by Sara Ney
Nice.
“I guess.” His sigh is weighty but he gives in. “Obviously I’m new to the team, right? A few of them have been callin’ me New Guy since day one, which drives me bat-shit crazy. My roommates can’t stand my last name.”
“Which is…”
“Rabideaux.”
“Rabideaux,” I repeat. Rab-ee-doe.
Rhett Rabideaux. I turn the name around in my head, romanticizing it.
Kind of sexy, really.
So French.
“What about you? What’s your last name?”
“Bishop.”
“Laurel Bishop.” It slides off his tongue slowly, quietly, like he’s saying it to himself and not to me. I see it rolling around in his brain, see him trying it out.
“Oui,” I whisper.
His eyes crinkle at the corner when I throw out the one French word I’ve picked up over the years, his dark chocolate irises softening as we regard each other across the library study table.
Those soulful eyes of Rhett’s land on the big, messy bun perched and piled atop my head. Fly to my hairline. Eyebrows. Lips.
I smile.
He clears his throat.
“Can we talk about the dine and dash for a second? You know I was there with my friend Donovan.” I hedge carefully, knowing it’s rude to ask. “How much did that cost you?”
“Four hundred bucks.”
“What!” I come out of my seat, indignantly shouting in the library. “Four hundred? Are you shitting me? Sorry, I shouldn’t swear, but are you shitting me right now? That’s horrible!”
“Shh, Jesus Laurel, calm down. Sit back down.” He leans over, those long fingers yanking on the hem of my shirt, tugging me down into my chair. “I’m still trying to decide how to tell my parents before the credit card statement does the tellin’ for me.”
I plop back down but, sympathetic, reach across the table and squeeze his forearm…his warm, solid, strong forearm. I’m tempted to wrap my palm around it for good measure. “I am so sorry. That sucks.”
He pulls his arm back, drags it under the table and out of my reach.
“Why are you sorry? It’s not like you did anything wrong.”
“No, but I did text you after they put those flyers up, and that probably didn’t help.”
God, I’m as big a douchebag as those assholes he hangs out with.
Rhett
Laurel’s wide eyes are the oddest shade of blue I’ve ever seen up close. Dark, with a little bit of brown around the edges.
Blue with a heavy liner running the ridge on top, sweeping out at the corner. Her skin is clean and clear, unblemished.
A ginger with no freckles, cheeks a bright pink, lips full and glossy.
Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe Laurel Bishop.
She fiddles with her notebook, picking at the end of the metal spiral, lithe fingers fidgeting, bright blue nail polish shining.
“I feel really bad.” Her voice is a whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t. It’s fine.”
“Please don’t act like it’s fine.”
I consider this. She’s right; I shouldn’t act like what she did was fine when it’s clearly not. She didn’t hurt my feelings, but I can’t lie—it was fucking humiliating.
What she did was shallow and thoughtless and shitty.
“All right, fair enough. I won’t.”
She nods with authority, bun flopping atop her head, the massive nest of red hair lolling to one side. Fucking adorable.
“Good.”
My mouth forms a lopsided grin. “Good.”
Laurel’s blue gaze drifts down my face, staring at my mouth, then the cleft in my chin, before averting her eyes. Her cheeks turn a delicate shade of pink.
What’s that about?
My stomach chooses that moment to growl, a reminder that I haven’t eaten in—I check my phone for the time—two hours. Considering I’m on a nutrition schedule that has me eating every forty-five minutes to two hours, I’m due for a snack—and by snack, I mean carbs, maybe some protein so I’m not hungry again later.
“Was that your stomach?” Laurel giggles.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m gettin’ kind of hungry.”
Laurel sets her pen down. “Then let’s go get something to eat.”
Let’s? As in, together? Is she serious?
“Pretty sure the sandwich shop in the union closed at ten.”
Which was an hour ago.
Laurel rolls her eyes. “I know. I meant pizza or something. I think Luigi’s is open until one.” She checks the time. “We have tons of time.”
“You want to get pizza?” With me?
“Unless you’re not that hungry? I think I have a granola bar stashed in my bag somewhere if you want it.” Laurel leans, making a show of unzipping her floral backpack and sticking her hand inside. “Or maybe an apple?”
“I could do pizza,” I say it slowly, weighing my words.
I’m going to regret it later because binging on pizza is a terrible idea with a weigh-in looming; I have to make my weight class or I’m fucked, but if this girl had suggested we eat a steaming pile of dog shit, I’d have gone along and eaten it without protest.
Fuck it. I’ll eat the goddamn pizza.
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
When she stands, arching her back to slide into her jacket, there’s no stopping my eyes from straying to the thin fabric of her shirt, roaming across her breasts. They linger on the nipples showing through her bra.
My throat tightens and I swallow, glancing away guiltily. Pack up my shit alongside her, hoist my backpack. Instinctively place my hand near the small of her back, guiding her toward the heavy set of exit doors.
“My car is outside if you’d rather drive?” I point in the direction of my vehicle—the black Jeep Wrangler I’ve had since I turned sixteen, the one that’s seen even less action than me.
