I set down the notebook and give him my sternest look. It works whenever I need to be firm with a customer. “Are we going to study or not?”
He holds up his hands. “You’re right. I’ll save the date talk for the date.”
“Thank you.” His words sink in after half a second. “Not the date. The dinner.”
“No one just goes to dinner at Vesuvio’s. It’s a date place.”
“That’s where we’re going?” Thank goodness I packed my good heels. That restaurant is the fanciest a small college town like Moorbridge has to offer. I’m surprised he would spring for it, and fine, a little flattered. No one will think we’re faking it if he takes me there. It’s so clearly a date place that for a couple months last year, there was an Instagram account run by some gossip at McKee that accepted photo submissions of every couple spotted there.
“Like I would take my girlfriend to get bad pasta.”
“Fake girlfriend.”
He grins. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
I pick up the notebook and pointedly bury my nose in it. Even though his handwriting is messy, I can read it, and I do a little happy dance in my seat when I see he nailed the transitions. That was the sticking point with last assignment, and we didn’t have time to revise it because of his schedule, so it ended up being a C+ instead of the B it should have gotten.
When I finish, I jot down some revision feedback for him and get to work on my own assignment while he edits. He switches to the computer so he can start typing it out, and more than once, I have to remind myself that I can’t just stare at his long, precise fingers as they move on the keyboard. He’s surprisingly graceful, like with everything else—it must be the athlete in him. There’s an effortlessness that I can’t help but be drawn to.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I stare down at my own laptop. I knew it would be hard, getting close to him. I don’t operate logically where attraction is involved, which is why it’s best not to be involved at all. But he’s taking me to the fanciest place in town and I just know he’s going to want to kiss at the table in case any busybodies are watching.
I need to set better ground rules. A peck on the cheek, not a kiss like the one he gave me outside Red’s or at Galactic Games. This isn’t real, and it’s not like he’d actually want a relationship. Or that I want a relationship. I don’t want anything at all except escaping this semester—this whole year, really—unscathed and as ready as I’ll be for the future.
“Bex?”
“Hmm?” I glance up like I hadn’t just been staring at the way his fingers looked drumming on the table as he thought about what to type next.
“You’re thinking so loud, I can hear it from over here.”
Heat erupts on my cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Is something wrong?”
I look at him. Which doesn’t help at all. He’s looking at me with genuine concern in his blue eyes, and for one horrible second, I imagine myself leaning over the table, shoving our work aside, and kissing him.
He’s such a good kisser, it’s criminal.
“No.” I swallow, tucking my hair behind my ear. “How are the revisions going?”
“Good, I think.” He frowns, glancing back down at his screen. “Can you look at this citation? I think I did it right but I’m not sure.”
I find myself getting up and walking around the table so I can peer over his shoulder. He stiffens slightly when I get close. Too close, probably. In a weird way, I’m grateful for the reminder that he doesn’t truly want me. He might be cocky and a bit of a flirt, but that’s just how he’s playing the part of boyfriend. And even if he doesn’t do relationships, he definitely does hookups—every popular guy like him does. The way he kissed me is the way I’m sure he kisses every girl.
The citation looks good to me, so I tell him and turn to hightail it back to the safety of the other side of the table, but he stops me by gently cradling my hand. I swallow again, trying to ignore the stupid little flutter in my stomach.
This deal is getting more ridiculous by the second.
“I’m hungry,” he says, looking up at me. “Want to get ready?”
“What about the reservation?”
“I can get us in early.”
“Just like that? It’s so popular.”
He shrugs. “My family knows the owner, so yeah. Just like that.”
We could never work for a lot of reasons, but one of them is that James and his family are in a totally different stratosphere. My mom and I live in a shitty apartment with a dryer on the fritz. He probably had nannies and whatever he wanted growing up—his father is still one of the most famous athletes in the country, after all. During the football season, everyone can watch him on network television, because he provides game commentary.
I force a smile. “Sounds great. Can I change in your bathroom?”
15
JAMES
This girl is going to kill me.
I’ve hooked up with a couple of girls since Sara, but none of them made me feel half what I felt with her. I haven’t even slept with Bex—not that I will—and the way my body responds to her feels just like how it was with Sara. Like a fucking forest fire, threatening to burn me alive if I get too close.
Sara did burn me. I can’t let the same thing happen with Bex. But what the fuck am I supposed to do when just her hair brushing my shoulder makes my cock stiffen? It was a good thing she walked right back around the table, because I was close to pulling her into my lap. We’re going to dinner early so I don’t do something completely stupid like that while we’re alone. The restaurant will have witnesses. It’ll remind me that this is all an act.
What makes it worse is the fact I know she’s into me. I can see it in the way she looks at me, the way her breath hitches when I get too close. I know she doesn’t want to complicate things either, and I appreciate that, because if she was even just a bit more willing, I might throw away the playbook entirely. I want more of her touch. More of her soft noises. More of her, smelling like vanilla, skin like velvet.
Just like how it was with Sara.
That thought makes my jaw tighten as I finish buttoning my shirt. Bex has commandeered my bathroom, so I’m in the bedroom to get ready for dinner. For half a second after she shut the door, it felt domestic, like we’re truly a couple and this is something we do every week, but fortunately that feeling has passed.
Cufflinks next. I pick up the steel “C” set, a gift from my father, and pin them in place. Sara was an abyss. Every crying phone call, every dramatic fight, every desperate fuck dragged me in further, until it was missed assignments, missed classes, missed practices. How could I go to practice when my girlfriend was begging me not to, that if I went, she might do something crazy? I missed my life for her.
Bex is not Sara. I know that. But if I let myself get too close, I’ll do anything for her. No matter how ridiculous, outlandish, or damaging.
The bathroom door opens. Bex steps out slowly, her hand over her eyes. “Are you decent?”
I laugh. “You just made it.”
She looks me over. “Okay, I’m glad I brought this dress.”