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by May, McKinley

  I'm not about to get tongue-tied over him again.

  Not going for a three-peat here.

  "Jeez!" I reach over and tug the material down. "I get it. No need for the visual. You guys work-out during off-season and play, uh, practice games? Games that don't count?"

  The word he used during our phone call earlier slips my mind.

  Rayne would be so ashamed at my lack of soccer knowledge.

  "Also known as scrimmages," he provides for me. We turn onto a smaller road and he arches a quizzical brow. "You really don't follow sports at all, do you?"

  "I always watch the Olympic opening ceremonies." I shoot him a cheeky grin. "That counts, right?"

  A grunt reverberates throughout the vehicle. "Sure, Lex. Volunteers dancing to some pretentious, choreographed bullshit is equivalent to watching the fucking Super Bowl."

  I raise my arms in defense. "Sorry. I'm just not a sports person. I've never even played one."

  He glances over, giving me a quick perusal. "That's hard to believe with your height. Usually they just throw the tall kids in sports no matter how uncoordinated they might be."

  "Is that what happened with you?" I tease before agreeing with his analysis. "Yeah, the basketball coach in high school practically begged me to go out for the team, but I declined. Not only am I the most unathletic person to grace this planet, I also didn't have any extra time with my studies and tutoring jobs."

  "Damn. You were a nerd in high school, too?"

  "Once a nerd, always a nerd," I admit with a snicker.

  A gust of wind blows through the open window, and I tuck my hair behind my ear. "Even if I wanted to play basketball or volleyball or whatever, it wouldn't have been an option. My parents think sports are a complete waste of time. They couldn't care less about them if they tried."

  "That's funny," Weston mumbles, his tone uncharacteristically harsh. "Sports are pretty much the only thing my dad cares about."

  His abrupt change in demeanor catches my attention, and I turn to study him. His tight-lipped frown and the tension in his jaw tell me that comment is just the abstract to an entire article of issues there.

  And although I'm curious, I don't know Weston well enough to start drilling him with personal questions.

  Instead, I gaze out the window and change the subject.

  "Where are we headed?"

  I watch as the deep blue waters of Lake Winnie blur with the greenery surrounding it, both fading into the background as we venture further from campus.

  His normal manner reappears as he snaps out of whatever was bothering him. "You'll see in about three and a half minutes."

  I snort. "That's oddly specific."

  He puts on his blinker and turns down a narrow street. "I've been here a time or two."

  "And it's a good place to study?"

  His head bobs. "Yup. Trust me."

  "I'm not sure you're the best person to trust when it comes to study locations, but alright." I rest an arm on the console between us. "I'm putting my confidence in you."

  "You're gonna like it." He gives me a cocksure nod. "I swear."

  True to his word, we arrive at our destination three and a half minutes later.

  The second I catch a glimpse of the establishment, I realize Weston was wrong.

  I'm not gonna like this place.

  I'm going to love it.

  The small, cottage-like structure is quaint and ethereal. It has dusty beige brick, dark brown wooden shutters, and window boxes blooming with an abundance of multicolored florals.

  I'd have thought this was someone's home if not for the black and white awning hanging over the entryway, the words 'Marigold's Patisserie' scrolled across it in delicate cursive.

  Weston veers into the pebbled parking lot, the wheels of the car crunching over the tiny rocks. As we get closer, I spot a dainty herb garden and a weathered porch swing hanging from a sturdy tree.

  It's all so freakin' cute I can't hold back my admiration any longer.

  "This is beyond adorable!" I exclaim, a little squeal emphasizing my statement. "French country is my all-time favorite style, and this place does it justice. It even has a little farmhouse chic feel to it."

  A half-smile lifts his lips. "Not sure what the hell that means, but yeah, it definitely has a sweet vibe going on." He pulls into an available parking spot and kills the engine. "And they have bomb food. The most important part."

  We grab our belongings, hop out of the car, and head inside the bakery. Just as expected, the exterior theme transcends flawlessly into the interior. It's much larger than the outward appearance suggests, and it's not overflowing with students like most popular study spots near Windhaven.

