“So . . . you’re just friends?”
“We’re just none of your business.”
Brookes lifts his hands in surrender. “Got it. I wasn’t saying anything about you, man. You’re a good guy. You two just live at different speeds, and I don’t want to see her get hurt trying to keep up with you. And if something like that did happen, I sure don’t want to see what this house will be like with Dylan and Silas pissed at you.”
“When are you going to start dating someone so I can ask you a bunch of annoying, intrusive questions?”
He only smirks in response.
It drives me fucking nuts that he’s always in the middle of everyone else’s business, but we know so little about him. But the dude’s super private, and I don’t have a weird intuitive superpower to just know what people are feeling. That would make my life a hell of a lot easier.
Twenty minutes later, I decide that Brookes is right. I am an asshole.
Because even though I should stay away from Nell . . . I can’t.
Which is why I’m standing on her porch now, coffee in hand, knocking on her door at ten thirty on a Sunday morning. Thank God Dylan is an early riser. She swung by the house about an hour ago to pick Silas up for some charity something or other. If I hadn’t already heard Silas say he was in love with that girl, I would have known it for sure this morning. Standing in the kitchen, he looked exhausted and ready to murder anything that moved. But when Dylan let herself in, the big guy practically melted at her feet.
I raise my fist to knock on Nell’s door again, but hesitate.
I watched Dylan wrap Silas around her finger this morning, and I’m allowing practically the same thing to happen to me, except I’m not in a relationship. I’m not in love. I’m not looking for a future with Nell.
So why can’t I just walk away like Brookes wants me to? Why can’t I chalk it up to a hot make-out session that’s never going to go any further, and cut my losses? Why can’t I do that?
The door opens, and my stomach dips at the sight of Nell’s bleary eyes and rumpled hair. She squints at me, and then winces at the sunlight, instinctively taking a step back into the house.
I step in after her without waiting for an invitation, and shut the door firmly behind me.
“I brought coffee,” I say, lifting the tray up into her line of sight.
“Shhh!” She holds one hand up to me and the other to her forehead.
“I think,” she says, her voice raspy, “there’s a herd of elephants in my head.”
“Welcome to the world of hangovers, sweetheart.”
She blinks at me, then says matter-of-factly, “I’m going back to bed.”
She shuffles down the hallway, and I follow her, still holding the coffee carrier and resisting the urge to laugh. Then she swings her bedroom door wide, and doesn’t bother to close it before tumbling headlong into her bed. Again, I take that as permission, closing the door in case Dylan comes home unexpectedly.
Before Nell can slip back into sleep, I force the coffee into her hand.
“Drink a little of this,” I tell her. “It’ll help clear up the headache and nausea.” She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she takes a sip anyway. “Aspirin will help, too, if you have some.”
“Bathroom,” she says, and I go out to the hallway bathroom. I find a bottle in the second cabinet I open.
When I return to her room, she asks, “You find it?”
“I did. Right next to your box of tampons. The things I endure for you, woman.” She rolls her eyes and takes the aspirin, and she drinks about half the coffee before placing the cup on the nightstand and sinking back against her pillows. She must be feeling better because she finally asks the question I’d expected to hear the second she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
I shrug, toe off my sneakers, and throw myself down on the covers on the other side of her bed. She groans when the mattress bounces, but other than that doesn’t complain.
“I knew you’d be miserable this morning . . .”
“And you decided that was something you needed to see?”
“I decided I could be of some help. I’ve had more than my fair share of hangovers. When that coffee kicks in all the way, we’ll get you showered and dressed, and then we’ll go out for some greasy breakfast. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“You’ve done this more than once? Are you crazy? I never want to drink again.”
“Everybody says that. If you don’t, you’re not doing it right.”
“I don’t feel like I did anything right.”
“You checked another thing off your list, didn’t you?”
She throws an arm over her eyes in lieu of an answer, and after a minute or so of silence, she asks, “Why are you really here?”
“I told you, I—”
“If you feel sorry for me because of what happened last night or what I said, don’t. Please. I’d really rather you just leave.”
“I can’t do that. Sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because last time I let you get away from me, you called some giant ginger-bearded monster to get you drunk, and look how well that turned out. Face it. You need me.”
She makes a groan that sounds vaguely laughlike. “Matt is not a monster.”
“We’ll agree to disagree.”
She sighs, and rolls on her side to face me. I suck in a breath because even hungover, she’s beautiful. And that fiery, challenging look in her eyes always goes straight to my cock.
“And if I had wanted to call you?” she asks. “I don’t have your number.”
“You could have just thought of me. I would have known and come running. I’m practically a superhero in that regard.”
“Riiight.”
“Why so disbelieving? Unless you thought of me, and it didn’t work? Were you thinking of me last night, girl genius?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“I thought about you. Even during the game last night when I should have been concentrating on not getting my ass kicked, you kept popping up. I think I might be addicted to you, Antonella De Luca.”
