Boyfriend Bargain(11)

“Yeah, sorry.”

My brow wrinkles as I recall reading Zack’s bio online last week where he mentioned his favorite things. An idea stirs around and takes hold, and for the first time since I woke up this morning, I’m thinking there might be a way to thank him for returning my coat.

“Hey, do you have the stuff to make a cherry pie at your place?” She lives with her longtime boyfriend Luis in a small apartment above the club. “And do you happen to have a good recipe for cherry pie?”

“Not really, honey. Cherry pie is disgusting. It’s just gloopy fruit salad mixed with some dry crust. No thanks.”

I grin. Mara is firm about her pie opinions.

She takes a hit of her cig and I hear her blowing the smoke. “I thought you liked lemon icebox. That’s the one I make better than that Pioneer Woman everyone raves about.”

“No, I do, but I know someone who likes cherry, and I was thinking maybe I might whip one up. He…I…kind of…we had this thing…and then…” My voice peters out. I can’t exactly tell her how I had hot sex with a potential future fake boyfriend.

“Bennett?” Her voice has sharpened, and I grimace. She never liked him—although I didn’t know that until we broke up and she confessed to it after a few too many glasses of wine.

“No.”

“Hmmm, and since when have you ever made a pie?”

“Never, but I thought you might want to help?” I put a pleading tone in my voice.

She sighs. “All right. The club is closed today anyway—but I’m not tasting it. That stuff is gross. Come over after class.”

I smile. “I love you.”





9





Sugar





Zack waltzes into our poetry class, and my stomach flutters.

It’s midday and the auditorium is packed with mostly underclassmen and a ton of athletes, probably because it’s an easy elective and interesting if you dig American poets—which I do. Hello, Emily Dickinson.

He strides in and sweeps his gaze across the crowded lecture hall, moving his eyes up until he finds me, tucked into a corner in the very last seat next to a wall vent, shivering because the heating is shit in this building. My coat is thrown over me like a quilt and he grins when he sees it.

That smile is…devastating to my ovaries.

Shut it down, Sugar.

But then, instead of heading to the open front seats like he usually does, he takes the steep steps up until he reaches my row.

I wonder if he sees the horror growing on my face. I really, really didn’t want to have to face him until I had a pie in my hand and more makeup on my face.

He looms there, looking down the aisle for an empty seat, eyes landing on the one next to me.

“Excuse me,” he says, sliding in to brush past the students already there. He eases past them, uncaring that some of them are having to get up to let him pass. Most of them murmur hellos and “Great game last week, Z!” as he scoots by, and he gives them a brief nod.

He comes to a halt in front of me and my eyes go up and up, taking in the designer jeans, the way his long-sleeved black and gold HU Lions T-shirt clings to his chest. His hair looks damp and disheveled, the ends curling around his shoulders. He’s just had a shower.

Red colors my face.

I had sex with…that…him. My lower body tingles at the memory. My breathing accelerates. He had me pinned against the wall last night. He took me apart and made me come and oh my God—

“Hi,” he says.

Dammit.

Why is his voice warm yet so insinuating…as if instead of hi, he’s really saying, I’m sexy and I know it.

“Hey, yourself,” I say, sitting up straighter and adjusting my coat over my bosom.

He watches me, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The classroom door opens, and one of the TAs rushes in and heads to Professor Goldberg with a stack of papers. They stand and talk among themselves, giving us a little time—which Zack takes full advantage of.

He glances down at the empty seat with my backpack in it. Without asking, he picks it up, sets it at my feet, and takes the chair. We’re in even closer proximity now that he’s sitting, not to mention his leg is pressed against mine.

Here’s the thing about lecture hall seats at Hawthorne: they were probably built in the 60s and were made for normal-sized people without any extra room. Zack’s body is definitely not your average man’s build. I watch—with a bit of amusement—as he wedges his six-foot, six-inch frame in the small seat, his knees pressed against the back of the one in front of him, no doubt the pressure being felt by the girl sitting there.

