Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(24)

I'm stumbling out of the locker room after taking off my sweaty uniform and throwing on a T-shirt and yoga pants when I nearly crash into Rhett.

"Seriously?" I pull my sweaty ponytail off my neck. I just want to go back to my apartment. I still don't think of it as home. I won't think of it that way, maybe ever. I haven't decided what I'm doing when I graduate. So much depends on what happens in the next few months. If I have the guts to do what I need to do.

"Sorry! Sorry." His cheeks are still flushed from the game. I'm trying to tell myself that it's not attractive when it definitely is. I have to look away.

"It's fine," I say and start to walk away. "You . . . you did really good today."

He blushes. He actually blushes, and it's so damn cute.

"Thank you. I'll never be as good as you. You're beautiful to watch, Freya." Now I'm the one blushing.

"You're not so bad yourself, Rhett Miller." We have one of those moments when energy pulses between us and I don't know if he's going to kiss me or not and I have to stop looking at him. 

"I should get home," I say, edging toward the door.

"Yeah, right. Of course." He gives me another bow and I want to say something, but I just turn around and bolt for my car.

* * *

An hour later I'm soaking in my tub in lavender-scented semi-purple water, and I'm still puzzling about Rhett. Every time I try to think about something else, he just kind of creeps back into my head. So I might as well get all my thinking about him over with so I can focus on something else.

So he's nice to look at. Really nice to look at. Okay, so I almost wish I had a poster of him on my wall so I could stare at it all the time and several times a day have little fantasies about him chopping wood, or doing other manual labor. But that's just attraction. That's just lust. That's just my lady junk telling me that I haven't gotten laid in a long time and I should probably do something about it. I'd feel the same way about a hot actor.

Probably.

Other than that, Rhett can be annoying. He's a good cheerleader, good tumbler, and a solid stunt partner. I've never felt more comfortable with a partner as I do with him. Maybe comfortable isn't the right word. I feel safe with him lifting me. But I also have a lot of other feelings that have nothing to do with doing a liberty double-down. Every damn time he touches me, my skin tingles just a little bit, letting me know that Rhett is touching me. I've even told myself that it's not Rhett. He's some other nameless, faceless guy. Yeah, that doesn't work. I still know that it's him. Somehow. His hands are familiar to me, even after just a few days. I know how it moves when he tosses me. I know where his arms will fit to catch me perfectly. I know so much about his body, yet not a whole lot about what he's got going on in that brain of his.

I'm not sure I want to know, really. I don't want to know what's in Rhett's head, because it scares me. My attraction to his body I can totally deal with. I've been attracted to guys plenty of times. The initial burn will wear off once we spend more time together. I think. But if I find out what he's thinking and I'm drawn to his mind, too? It's all over. I'll be a total goner.

Yeah, that is not happening.

* * *

Two hours after that, I'm out of the tub and wrapped in my softest pajamas that I can't wear if anyone is going to see them because there's a hole in the butt that I keep forgetting to fix.

And I'm still thinking about Rhett. There's only one thing I know that will stop me from spinning my mental wheels about this guy, and it's in a green folder. The green folder that haunts me.

I get it out and sit on the couch, leafing through the crappy photocopies that I've memorized. I know I could mentally recreate them if something were to happen. I should probably make digital copies, just in case. But what if someone found them? I can't let this information get into anyone else's hands. I won't take that risk.

I look down at the name I was given at birth. By the mother I never knew existed. By the mother whose name I have whispered to myself a thousand times since finding out the parents who raised me have no DNA in common with me. No wonder they didn't want me.

They don't know that I know, which is why the photocopies are so poor. I did them in a hurry while my parents were at work one day. I've hidden them ever since, and they were my catalyst for coming here. Not just that they cut me off. Not just that I got a scholarship to MSU.

I need to know. I have to know. I'm sure some adopted kids don't feel that way. They are content with their adoptive parents. I never was. When I found out that they had adopted me, it was like my entire life fell into place and everything made sense. I know there are millions of wonderful parents out there who have adopted, but mine weren't like that.