in class the other day, and he told her Hemingway is his favorite author.”
“Oh my God. You’re eavesdropping on his conversations now? You’re such a creeper.” Allie heaves out a sigh. “Okay, that’s it. Wednesday night you’re exchanging actual dialogue with the guy.”
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. “If the opportunity arises…”
“I’ll make it arise. Seriously. We’re not leaving that frat house until you talk to Justin. I don’t care if it’s just you saying hey, how are ya. You’re talking to him.” She jabs her finger in the air. “Capiche?”
I snicker.
“Capiche?” she repeats in a strict tone.
After a beat, I release a defeated breath. “Capiche.”
“Good. Now hurry up and take a shower so we can watch a couple episodes of Mad Men before bed.”
“One episode. I’m too exhausted for any more than that.” I grin at her. “Capiche?”
“Capiche,” she grumbles before waltzing out of my room.
I chuckle to myself as I gather the rest of my shower supplies, but I’m sidetracked yet again—I’ve barely taken two steps to the door when a cat meows in my purse. The high-pitched wail is the ringtone I chose for text messages because it’s the only one annoying enough to get my attention.
I set my toiletry case on the dresser, rifle through my bag until I locate my cell phone, then scan the message on the screen.
Hey, it’s Garrett. Wanted to hammer out the deets re: tutoring sched.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I don’t know whether to laugh or groan. The guy’s tenacious, I’ll give him that. Sighing, I quickly shoot back a text, short and not at all sweet.
Me: How’d u get this number?
Him: Study grp signup sheet.
Crap. I’d signed up for the group at the start of the semester, but that was before Cass decided we had to rehearse on Mondays and Wednesdays at the exact time the study group meets up.
Another message pops up before I can respond, and whoever said it isn’t possible to detect a person’s tone via text was totally wrong. Because Garrett’s tone is full on irritable.
Him: If u just showed up to study grp, I wouldn’t have to text u.
Me: U don’t have to text me at all. Actually, I’d prefer if u didn’t.
Him: What’ll it take to get u to say yes?
Me: Absolutely nothing.
Him: Great. So you’ll do it for free.
The groan I’ve been holding slips out.
Me: Not happening.
Him: How bout tmrw night? I’m free at eight.
Me: Can’t. I have the Spanish Flu. Highly contagious. I just saved your life, dude.
Him: Aw, I appreciate the concern. But I’m immune to pandemics that wiped out 40-mil ppl from 1918 to 1919.
Me: How is it u know so much about pandemics?
Him: I’m a history major, baby. I know tons of useless facts.
Ugh, again with the baby thing? All righty. Clearly it’s time to put an end to this before he gets his flirt on.
Me: Well, nice chatting with u. Good luck on the makeup exam.
When several seconds tick by and Garrett doesn’t respond, I give myself a mental pat on the back for successfully getting rid of him.
I’m about to walk out the door when a picture message meows out of my phone. Against my better judgment, I click to download it, and a moment later, a bare chest fills my screen. Yep. I’m talking smooth tanned skin, sculpted pecs, and the tightest six-pack I’ve ever seen.
I can’t help but snort out loud.
Me: FFS. Did u just send me a pic of your chest?!
Him: Yup. Did it work?
Me: In icking me out? Yes. Success!
Him: In changing your mind. I’m trying to butter u up here.
Me: Ew. Go butter up someone else. PS—I’m posting that pic on my-bri.
I’m referring, of course, to MyBriar, our school’s equivalent of Facebook, which ninety-five percent of the student body is on.
Him: Go for it. Lots of chicks will be happy to have it in their spank banks.
Me: Lose this number, dude. I mean it.
I don’t wait for a response. I just toss my phone on the bed and go take a shower.