“Want to walk?” Laurel stalls on the sidewalk. “It’s so nice out.”
Walking feels intimate, especially in the dark, so I waver. “Uh, sure.”
“Let’s at least put our bags in your car though—I don’t feel like hauling my backpack four blocks. I’m not nearly strong as you.”
She smiles serenely over her shoulder, and I wonder what it would be like to have a pretty girl like her smiling at me like that for real, like she meant it.
Like she was attracted to me, even for a short time.
“Good idea.” I walk around her, reach for the handle of my Jeep, unlock it with the key. “Here, let me get the door. Hand me your bag.”
“Thank you.”
Our fingers brush when she hands me her backpack by the shoulder straps. I ignore the spark, tossing her bag in the front seat, followed closely by mine. I grab a baseball cap off the dashboard, fitting it to my head backward.
We start through campus, our destination straight on the other side, four blocks away.
It’s dark and dimly lit despite all the prospective student information bullshit they give you about blue panic lights and security. It’s not entirely safe—not if you’re female. The wide center quad is hazy, a grassy knoll dissected by four merging sidewalks, fountain in the center.
Laurel stays close, hands at her sides, shifting as we walk, hips swaying, occasionally bumping into me, so close I can smell her.
We walk in companionable silence, mostly because I have no fucking clue what to say to her. None at all. Do I talk about the damn weather? I don’t want to bring up my friends—or hers, for that matter, because they seem like little bitches. School? Hobbies?
Shit.
“So what do you do besides wrestle?” Her soft question breaks the silence as we cut across the lawn, hanging a left at the poli-sci building that’s been under construction all semester.
“Good question. I…” I pause.
I almost tell her there isn’t anything besides wrestling, but I sto
p myself. Think. Rack my brain, trying to come up with other shit I enjoy doing so I won’t sound like a pathetic loser who does nothing but go to the gym every day with nothing else to fill my time. Workout. Watch every fat calorie and carb that hits my lips so it doesn’t impact my weight class.
I can’t tell her I sit home on the weekends because it’s too expensive to fly or drive home to visit my family. I don’t go out and party often because I don’t drink much—too many wasted calories.
“Do you like movies?” she supplies, glancing over in the dark. The sound of leaves crunching under our shoes accompanies us on our walk.
We have two blocks to go.
I can already see Luigi’s lit-up sign glowing in the night; my stomach senses it, too, because it growls.
“Yeah, I like movies. What about you?”
“I love movies. I love going to the movies.” Laurel clears her throat. “It’s been forever since I’ve been to one.”
More silence as she waits out my reply, but I don’t know what she wants me to say, or if she’s hinting at something.
I feel like a freaking idiot.
“What’s the last book you read?” I finally ask when we hit a crosswalk, looking both ways before stepping down into the road, crossing to the next city block.
“A romance novel. It took me two weeks because, well, studying and stuff got in the way.” She hops down beside me, keeping stride, her elbow brushing my arm. “What about you? Do you like to read?”
“The last book I read was a mystery. I…”
I hesitate, not wanting to sound lame.
“You what?”
“I, uh, spend a lot of time at the public library.”
“The public library?”
“You know, the city library, where they have more fiction than at school. I study there, too. Mostly on the weekends.”
Laurel makes a little humming sound. “I never thought of studying there—maybe I should come with you next time, if you don’t mind the company.” She’s teasing me again, giving me a little bump with her hip.
Mine singes from the contact.
“It’s quiet. I can hear myself think.”
“Do you miss your friends from Louisiana?”
I shrug. “I don’t think it’s the same for guys as it is for girls. Most of my friends were teammates, and they were pissed I left the team. Haven’t talked to most of them in a while.”
“I bet.”
We arrive at Luigi’s. I get the door, hold it open so she can enter first.
When Laurel brushes past me, I catch another whiff of her. Whatever she’s sprayed on herself or in her hair, it smells fucking fantastic.
She steps up, over the threshold, shooting me a look over her slim shoulder.
“Should we sit there, by the window so we can people watch?”
“Sure. We can watch the drunks heading to the bars.”
“That’ll be fun. I’ll sit while you grab a menu?”
I grab one, head back to the table.
Her eyes rake me up and down, crinkled at the corners, watching. Always smiling at me like she has a naughty little secret, looking me up and down as I move across the room. I fight my initial instinct to look away.
Chin in her hands, Laurel’s intense gaze starts at the tips of my black tennis shoes. Lands and holds steady on my crotch. Roams up my chest, my shoulders, the pleasant smile never leaving her face.
Mischievous.
Playful.
Sexy, even with her flaming red hair piled on top of her head like a rat’s nest. She has a cute silver headband in her hair, too.
I join her at the table and watch as she reveals a tube of strawberry lip balm, coats her top lip, then her bottom. Smacks them both together, puckering before tucking the tube away, satisfied.
Rubs them together again as she watches me.
When I clear my throat, her eyes flicker to my neck.
“What are you in the mood for?” I ask.
Laurel hums, a little smile playing at her lips as she picks at the corner of the menu. “What am I in the mood for? Good question.” Pauses. “Extra cheese? And whatever else you want?” Her smile, by all accounts, is perfectly innocent. “I love pizza—I could eat it every day.”