“How do you know my full name?”
“I might have done a little snooping last night while you were out of it. So you were valedictorian in high school, huh?”
“Just how much snooping did you do?”
“Relax. Your list is safe. I promised I wouldn’t read it, and I didn’t.” My eyes drop to her lips, which she keeps pressing together in what I assume is nervousness. “It was tempting, though.”
All of her is tempting, and I should probably get out of this bed right now before I drag her beneath me and remind myself just what her skin tastes like.
Regretfully, I pull myself up to a sitting position and say, “All right. Go shower so we can get breakfast. Unless you need assistance, then I’d be happy to—”
She cuts me off. “No. No, I think I can handle that alone.”
“Pity,” I say. “Well, I’ll be here waiting in your bed in case you change your mind.”
She stands up and faces me, still all cute and rumpled from sleep. “You are so . . .” She trails off, and shakes her head, turning for the door instead.
As she heads for the bathroom, I call out, “I’m so what? Charming? Devastatingly handsome?”
“You so better be in the living room by the time I’m done with my shower.”
Damn. I’d been looking forward to seeing her in a towel.
Next time.
Chapter 15
Nell’s To-Do List
• Normal College Thing #7: Get Drunk.
• Never get drunk again.
• Invent hangover cure. Make millions.
That’s it? You don’t have anything more exciting on that list of yours?”
Even though Mateo—crap . . . Torres, has been quizzing me nonstop over breakfast about my list, I’m having a surprisingly good time. I think I’m gradually becoming acclimated to his outlandishly flirty
statements because I’m getting better at letting them roll off my back without blushing . . . or worse, without getting turned on.
That doesn’t mean I’m about to tell him all the things on my list. I’ve told him all the safe ones, leaving out all the potentially embarrassing ones and anything of a sexual nature. And I have to admit, most of the new items that have occurred to me in the last few days have been of a sexual nature.
And it’s entirely his fault.
“What about coming to a game? Is that on your list?”
For some reason, I don’t want to admit that going to a game is already on my list.
“I don’t know anything about football.”
“I could teach you. I’m sure you’ll be a fast learner.”
“I suppose I could add that to my list.”
In reality, it was one of the first things I added after meeting Torres and the rest of his friends. I want to see them in action. See him in action.
“Excellent. What about other campus traditions?”
“Like what?”
“Like what, she says.” He catches the eye of a stranger passing by our table and gestures to me. “This girl, man. She kills me. ”
The guy appears to be in his midthirties. He looks at me, and then back at Torres, and says, “I feel you. Stay strong, dude.”
I laugh, even though I have no idea what’s happening. The guy walks away, and Torres digs back into his food like nothing has happened. He’s just so . . . “shameless” perhaps isn’t the best fit now that I know him better. He’s just confident. Comfortable. He fits everywhere with everyone. What must it be like to live with that kind of ease? To never doubt yourself or your actions? I envy him almost as much as I like him.
“Okay, crazy. Tell me about these campus traditions.”
“Well, you’ve already missed out on all the homecoming ones. You should have met me sooner, girl genius. But there are still a few fun ones. The tunnels, for one.”
“Tunnels?”
“Yeah. You’ve never heard of them? They run underneath the campus. I think they were built in the Cold War era or something, but these days they’re just dark and damp with lots of graffiti. And, of course, there are rumors of secret societies and mole people and all that fun stuff. There are two points of entry that are easy to access. One over by the parking garage on the north side of campus. The other comes out just below the bridge on the edge of campus. So what do you say?” He cocks an eyebrow in challenge. “Want to brave the dark, scary tunnels with me?”
“Do we have to do it when it’s dark?”
“Absolutely. It’s a rule or something. Besides, it’s much more fun that way. And you can feel free to hold on to me for protection as much as you want.”
I roll my eyes. “Have you gone in them before?”
“Nope.” He smirks. “We can have our first time together.”
I purse my lips and glare at him. There’s no way that phrasing was accidental.
“I guess I could hold on to you for protection,” he says. “If it bothers you that much. I’m for equality, you know.”
I suppose in the grand scheme of things, some light teasing about my virginity is to be expected. And I’d much rather that than . . . well, all of the other reactions I imagined him having. If he’s teasing me about it, maybe that means it’s not that big of a deal. If he were bothered by it, he would ignore it completely. Or rather, he wouldn’t be here at all.
A zing of electricity runs up my spine because . . . he is here. And the day after my disastrous slip of the tongue, too. That has to mean something . . . doesn’t it?
Dangerous thoughts. I redirect my focus to our conversation and ask, “What else?”
“Big Daddy Rusk, definitely.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Big Daddy Rusk?”
“That massive statue in the commons.”
“Of Thomas Jefferson Rusk?”
“I prefer Big Daddy.”
“And what is the tradition where . . . Big Daddy . . . is concerned?”
