“I’ve heard of it,” I say defensively.
We pass a long row of copy machines and printers, and now I know he’s smirking. His blue eyes seem to twinkle at me. “You don’t leave campus much, do you, Cleo?”
“I do sometimes.” I wave my booted foot. “For pedicures and stuff like that.”
His smirk turns into an amused little smile. Almost as soon as it plays across his lips, he presses them together, going serious in the span of half a second. His eyes are unreadable as he holds out his hand.
I feel lit up all over, like a light bulb. Despite the dynamic we started with—me, kicking him in the balls—now I’m writhing under his gaze. The last thing on earth I want is for him to know this, so I force myself to scoff as if he’s lost his mind. “I’m supposed to hold your hand again?”
“It is the hand that feeds you, Cleo.” Definitely a smirk this time.
“Pshhh. I can feed myself.”
I snatch the bag from him and open it, finding four more butter-coated croissants inside, plus the other half of the one I already sampled. I take that one and shove it in my mouth, then grin at him around the flaky bread.
Kellan pushes a finger in between my lips, shoving the rest of it into my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to laugh.
“Good look for you—the foie gras.” I open my eyes in time to see him smiling at me like we’re old friends. The moment I smile back, he rubs his lips together, making his frown-dimples show; shutting it down.
Looks like I’m not the only one who’s skittish.
I’M HYPER-AWARE OF HIS long strides as we move past the media center, toward a row of glass exit doors. He pushes one open, and I step into a little entryway corridor, lined with newspaper machines.
I toss my gaze back at him as I push the next door open, this one leading to the cement breezeway.
“Aren’t you supposed to let me get that for you?” he asks.
I hold the door for him and fall in step beside him as we walk down the breezeway, toward the parking deck. All around the cement walkway, flowers, trees, and bushes sway in a gentle breeze.
“It’s a shame that you’re both bad and from not the South,” I say. “I think if those two factors were removed, you could be a Southern gentleman.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Cleo, Cleo...” He grabs my hand and folds his fingers around mine. “What makes me so bad?”
I look him over, hair to low-top boots. “Um, everything? I mean, sure you look like a rule-following golden boy, but that’s clearly a ruse.”
He runs his free hand through his hair and laughs, maybe self-consciously. “I look like everyone else here.”
I shake my head as we walk into the gum-pocked stairwell that leads down into the deck. “That’s where you’re wrong. You dress like everyone else here, yeah. But unlike them you look perfect.”
Ugh. I want to swallow “perfect” back down as soon as the word somersaults from my mouth. My eyes fly to his face, waiting for him to laugh at me or tease me. I’m surprised, because he looks... wounded. His mouth is soft and uncertain, curved downward just slightly. His brows are drawn down low over his eyes, which look darker than usual in the shadow of the stairwell.
“Perfect?” The corner of his mouth tugs up a little, and I’m positive: My ‘perfect’ comment made him sad. What the hell? I take a deep breath, trying to guess at whys, and trying to keep things casual, so he doesn’t know I’m analyzing him.
“Yeah, Kell.” I tighten my grip on his hand a little. “You’re pretty. I assume that’s not news to you.”
“Cleo Whatley thinks I’m pretty?” We walk into the second level of the parking deck, and I can feel him regain his equilibrium as his fingers play with mine. “That’s news.”
“Yeah, right.” I snort.
“You think your opinion doesn’t matter to me?”
I hear a beeping sound, and a few cars ahead of us, his Escalade’s lights flash. “I think you’re a whore, so right, you probably don’t care.”
He walks me to the passenger’s side, opening it for me while still shouldering my bags. I slide my fingers out of his, or try to. He catches them again and nuzzles my shoulder with his forehead, urging me back against the passenger’s seat. I feel his chest brush mine, and then his lips are on mine, warm and soft.
“Cleo—even whores have feelings,” he breathes against my cheek.