  I'll admit it; Weston did pretty damn good.

  This is loads better than a stuffy campus library.

  As we amble past the bar counter, I get the child-like urge to smush my face against the glass and ogle each and every item on display.

  Creme brûlée, Quiche Lorraine, flaky croissants...

  Holy macaron.

  Is this the French version of heaven?

  Je ne sais pas, but if so, sign me up!

  I come to a halt in front of the selection, but Weston gently tugs at my elbow to keep me moving.

  "This way." He nudges his chin towards an isolated corner. "We gotta snag the best seats."

  I follow his lead, and a few moments later we've claimed two comfy armchairs near a stone fireplace. No doubt noticing my wide eyes at the plethora of pastries, Weston asks if I'm hungry. I bob my head up and down enthusiastically in response.

  As he stands from the chair, he asks, "Chocolate or vanilla?"

  Before I can choose, he snaps his fingers together and points at me. "Wait. You're the vanilla-hating weirdo."

  "Oh my God." I bring a hand to my chest, feigning shock. "You remembered something personal about me? I can't believe it."

  A boyish grin takes over his face. "Do I get a gold star?"

  "Two."

  He laughs before squinting at me. "Please tell me you're not also chocophobic. 'Cause if so...I think you might have issues."

  Scoffing, I alleviate his worry. "Of course not. I'm a girl—isn't loving chocolate wired in our DNA?"

  "Sure fucking seems like it."

  I pull my laptop out of bag. "What is this mysterious chocolate delicacy, anyway?"

  "You'll find out." He turns to go, but quickly swivels back around. "You're not allergic to anything, right?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Gluten-free? Dairy-free? Pesco-paleo-keto-tarian?" He tilts his head. "Any of that shit?"

  "I'm fine with whatever you bring me. No dietary restrictions here."

  "Top-notch digestive system." He slowly nods his head. "I'm into it."

  A laugh escapes me at his words. "Okay, strangest compliment ever, but my gut flora appreciate your approval."

  He goes to leave once more, but this time I stop him.

  "Oh! Wait one sec."

  I fumble around for my wallet. When he spots the crisp bills in my grasp, he immediately shakes his head.

  "Put that shit away, babe. I brought you here; I'm buying."

  "Are you sure?" I ask, holding the money out in offering.

  "It's my treat," he reiterates as he softly pushes my hand down.

  So Weston's a gentleman.

  Who would've thunk it?

  I stuff the money back where it came from as he continues. "What do you want to drink? Latte, cappuccino, hot chocolate...?"

  "Black coffee would be great." I give him a genuine smile. "Thanks."

  "Skipping the beer tonight? Interesting." He grins, tapping the top of the armchair twice before standing up straight. "Be right back."

  I open my computer and double-click the lab report doc I created earlier. As the assignment loads, my eyes involuntarily travel towards the bar.

  Weston's chatting amicably with the freckle-faced teenager working behind the counter. He says something to the boy, and the te
en starts laughing before they exchange one of those bro fist-bumps.

  A few moments later, a middle-aged couple emerges from the back kitchen, eyes shining when they see Weston. I watch with interest as the man gives him a firm handshake and the woman pulls him into a tight hug, the interaction spiking my curiosity.

  I used to think Weston's charm was a bit of an act, a performance put on solely for women he wanted in his bedroom. But the more I interact with him, the more I notice it's not just girls who seem to like him—everyone who comes into contact with the guy is spellbound by his infectious personality. People light up like a freaking Christmas tree whenever he's around.

  Weston saunters back over, two coffees in hand.

  "Cup of mud for you," he says as he places one mug in front of me. "And food should be out in a sec."

  I take a sip of the hot liquid, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim. "You've only been here a time or two, huh?"

  "Maybe a bit more than that." He lifts his eyes to the wall behind me. "What do you think of the artwork?"

