Laughter bubbles in my throat. “You’re welcome?”
My legs feel unusually weak as I stand up. I’m still ridiculously hard, but the alarm clock on the night table reveals I have exactly eleven minutes to trek over to the library. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t care about being late, but this is the last study group before tomorrow’s marketing final, and I can’t afford to miss it. I’m already going into the exam with a D in the course, so failing the class is both a scary possibility and an outcome I refuse to let happen. The course is a prerequisite for my degree, and I have no desire to retake it next year.
“I need to go or I’ll be late for study group.” I meet her eyes. “Can I get your number?”
“Oh. Um…”
Her hesitation sparks a pang of anxiety. One of the rare times I ask for a girl’s number and she’s uncertain about doling it out? After I rocked her world?
Jesus. Is my game slipping?
I raise a brow, my voice taking on a note of challenge. “Unless you don’t want to give it to me?”
“No. I mean, yes, I do.” She bites her bottom lip. “Do you want it now?”
I force a laugh that I hope sounds flirty rather than nervous. “Now would be good.” I grab my phone from my back pocket and open a new contact page. “Hit me.”
She rattles off a series of numbers. So fast I have to make her stop and repeat it. I type in her name and press enter, then tuck the phone away. “Maybe we can hang out again sometime? We could watch the next Die Hard in the lineup…”
“Yeah, sure. That sounds great.”
Seriously? Another “yeah, sure”？
What the hell does it take to get an “I’D LOVE TO!” from this chick?
“Okay. Cool.” I gulp. “I guess I’ll call you, then.”
She doesn’t say anything, and in the ensuing silence, I’m overcome with a wave of discomfort.
Then I dip down and do the stupidest thing ever. Which says a lot, because I’ve dabbled in my share of stupidity over the years.
I kiss her forehead.
Not her lips. Not her cheek. Her fucking forehead.
Real smooth, bro.
She looks up at me in amusement, but I don’t give her the chance to comment on my dumbass move.
“I’ll call you,” I mumble.
And for the second time in three days, I leave Grace’s dorm feeling like a jackass.
*
Grace
My psychology lecture is three hours long, and I can honestly say I didn’t hear a word the professor said. Not one single word.
For one hundred and eighty minutes, all I did was run through every incredible second of every incredible thing Logan did to me this morning.
Can you nominate anyone for sainthood, or are there eligibility requirements?
Can you nominate someone’s tongue for sainthood? Or maybe there’s an orgasm-giving award that the Department of Sexuality hands out?
If so, Logan deserves to win it.
I’m still flummoxed that he showed up at my door and pretty much demanded I let him give me an orgasm. I guess his ego is as sensitive as that Cosmo article said it would be, but you know what? I found it kind of charming. And oddly satisfying that someone as confident as John Logan was actually doubting his sexual prowess.
It’s funny. Less than a week ago I was bemoaning the lack of excitement in my life, and now look at me—sexy hockey players showing up at my door to excite the hell out of me.
Fuck it. I’m giving myself the award.
Logan continues to dominate my thoughts as I meet Ramona and the girls for lunch, joining them at our usual table against the back wall of the cavernous dining hall.
Carver Hall is my favorite place on campus. Whoever constructed it must not have paid attention to the rest of the buildings on campus, though, because Carver has a rustic chalet-style feel to it. High ceilings, wood paneled walls, and ornate light fixtures that cast a soft yellow glow over the room instead of the fluorescent lighting you find in the other meal halls. And it’s only two minutes from my dorm, which means I get to bask in its splendor on a daily basis.
I set my tray on the table and pop open the tab of my root beer as I sit in an empty chair. “Hey,” I greet everyone. “What are we talking about?”
Ramona, Jess, and Maya instantly clam up, their expressions taking on secretive gleams that tell me precisely what they were talking about.
Me.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on?”
Ramona glances over sheepishly. “Okay, so don’t be mad…but I told them about Logan.”