She hands the menu back across the table.
I unfold it, pretending to study the damn thing but mentally calculating the money inside my wallet. I think there’s a twenty tucked away somewhere, possibly a ten and a few singles to cover a large?
One thing is for sure: I cannot charge this meal on my credit card, although it’s possible dinner with a pretty girl would constitute an emergency charge, at least to my mother.
“Let’s do a large supreme? With everything?”
“Don’t forget the extra cheese.” Laurel beams, her straight white teeth twinkling at me.
Jesus. I’ve never been in such close proximity to anyone so fucking beautiful in my entire, depressing life—it’s so unsettling that I shake my head to stop from gawking at her.
A waiter comes over to take our order: large pie with everything, extra cheese, two waters. He takes our menu before walking off, shooting a double-take over his shoulder in Laurel’s direction, bumping into a table on his way back to the kitchen.
He returns with our waters a few seconds later.
“When is your next wrestling meet?” She sips her water through the straw, pink lips puckered.
“Weigh-in is early Friday morning.”
“Weigh-in, does that mean you have a meet soon?”
“Day after next.”
Those clear eyes widen. “When do you leave?”
“Bus pulls out first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“Ohio State.”
“Ohio State,” she repeats, an awestruck lilt to her tone. “Wow. How many times have you played them? Is that the right word? Played? I have no idea what they call it in wrestling.” She’s kind of babbling, her laugh light and playful.
“I get what you’re askin’. Yeah, I’ve had matches against them before.”
“Wait, if you weigh-in on Friday, isn’t eating pizza right now a bad idea?”
Yeah, it really fucking is—it’s horrible, as a matter of fact, but I don’t say the words out loud because I don’t want her to feel bad for bringing me here. Instead, I go with a non-committal shrug.
“Hey!” Laurel perks up. “How do you say pizza in French?”
“Pizza.”
“Oh.” She looks adorably disappointed. “What about this?”
She’s holding up a fork.
“Fourchette.”
“How do you say…” Her eyes scan the room looking for more objects for me to translate. Cup. Table. Bathroom.
“Tell me how to say, ‘I hate this red hair.’”
“Tes cheveux roux sont beau.” Your red hair is beautiful, I say with a straight face. “Tu es belle.” You’re beautiful.
Laurel squints her weirdly hued blue eyes at me. “That was an awful lot of words for ‘I hate this red hair.’”
I laugh. Shrug. “I don’t make the rules.”
When she crosses her arms, her breasts push up. “Were you making fun of me? Be honest.”
“Are you for real? No, I wasn’t makin’ fun of you. Why would I do that?”
“Hmmm.” She eyeballs me. “Just making sure.”
“Are all girls like this?”
“Like what?”
“Suspicious.”
Her laugh is a gentle lilt across the table. “Probably. I’ll try not to sound so needy.”
The pizza arrives—steaming cheese and toppings set in the center of our table on a metal rack. Cheese oozes off the top when I lift off a piece, and I can’t help but mentally tabulate the calories I’m going to have to jog off from each slice.
Probably a few laps around the block tonight, and a few miles at first light, just in case.
Fuck.
Each bite goes down easy, warm and chees
y, and I close my eyes, moaning. Chew. Swallow.
“God this is good.” I emit a long groan, cracking my lids. “Christ Almighty, it’s been so long.”
Laurel gapes blankly at me from across the table, lips parted, eyes wide, entire face flushed. She croaks, “Has it?”
Why is she staring at me like that?
“Shit, yeah. It’s been forever since I’ve had pizza. Definitely not during the season.”
“Right.” Slowly, she lifts her own slice, nipping off one bite then another, chewing thoughtfully. “How long will it take to burn that off?”
I bite down again. Moan. Swallow. “You don’t want to know.”
“Are you going home to do sit-ups?” she teases.
“No. I’ll probably go for a run.”
Her pizza halts halfway to her mouth. “Seriously? But it’s dark outside.”
“Is it?” I tease.
Her brows scowl. “That’s not exactly safe.”
She really is fucking adorable.
“No one is goin’ to jump me if that’s what you’re worried about.” I laugh. “I run at night all the time.”
Her blue eyes start an appraisal of my upper torso, raking up and down and across my chest. My shoulders. Land on my biceps.
Stay there. “That’s probably true—I know I wouldn’t want to mess with you.”
“Have you ever taken self-defense classes?”
“No.”
“Do you have mace? Pepper spray?”
“No.” She nips at her pizza with a smile, amused.
“You really should, especially if you’re going to be walkin’ around at night by yourself.”
“Could you teach me self-defense?”
“Wrestling isn’t the same as self-defense, but I could probably teach you a few tricks.”
“Oh really?”
I gulp down some water. “Yeah, but you and your friends should probably take a class. They’re usually free or really cheap at most rec departments.”
“Hmm, what if I just call you to be my escort instead?” She wiggles her eyebrows, blue eyes sparkling, alive with interest.
I lean against the wooden chair back, crossing my arms with a firm nod. “You should take a class.”
Laurel