  I follow his gaze, noticing the dozen or so works of art spread out across the shiplap wall. They're all watercolor paintings of different landscapes: grassy, rolling hills, snowy mountains, flat prairies. The similar brush strokes and soft color palettes suggest one artist is responsible for the lot.

  "I like it. Very serene. Consider me a fan." I turn back to him, my brows furrowed in questioning. "Why do you ask? Big art lover?"

  "Nah, not really. I do like that one dude who cut his ear off, but other than that, I don't know shit about it." He shrugs. "My mom's actually the artist."

  "Really?"

  "Yup. We stumbled upon this place when she was helping me move in Freshman year. She studied abroad in Paris for grad school and she claims this is the only bakery that holds a candle to the ones in France. Every time she visits, we always come here." He nods his head towards the front of the patisserie. "We got to know the owners really well. Next thing you know, they bought a shit ton of her paintings to decorate the shop."

  "That's awesome. She's really talented." I quirk my head. "And what about you? Did you inherit the artsy gene?"

  He laughs at that one. "Fuck no. My artistic abilities range from stick figures to those trace-your-hand turkey drawings. My mom's the creative one in the family. For sure."

  I can't help but notice the affectionate tone in which he speaks about her.

  "I take it you and your mom are close?"

  He nods right away. "Totally. She's freaking badass. I love my mom."

  The sincere smile that accompanies his words is honestly really sweet.

  "Weston Paine...are you a Mama's Boy?" I let out an airy laugh at this newfound information. "I did not see that coming."

  "Shit." He groans and rubs a hand over his face. "I hate that term. Makes me sound like a little bitch."

  "I have a decent amount of dirt on you now. You're scared of dissections, you're a Mama's Boy...I could ruin your tough, sports-star reputation just like that." I snap my fingers.

  "Sure, you could." Weston leans forward, eyes lit up in amusement. "But you wouldn't do that to me."

  "I might." My brows waggle up and down mischievously. "What makes you think I wouldn't?"

  "Because." He takes a sip of coffee before a smirk tugs one side of his mouth up. "You like me too much."

  Our flirty banter comes to an abrupt halt as the freckly teen appears out of nowhere.

  "Here ya go, Weston," he says before placing a huge tray on the coffee table between us. We thank him, and I gawk at the selection in front of me.

  "Uh, did you order the entire menu?"

  "Might've." He grins and points at an item on the tray. "Try the chocolate crepe. Best fucking thing you'll ever taste."

  I try it.

  And it's the best fucking thing I've ever tasted.

  Next up is a mixed-berry fruit tart.

  Freakin' delicious.

  And then I crack into the creme brûlée.

  Mouthgasms galore.

  Ten minutes and dozens of desserts later, I think I've got a new favorite study spot.

  I drain the rest of my coffee and smile at Weston. "Thank God you brought me somewhere with delicious food. I was supposed to go out for Thai tonight, but this is definitely an acceptable alternative."

  "You were going with Rayne?"

  "Nope." I wipe my face with a napkin. "I had a date."

  "A date?" He leans back against the chair, crossing his hands behind his head in a pompous fashion. "You cancelled a date for me, Barbie? I'm flattered."

  I resist the urge to poke him with my fork.

  "Rescheduled, not cancelled." I immediately set him straight. "And it wasn't for you. It was for the sake of my lab grade. Let's not twist the situation for your ego."

  But he doesn't seem to care about my reasoning. The only thing he's hearing is that I chose to spend the evening with him over someone else.

  And he is relishing in that fact.

  "You go on a lot of dates?" he questions, his interest piqued. "Serial dater?"

  "Maybe." My response is intentionally vague. "What's it to you?"

  "Just curious."

  He lifts his coffee to his lips, bright eyes piercing mine over the porcelain edge.

  If he thinks we're about to discuss my love life, he's got another thing coming.

  "The only thing you should be curious about is how we're going to get an A on this report," I say. "What time does this place close?"

  "I dunno. Midnight?"

  "Do you want to be here until midnight?"

  "Hell no."