He pulls away just enough so I can see his smirk. He leans down to kiss me in between my brows, and then he’s disentangling from me. I give him what I pray looks like a cool-headed, doubtful smirk of my own before climbing up into my seat. He shuts the door behind me, quickly deposits my bags in the back seat, then strides to the driver’s side.
I watch him walking, and I can’t help but admire the utility of his movements. He’s so graceful.
Half the campus calls him the golden god, so at least it’s not just me. And still—how embarrassing. I told him I thought he was perfect. I have a few heartbeats to wonder at his strange reaction before he opens the driver’s door and slides in. He fills the space so thoroughly, I find myself shrinking in my seat. I wrap my hand around the top of the croissant bag in my lap.
He buckles his seat belt, then his eyes flick over me. “Buckle up for safety, Cleo.”
“Right,” I murmur. I pull the belt across my lap, feeling self-conscious as I snap it into place. What’s wrong with me? I need to screw my head on straight.
Kellan shifts the car into reverse, and as he looks over his shoulder, his gaze flickers down to a to-go coffee cup between us.
“For you.” His blue eyes find my own. “A café mocha.”
My pulse picks up, ridiculously, and again I struggle to exude a calm, cool vibe. “Good call.” I smile. “Chocolate is a win with me.” I pick it up and take a long swallow as the car glides backward out of the space. “Damn.” I exhale slowly. “There was whipped cream in here, wasn’t there? It must have melted, but I can totally taste it.”
His mouth curves a little, and I thump his muscular forearm. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”
He doesn’t reply, and I notice we’re driving up the ramp instead of down.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Your car.”
I rifle in the croissant bag as we drive out of the shadows and onto the top story of the deck. “You know where I’m parked? Wait a minute... how’d you find me here in the first place?”
“I went to the Tri Gam house, and one of the girls—Steph, I think—told me you weren’t there. I checked around and saw your car here.”
“Why were you looking for me?”
He brakes behind my Miata, and his eyes meet mine head-on. “Why do you think, Cleo?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Yes you do.” His hand encases mine, just briefly, before releasing it. “Give me your keys and I’ll get it out of your car.” It being the brick.
I fish my keys out of my bag, refusing to meet his eyes as I hand them over.
“You got anything else in there? I’d like to leave your car here until later.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“You worried I’m being shady?” He smirks.
“Yes.”
“I’m not. At least not in a way that’ll bother you.”
I wonder what the hell that means as I hand him my keys. “Get the books out... and the canvases.” For some reason, I don’t like the idea of him looking at my art again. It feels too personal. Everything about this new arrangement does. Do I like it? Do I hate it? Do I have a choice? I can’t tell. That worries me.
Kellan disappears inside my car, emerging a minute later with the laundry basket, my favorite three paintings, and a small mountain of paperbacks. He packs the items carefully into the rear seats, and I watch the ripple of his back and shoulders in the rear-view.
I must be insane, planning to spend any time at his place. I must be looking for trouble. I must want... I don’t know. Bad thing
s. Also, money. I roll my eyes at myself.
When he slides into the driver’s seat, his lips are pulled into a teasing smile that makes my neck flush, only emphasizing the trouble that I’m in. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of e-readers.”
I square my shoulders and give a haughty little sniff as he starts driving. “E-books are good for reading in class or bed, but in every other scenario a paperback is superior.”
His smile broadens. “Did I see Fifty Shades of Grey beside The Sound and the Fury?”
My lips twitch. I press them flat. “And if you did?”
“I’d say you’re a... ?” He lifts my shawl up and frowns at the symbol on my shirt. “Smurfin?”
“Smuffin,” I say primly, taking my shawl from his hand and smoothing it back down. He looks like he’s about to tease me—eyes mischievous, lips working themselves into a joke—and suddenly I feel a little too exposed. “Where are we going?” I ask before he gets a chance to say anything more.
“You’ll see.” He pulls onto one of the roads that cuts through central campus.
“I have a class in twenty minutes.”
He strokes his fingertips over my knee, casual, as if he’s been doing it for years. “I’ll get you a note.”
