“I don’t think you’re an asshole,” I mumble, but I don’t deny that I’m leery of guys with money.
He studies me for a moment. “Let me ask you this. Dean’s trust fund earns more in interest in one quarter than what my entire inheritance is worth. Did his dick feel different when you were with him?”
I cringe for a moment, because my drunken hookup with Dean Di Laurentis isn’t something I like to dwell on. At the same time, the thought of Dean’s money making his dick feel different is so silly, I can’t stop a snort from coming out. “I don’t remember. I was wasted and so was he.”
“Did you feel like a million bucks the next day?”
“God, no.”
“So money doesn’t matter once you get down to it. It doesn’t matter how thin or thick anyone’s wallet is. We all hurt. We all love. We’re the same. And your past, who you live with, where you came from, it doesn’t have to matter. You’re creating your own future, and I want to see where the road forward takes you.” Tucker slides a finger under the strap of my messenger bag. “We should get some food in you. How about I carry this while I walk you to the dining hall?”
Apparently philosophy class is over, which I’m happy about because I’m not prepared to respond to anything he just said.
Instead, I let him take the bag. We walk in silence for a few steps before I’m compelled to ask, “Does nothing shake you?”
He nods solemnly as he hitches the bag higher onto his shoulder. Anyone else would look slightly ridiculous with a backpack strapped to his back and a messenger bag hanging off his shoulder, but somehow, probably because of his massive chest and height, he pulls it off.
“Yeah, all kinds of things, but I try not to let them get me down. It’s a waste of energy.”
“Just name one,” I beg. “One embarrassing thing. One flaw. One thing that bothers you.”
“You not calling me back bothers me.”
“That’s self-effacing, not embarrassing.”
“You’ve turned me down. Twice,” he reminds me. “How is admitting that it bothers me self-effacing?”
“Because we had good sex, so you know I’d sleep with you again under different circumstances,” I argue.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I acknowledge that this conversation is reaching ludicrous levels. I’m arguing with a guy I slept with about how I can’t sleep with him again because he’s too good in bed. My life is officially a farce.
“What’s a normal circumstance for you?” he asks curiously, matching his long stride with my shorter one.
“I don’t know. I can’t see that far ahead.”
He pulls to a stop right before the entrance of Carver Hall. “Bullshit.”
“What?”
“Bullshit. You know exactly where you want to be in probably fifty years, not just the next five.”
My cheeks heat up, because he’s right.
“Listen. Here’s how it is.” Tucker reaches out and grabs a stray lock of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers before tucking it behind my ear. “I enjoyed sleeping with you. I enjoyed hearing those sexy little moans you made when I sucked on your clit, and I enjoyed feeling you shake like a leaf when you came apart underneath me.” His dirty words are in stark contrast to his matter-of-fact tone and the steady way he stares into my eyes. “But I didn’t like the way your dad—”
“Stepdad,” I correct.
“—Stepdad treated you. I hated it, actually. I hate that you live with that and I’m glad you’re making your way out of it, because that’s what you’re doing, right? You’re killing yourself to get perfect grades, top scores, admission to the best schools, all so you can escape.”
His thumb drags along the apple of my cheek. “I don’t want to be a distraction, but I do want you. I think there’s something here, but I’m a patient guy and I’ll take what you have right now. I’m not here to add pressure on you or make things harder. I want to ease your load.”
My heart thumps loudly in the space between us, the space that he closes with one step.
“My dad died when I was three,” he says gruffly. “It was a car accident. I have almost no memory of him. I do remember waking up hearing my mom cry at night, though. I remember seeing her face when she couldn’t get me a new pair of skates or a new video game. I remember how she got angry with me when I was roughhousing in the living room once and I put a lamp through the television. She reamed me out good for that.” His expression is rueful rather than angry. “She worked two jobs to make sure I could play hockey, and when I graduate this spring I’m going to take her away from all that hard work. But I also know I want someone to share my life with. My mom’s lonely. I don’t want that for me. And I don’t want that for you either.”