She looks over her shoulder in annoyance, sees who it is, and immediately smiles. With shoulder-length golden brown hair and a pretty face, she’s wearing a Delta sorority shirt. “Oh, Zack, hey. I didn’t know that was you. Glad you could join us back here.” She invites him to their next party, some shindig they’re having next week.

A second later, she scribbles on a piece of paper and passes back her number. Her eyes rove over his shoulders. “You know, in case you want to come. Call me.”

“Right,” he says with a smile as he takes the note. She turns back around and he tucks it in an outside pocket of his backpack.

I lean over and whisper, “Will she be the one next?”

“Maybe. I wonder if she likes Kappa parties.”

“Or bathrooms.”

“Or anywhere,” he says.

I arch a brow. “You like having sex in public places?”

“I’m up for it—with the right person.” His gaze grows hot, his grey eyes darkening, and I feel my chest expanding.

Shit.

I clear my throat and tap my pen on the desk. “Word to the wise: phone numbers can be tricky, expectations and all that.”

“How so?”

I clear my throat. “I guess it really doesn’t apply to you, but if you had a girlfriend and you took that number and slipped it in your pocket, it’s cheating, even if nothing ever comes of it, because the intent was there. You thought about it and consciously tucked it away.”

An eyebrow shoots up. “You’ve experienced this type of behavior?”

I nod. “An ex who put numbers in his jacket all night long and lied every time I called him on it.”

“Ah.”

I give him side-eye. “Are you going to call her?”

“No.”

“Then why take the number?”

He leans in, the smell of his woodsy cologne intoxicating. “I tell you what—I’ll give her number back if you give me yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

His eyes glitter. “Oh, you’ll answer. You and I…we have unfinished business.”

Before I can whip out a retort, he leans forward and hands the paper back to Sorority Girl. “Hey, I’m never gonna call. Sorry, babe. Here’s your digits back.”

She huffs and snatches it out of his hand then sends me a glare over her shoulder.

I bite back a laugh.

He leans back and shifts those grey eyes back to me. “And your number?”

“I never said I’d give it to you.”

He bites that bottom lip—on purpose, I bet—and runs his gaze over me. “You will.”

“You wish.” Ugh, I like sparring with him.

“Miss Ryan, if you’re finished conversing with Mr. Morgan, perhaps you’d like to comment on the current question?” Professor Goldberg’s voice booms across the room, and I jerk up, suddenly at attention. Apparently the TA has slipped out and he was lecturing.

And that’s what sitting next to Zack Morgan does to a person.

“Um…?” I look up and straighten my glasses.

Professor Goldberg points to the poetry book in his hand. “We’re discussing the poem you were supposed to have read.”

My brain has completely melted.

“You did read the poem?” the professor asks, arching a brow.

My voice is high. “Yes, quite fascinating this one, actually…”

Zack nudges me and I look down at his notebook where he’s scribbled something.

“Yes! ‘Acquainted with the Night’ by Robert Frost, sir. It’s a sonnet, written in strict iambic pentameter. Very lovely.”

“Continue. I’m sure you have thoughts. I hope you do for your participation points. Who’s the speaker?”

There’s a rumble of laughter in the room and I grimace. I did read the damn thing. “The speaker is a lonely man who only walks at night,” I say.

“Why does he do that?” the professor asks, casting his eyes across the room. “Any takers?”

Zack’s leg brushes against mine as he straightens and speaks. “He doesn’t think anyone will understand him. Darkness is his home, where he belongs.”

He points at Zack with a long finger. “Elaborate.”

Zack rubs at his jawline, and I think I see color rising on his cheeks, but that can’t be right because nothing seems to ruffle him. “He’s at the end of his rope, and it gets to the point where he can’t even make eye contact with people. There’s a blackness inside him.” He taps his pen on his leg. “At the end of the poem, he looks up at the moon in the sky and acknowledges that time has no meaning for him because his isolation is unending. He hates himself. He doesn’t deserve anything.”

Shit. The narrator hates himself? I didn’t get all that, but I can see it…