  "Me neither." I pull the crumpled lab analysis out of my bag and hand it to him. "So let's get to work."

  13

  West Texas is dusty as hell.

  I'm freakin' caked in the stuff—it's all in my hair, stinging the shit out of my eyes, and even coating the inside of my damn throat.

  Did I just finish up a soccer game or a grueling sand volleyball tournament?

  If guessing based solely on my current appearance, most people would assume the latter.

  And now it makes sense why the opposing team fought so hard to move the scrimmage to their home turf; it puts them at a distinct advantage. They might be immune to the Sahara-like conditions, but we sure as hell aren't.

  While the gusts of particle-ridden wind choked and blinded us, they only seemed to fuel our opponents. It's as if they have some freaky, southwestern genetic mutation where their skin absorbs sand and converts it into energy. There's some creepy alien shit going on down here in the desert.

  But despite their X-men-like powers, we fucking hammered them 4-1.

  That's called National Champion talent, baby.

  Half-blinded by dust or not, we're still kicking ass and taking names.

  Before I head to the bus, I tug down my socks and remove my shinguards. I frown as I untie my cleats and slide them off. They were pearly white when I put them on this morning, but they're damn near unrecognizable now. The musty brown color lets me know I'll be scrubbing the shit out of these later with a toothbrush.

  Not looking forward to it.

  I reach the rusted yellow schoolbus and climb up the steps, quads already sore as hell from the game. After lifting my head at the driver, I turn towards the first seat on the left. That's Coach Hanson's designated spot and he won't let anybody forget it.

  "Yo, Coach. On that corner in the first half, I thought..."

  My question slowly wavers off when I realize he's not listening.

  He's practically squashed up against the window, phone pressed to his ear as he speaks in a hushed whisper. His jaw is locked, his mouth's set in a tight line, and the deep creases in his forehead definitely aren't age-related.

  The man looks stressed as fuck, and I decide interrupting his conversation isn't a good idea. I kinda thought things were back to normal with him, but seems like that was a premature assumption.

  "Let's goooo, bro." Vaughn shoves his sh
oulder into my back. "You're causing a traffic jam. Get a move on, man."

  One final glance at Coach and a swift elbow jab to Vaughn's gut later, I head towards the back of the vehicle.

  Collapsing into an empty seat, I'm out cold before the bus even pulls away from the fields.

  I'm what is commonly referred to as a "drunk sleeper". You know when someone gets so trashed they pass out and are pretty much dead to the world? Like, you could legit put them on a flight to Zimbabwe and they wouldn't wake up?

  That's how I sleep even when sober. I can basically snooze through anything: an action movie on full volume, someone vacuuming right next to my head...I slept through a frickin' tornado once.

  But there is one thing that will always wake me up without fail. One thing that is louder than all those other examples combined.

  And that thing is a crazy motherfucker named Diego.

  A few hours into my nap, his obnoxious singing has me groggily opening my eyes. A remarkably shitty rendition of Hips Don't Lie fills the bus.

  Some of the guys are clapping to the beat and enjoying the show, but most are plugging their ears. When Diego stands up on his seat and starts violently gyrating his hips, I decide enough is enough and hurl an empty water bottle at his head.

  "Dude. Shut the fuck up!"

  The bottle nails his left temple as laughter roars out.

  As he rubs the side of his face and mumbles something about a concussion, I turn my gaze out the window. I spot the local Tex-Mex joint, Mas Mantequilla—a sign that lets me know we're five minutes away from campus.

  I'm digging around for my phone when I hear a rustling from the seat in front of me.

  "Ay, Weston."

  I glance up to see two of the new freshmen, Andre and David, facing my way.

  Why they're sitting in the back with the upperclassmen, I have no clue. Apparently, they haven't been made aware of the social hierarchy of the team yet. Same as it was in high school, boys: fish in the front, seniors in the back.

  "Mhmm?"

  Andre quirks his head. "Your dad's Robert Paine, right?"

  Greattt.

  This fucking conversation again.