I work to breathe around the weight of his hand on my knee. “Why do I need a note?”
He slides his gaze to mine. “You don’t want an unexcused absence.”
Sighing, I move my knee out of his reach. Last night’s showdown with Milasy was pretty draining, so maybe it would be good to skip. I shake my head at myself. “I probably look like I’ve been through the wringer. Maybe that’s a good call.”
He steers through downtown, keeping his gaze on the road. “You look perfect, Cleo. It’s your eyes that give you away.”
I rub my fingers over them. “My eyes look puffy?”
“Your eyes look tired.”
I take a bite out of my croissant and try to work out why it bothers me—what he just said. I’m sure I do look tired. That shouldn’t be news to me. Then I remember what he said before that. He said I look perfect. Somehow, in the moment, I missed that. But now it’s slithering around my head, confusing me.
Or maybe I’m not confused. Maybe I just don’t like it.
I shouldn’t have said he looked perfect. He doesn’t need to know I think that much of his looks. Looks aren’t all that important anyway. It was just me being me, talking before thinking.
But why did he say it back to me? Was it intentional, or coincidence?
He pulls onto Main Street, and we pass the cute boutiques, wannabe coffee shops and so-so bars that make up Chattahoochee’s little downtown. I wonder if he was flirting.
I think “no,” mostly because there’s no reason to flirt. It’s been established that we aren’t exactly peanut butter and honey personality-wise, but at this point, it’s also pretty clear we want sexy times with each other.
Maybe I’m not even bothered that he said I look perfect. I think it’s the way he said it. Yes. Like he meant it. It’s the way he said my eyes look tired, too. As if he cares.
I can live with him, I guess. I can take the free housing he’s offering; not just free housing, but housing I’m actually being paid to occupy. I can swallow my pride and pocket his money.
But I don’t need lines crossed.
Because the truth is, I do think Kellan Walsh looks perfect—even as I know I shouldn’t dwell on that. Because I’m in kind of a weird place right now, and he’s got those eyes—that smile—that make me feel as if he really cares. Holding my hand... I shake my head. That has to stop.
From now on, I need to keep my mouth shut. Try to avoid talking to him. Try to avoid connecting.
“Cleo?”
I jump so high, I spill coffee on my shawl. I jerk my gaze to Kellan’s. “Yes?”
“I asked you if Milasy’s the only one who knows, who’s not your client.”
I glance around, trying to get my bearings, and find we’re on the south east side of town. We pass a police precinct, and my stomach twists uncomfortably.
“Yeah, she is. I think she is. Actually—” I huff—“she probably told Steph.” I rub my eyes, which really do feel puffy.
Kellan nods, and I chew the inside of my cheek. My gaze tugs to the mirror on my side of the car. I watch the police precinct shrink behind us. How weird that Kellan is a law-breaker. I can’t seem to reconcile that with his day-to-day existence: SGA president; frat boy. Why masquerade like that? Doesn’t it get tiring? I look over at him. With his beautiful, blank face pointed toward the road and one long-fingered hand draped around the wheel, he looks more politico than kingpin. I picture myself unbuttoning that dress shirt. I lick my lips and blow my breath out. “Have you ever had any trouble with the cops?”
He makes a right onto a bumpy county road that takes us out into the country. His mouth tightens fractionally. “They know the alias I use, but they don’t know it’s me. There’ve been a few close calls.”
“What’s your alias?”
He shakes his head.
“Aw, c’mon.”
He slides his eyes from the road to mine. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“I’ll whisper it between your legs.”
My cheeks and neck burn. It takes effort to avoid squirming in my seat. He makes me so hot. So flustered. A thousand things line up to spill out of my mouth. I swallow hard and pick the most concrete one. “You still want me to help you deal?”
“I can handle Milasy, Cleo. Nothing will get out.” He turns onto a highway that runs south of town.
“So... same offer?” I’m kind of surprised. Surprised and relieved as hell. I guess he can tell, because he lifts one eyebrow.