Torres’s grin is infectious, and it pulls a smile to my face.
“Well, you’re not supposed to touch him these days. Something about skin oils damaging the bronze or something. That’s why they put the little fence up a few years back. But the tradition is to climb up and sit in his hand and take a picture.”
“A picture. That seems doable.”
“In recent years, it’s become more popular to leave a little, uh, token of appreciation behind for Big Daddy.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know. Coins. Knickknacks. Lacy underwear.”
That time I do choke on my coffee, and it burns as it goes down the wrong pipe. I cough and cough, and Torres stands and slides into my side of the booth to rub at my back.
“Jesus, woman. If you try to die on me every time I mention underwear, that’s going to make seducing you trickier than I thought.”
I gulp in some air and shove him out of the booth.
“People really do that?”
“Oh yeah. They loop all kinds of stuff over the fingers on the statue, especially during homecoming week. The school assigned security guards there this year, but people still found a way.”
“That’s crazy.”
“If you really want crazy, there’s always the Sweet Six.”
“Do I even want to ask what that is?”
“The six spots on campus where you’re supposed to have sex before you graduate.”
“Oh, come on. Now you’re just making things up to shock me.”
“I’m not. Swear to God.” He holds one large hand to his chest and lifts the other like he’s being sworn to tell the truth. It’s not fair that he’s this charming. It’s not fair that this is all just a normal day for him. He’s always this outgoing and fun and spontaneous. I’m just a regular occurrence for him, and God, how I wish I could say it was the same for me.
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“One of the Sweet Six spots is the stacks with all the old university records on the third floor of Noble Library.”
“What? I study in the lounge on the third floor all the time.”
“Well, then. That’s a prime opportunity for a study break if I ever heard one. There’s also the old stairwells that they have roped off in the chapel.”
“The chapel? Seriously?”
“Do you think the Sweet Six should count as six things on your list?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re right. They’re kind of a package deal. We’ll just count them as one.”
I drag my hands through my hair and gape at him. “You are . . .”
“You keep doing that. Am I that hard to describe?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a yes for the Sweet Six or. . . ? ”
I force myself not to react. He likes flustering me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“That’s a no to the Sweet Six. Final answer.”
“What about Big Daddy Rusk?”
I throw up my hands and stand up from the booth. “I think it’s time to go. Any longer here and I might murder you. And it wouldn’t be smart to murder you with an audience.”
I reach for my wallet, but Torres stops me.
“I got this. You shouldn’t have to pay on the day of your very first hangover.”
I return my purse to my shoulder and smile. “Thanks.”
He leaves some money on the table and then loops his arm over my shoulder. “I’ve got some ideas for how you could thank me. Six of them, in fact.”
I laugh, and shove his arm off me, and he calls out after me the entire time I march toward the door, getting louder and more dramatic with every step. He’s making a giant scene, and everyone in the diner is watching us. Normally I would be horrified and well on my way to an unattractive magenta blush, but . . . it’s different with him.
Everything is different with him.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m about to do this. I
’ve gone crazy. You’ve made me crazy.”
Torres’s hand lingers at my waist for a long moment before he does what he’s supposed to and helps boost me up onto the base of the Rusk statue that we talked about at breakfast a few days ago. The base alone comes about as high as my chest, and I never could have gotten up without him. Or a ladder. The statue’s pose is reminiscent of the Lincoln Memorial, with Rusk sitting down, only his hand is open and stretched out, and that’s where I’m heading. If I can manage to climb all the way up without falling and breaking my neck. When Texas was an independent republic, Rusk served first as secretary of war and later the Supreme Court chief justice. And when Texas became a state he was elected as one of its first senators.
And now I’m honoring his memory by doing my best to climb up into his lap like he’s some giant bronze Santa Claus. I step up on his foot and try to haul myself up onto his knee, but I have a pitiful amount of upper-body strength. As in . . . basically none. I jump, hoping that might help, but I only end up clutching ridiculously at the knee, unable to pull myself up but too afraid to let myself drop for fear that I might twist my ankle landing on the statue’s foot.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Torres says, having hopped up behind me with zero assistance. Then his hands are on my ass, and he’s pushing me up onto the knee.
“Did you suggest we do this just so you could grope me?” I call down to him.
“Unexpected benefits.”
Carefully, I climb to my feet, holding on to Rusk’s outstretched arm to keep me steady. Then, after one deep breath, I scramble my way onto his large bronze arm and shimmy my way down into his hand. I sit in his palm, and have to hang one leg over each side. My thighs are a bit too large to fit comfortably, so I feel like I’m wedged into his hand. And one look down at Torres’s grinning face tells me what an idiot I am.
I’m straddling the statue’s hand.
And while it’s holding my weight just fine, there’s no way I don’t look ludicrous. And probably a little lewd.
“Most people don’t actually sit in his hand, do they?”
“It’s the knee for most people, true.”