He gives me a crooked grin and points to my half empty beer bottle. “Can I get you another?” Then his big brown eyes descend to my boobs.
Here’s someone not interested in friend-zoning me.
That’s when I spot him, a wall of testosterone and determination headed my way. He’s wearing his usual: white t-shirt, gray basketball shorts, flip-flops. It shouldn’t trigger sizzle. It really shouldn’t. And yet it does. Sizzle in my tummy, sizzle between my legs. This is really inconvenient sizzle.
He reaches the bar and I get a load of the scowl he’s wearing.
“Bailey? What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” I can’t keep the confusion out of my voice. I look around to see if maybe I missed something. Is this place closed for a private party tonight? Nope, doesn’t look like it.
“Yes. What are you doing here?” he reiterates, and awaits my answer with one hand planted on the bar, his arm serving as a security partition between me and Ken who looks more confused than ever. Though in his defense, he’s high as a kite.
“Partaking in the age-old college tradition of fun? What are you doing here?”
He squeezes his extra large body between me and Ken, boxing him out.
“Hey, dude––” Ken finds the wherewithal to say.
Reagan glances behind him. “Yeah, thanks for saving my spot.” He turns back around to face me. Only inches separate us. I have to squeeze my legs under the bar or risk having him step between them.
“But I wasn’t…” I hear Ken attempt to say. His voice fades. I assume anything more would’ve taken too much effort.
“You realize Tuesday nights are pick-up nights?” he says, skipping right over my question.
“So I’m here on a good night? Is that what you’re saying?”
He grabs one of the French fries out of the large basket I ordered. “No, don’t––”
Too late. Gagging, he immediately spits it back up into his hand and dumps the remains in a cocktail napkin. Then he guzzles the rest of my beer and glares.
“The hell?”
“I was going to tell you”––a burst of laughter escapes me––“that I poured salt on them. It was a huge portion, and I was going to eat them all, so I ate half and ruined the rest.”
Grimacing, he shakes his head. “Women.”
My amusement won’t die. Which causes Reagan to smile. Our eyes lock. He’s so close I can smell him and it’s like a spell is cast, my body going hot and soft and amenable to being tampered with. “You didn’t answer me,” I ask to hide the fact I’m getting turned on by his mere presence, my voice sounding strangely seductive even though I don’t mean it to. “What are you doing here?”
He looks down on me with a searching glance, his eyes so bright against the fresh spot of color from outdoor practice today. “I was about to head home, but I think I’ll stay now.”
“Why?” I press. This back and forth needs to stop. I know I’m not the only one feeling this magnetism between us––this attraction. Let’s call it what it really is.
“Because…” He huffs, a mix of confusion and irritation written in the v between his brows, in the way his full lips press together. I want to kiss those lips until they soften and kiss me back.
“What are you, four? Because why, Reagan?”
“Because you need someone to watch over you.”
“I’m here with the girls.” I motion to Zoe and Blake. Zoe pauses her conversation to glower at him. “I don’t need protecting. As a matter of fact I was having a nice conversation with Ken before you showed up and interrupted.”
“Rea, we’re heading home. You coming?” Cole Peterman walks up saying. He levels his dark blue eyes on me and runs them up and down my body with intent. Okay, that’s weird.
The air around Rea changes, his entire being stiffens. “I’m staying. Alice will give me a ride,” he casually throws out.
I will? This is news to me. He inches closer and the tops of his thighs press into my knees and every bit of my attention goes there, held hostage by that small spot where we touch. Jesus, this is bad.
Cole’s eyebrow hikes up. “See you later.”
We both watch Cole walk away. Then his attention returns to me and anticipation thickens the air between us. My insides somersault. “Do you think that maybe you could…umm, back up a little.”
“Why?” His face puckers as if this is the most absurd request he’s ever heard.
“Because I’m here to meet people and you’re in the way.”
“Like who, Ken?” He hooks a thumb behind him. “That dude got caught dealing weed on campus and got tossed out of school.”
“Oh.” I chew on my bottom lip to stop from giggling. “He said he was a business major.”
“Yeah, he’s a real entrepreneur.”
“Fine then. Who should I go out with? Let’s hear some suggestions.”
He frowns. “Somebody who’s responsible. Somebody loyal, who will be there for you.”
“I’m looking for a fling, Rea. Not a dog.”