“You are what I want. And you haven’t changed.”
I grab a fistful of my shawl and squeeze it in my right hand. Why does he want me? Sex. But it isn’t just for sex. It’s business, too. He doesn’t want me stealing any more of his clients. But I told him my supply has dried up. So... it can’t be that. Right?
I look out the window, struggling to keep my questions off my face. This is just another reason not to warm up to him, not even a little. I don’t trust him.
We’re surrounded by verdant, green peanut fields; I imagine myself small, a child, running through them. I look down the red-dirt plow lines streaked between tufts of crop, trying to feel hypnotized by the subtle shifting of the lines as our road curves.
“Is it because I’m a pain in your ass?” I murmur.
“What?”
I move my gaze from the peanut fields to the winding road ahead of us. It’s framed by tall pines. “Is that why you want me?” I ask. “Because... I’m not overly impressed with you—like everyone else is?”
I wonder at his face, but I refuse to look at it. I just sit there, acting self-contained: the kind of girl that kicks guys in the balls. I’m her, too, after all. She just tends to go away when he says certain things.
With my eyes on the thick trees, his voice comes as a shock. “I watched you for a while before I found you in the union that day.”
This... is a surprise. A troubling surprise.
He must notice my tension, because he hastens to add, “I wasn’t creeping on you. I was keeping track of the competition. To start with. But I liked you pretty quickly. I think it’s... the way you moved. From class to class. I noticed that you stop a lot. You stop to look at things. I think you’re forgetful,” he says, his lips quirking, “because you pause a lot and kneel down and open up your bag to get things—like that glossy shit girls put on their lips. And you’ll put it on right there. When you lean down, your hair falls in your eyes. You push it away, and it’s hilarious because I can see as you bat it away that you’re pissed off that it dared to get in your eyes in the first place.
“You’d throw your book bag back on, and sometimes you would run if you were late. One time I saw you smoke a cigarette. I don’t know why you did it that day, but I could tell you were
enjoying yourself, because you let your head hang back. You were standing under a tree—that willow, by the south quad pond. You sat under it and pulled your knees up, and I could see what you were thinking almost. You’re what you seem to be, Cleo.”
Unlike him.
I watch his shoulders rise and fall. He’s going to say more. I realize I’m hungry for it. I wait, frozen, for another morsel—something to help me piece Kellan together. But he looks pensive. Like someone else just said all that, and now he’s noticed, he closes his lips.
I SAID TOO MUCH. I know it right away, because she clasps her hands together like she’s praying, and she doesn’t move at all.
Finally, when I’ve sat in silence for a few moments, she looks down at her lap and asks, “Where are we going, Kellan?”
I shouldn’t have told her that I followed her. What the fuck was that about? Goddamn.
“I thought I’d show you a grow house. I have to go there anyway. And after that, we’ll go to my place.”
Her eyes shift over me, and then back to the road. “Okay.”
But she’s not sure. I can tell she isn’t. Regret stings me, sharp and unexpected. “You think I’m an asshole.”
Her gaze drags over me, and then flits away. “I think you’re the wolf.”
“I’m not the wolf.” I squeeze the wheel. “Okay, maybe I am, but you’re not a lamb, Cleo. You’re a... dog.”
Her eyes fly to mine, wide with her already familiar indignation. “I’m not a dog! No way. Did you really just say that?” She goes full-on girl and bats her lashes in prim fury. “That’s an insult. Dogs are... loyal and comical, and sleepy. They chew on things and pee in public. Trust me, I am nothing like a dog.”
I laugh, and turn left under a bent pecan tree, onto the dirt road that is Pecan Way. “Dogs are man’s best friend, Cleo.”
She shakes her head. “So I’m a sleepy, loyal, drooling, chewing, flea-ridden yard dog, and you’re a wolf. And how is this better than me being a lamb?”
“You’re almost just like me, Cleo. But you’re the good version. You’re the version people want to take home, and to bed.” I give her what I hope is a devastating smile, and Cleo smirks back.