“Hey. Are you ready to go? Blake has an early class tomorrow,” Zoe says while staring a hole in Reagan’s head.
“Yeah, let me just go to the bathroom first.” I hop off the stool and my breasts brush against his chest. We both freeze. His body turns to stone and mine is ready to make a run for it lest he notice that my nipples are just as hard.
Without looking into his face, I dart away and make it as far as the dim, narrow hallway that leads to the ladies’ room.
A hand cinches around my wrist, stopping me. “What do you mean a fling?”
I turn and face him, mustering all the courage I possess. “I’m pretty sure you can find the definition of fling in Urban Dictionary.”
A guy coming out of the men’s room walks past us and Rea pins me up against the wall. “You’re looking for a fling?” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks genuinely hurt and unpleasantly surprised.
“Maybe.” I squirm.
He continues to stare at me like I’m the last clue in the Sunday crossword puzzle––unsolvable and annoying. Then I recall Zoe’s advice and plant a hand on his chest, push him back. “We have to go. The girls are waiting for us.”
Ten minutes later, standing by Zoe’s G-wagon, the lack of space becomes evident. Without waiting for direction, Reagan gets into the passenger side and pats his lap for me to get on. Whatever is going on in his head is well hidden behind a blank expression.
With my heart in my throat, I climb on. And as soon as I do, I’m immediately overwhelmed by every detail of him. Not a single one escapes me. His scent, his heat, his erection under my ass––the absolute sweet torture of it. There’s nowhere for me to put my arm so I’m forced to drape it around his neck.
“Is this okay?” I murmur.
“Fine.” He exhales and I feel the puffs of breath hit the sensitive skin on my throat. Then he arranges my legs and curls his hand around my thigh, leaving it there for the full ten-minute ride back to his house.
Being held by him, like this, feels so good, comfortable, familiar. He feels like he’s mine. Except he’s not. Zoe studies us out of the corner of her eye, stealing furtive glances, but doesn’t say a word. No one does. We ride the entire way in silence.
Chapter 16
Alice
“How’s your submission coming along?” Simon asks as Marshall’s class lets out.
“Really well. I told you I’m filming the men’s water polo team for a recruiting video, right?”
I’m filming today. Which means I’ll be spending time with Reagan. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that what Zoe said the other day didn’t affect me. It did. Mostly because I agree with her. I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes. The girls hanging out on the bleachers during practice. The ones on campus constantly vying for his attention. I can’t even blame them. I’m attracted to him too.
I’ve been gently ignoring his invitations to hang. Instead of switching stuff around to accommodate our time together, I’ve been declining. And even that’s been hard. Twice I caved when I got the disappointed pout. It’s an Alice slayer––that disappointed pout.
“Yeah. Great gig. How’d you land that?”
I don’t think I like the flash in his wily dark eyes. Nor the inflection in his voice. It feels like condescension and sounds like he’s insinuating something creepy. I really hope I’m reading too much into it.
The submission sample is coming along better than I had anticipated. It doesn’t hurt that the content is dynamic, the subject matter exciting. All that grace and raw beauty makes for an extremely powerful visual presentation.
We file out of the stadium seating and slowly move down the steps toward the exit.
“A friend helped me get it.” I go with the truth, which is nothing to be ashamed about. I know Simon has seen me with Reagan––getting dropped off and picked up at study group, eating lunch in the quad.
Simon runs his hand over his dark, curly hair, the action pulling his gray henley tight against his sinuous torso. My eyes run over his chest, his biceps, study the leather bracelets accenting his wrists, inspect the skinny black jeans. His lean thighs. It’s an automatic, unintentional reaction.
He really is hot. He’s got that tortured artist, too-cool-for-school look down pat. One that I am personally a big fan of.
For a half second Reagan’s voice whispers in my ear and it makes me wonder if he uses rock crystal deodorant (which doesn’t work) or writes lyrics in his spare time. Not my proudest moment. And the fact remains that Simon is definitely more my specie than Reagan. Even if he was interested in me––which he isn’t. I mean, Thoroughbred horses don’t mate with zebras. I need to stick with the other zebras.
“Alice?” Simon says, his expression quizzical, his slanted eyebrows pulled together in one of those moody made-for-TV expressions. It dawns on me that we’ve already made it outside the film and television building and are standing near the curb.