Staying On Top(12)
“Give me your phone.”
Victory. I handed it over and watched as he added Sam to my contacts, then took it back and returned it to my purse. “Thanks.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Sam’s a big boy, Rowland. He can make his own decisions.”
“Fair enough.” He broke into a dazzling smile, dissolving the oddly combative moment hanging between us. “So what are you doing tonight? Are you finished for break?”
“I have a marketing exam tomorrow, then yes. What are you and Emilie doing for Thanksgiving?” I barely knew Emilie Swanson, or Quinn for that matter, but I preferred the attention and questions not be directed at me.
The flicker of distrust in his eyes said he didn’t miss my redirection. “We’re spending it with her family, since she figures I can’t mouth off too much over a one-day meal. Christmas we’re traveling Eastern Europe.”
“Do you mouth off often?”
“I can’t handle anyone who wants to make her feel like she’s not amazing.”
The sweet honesty in his voice shook something at my core. It was so much rarer than people believed to hear truth spill from someone’s lips without any kind of agenda or caveat behind it. The two of them were a legend on Whitman’s campus since they’d gotten together almost two years ago, and even for me—a huge cynic—it was hard not to be touched.
It was almost painful to see it. To know it existed. Because it made me hope.
“Okay, well, thanks.”
“No problem.” He winked. “Have fun. I’ve never heard any complaints.”
“I’m glad you said that. You being sweet throws my worldview off kilter, but you being gross makes total sense.”
“I’m part of your worldview?”
“Coming to Whitman? Sure. You’re a legend. Or you were.” He still kind of was, just for different reasons, but the last thing Quinn needed was a bigger ego.
“I’m good with that. Gotta have stories to tell the grandkids one day. And now, I have someone to imagine grandkids with. Double win.”
“Double win.”
I said good-bye and wandered back out to the parking lot, trying to steady my shaken foundation. Since I’d been old enough to understand how babies were made, I knew that I didn’t want one. The idea that I could ever be normal enough to fix myself, never mind not fuck up someone else, didn’t seem possible.
The idea that I could find someone I’d want to be yoked to for the rest of my life seemed even less likely. Or that anyone would want to be tied that way to me.
I wasn’t seeing my dad for Thanksgiving. Until our conversation today, I’d figured on staying at Whitman, maybe trying to get a jump on studying for finals or figuring out my schedule for next semester. Financial reports were due to Kappa Chi nationals before the end of the year, as well.
Now, it appeared I’d be traveling.
When I got back to the Kappa house, I pulled up my computer to find out where Sam was at the moment—it didn’t qualify as stalking if his whereabouts were easily found on the Internet. It appeared the season had just ended for the year, so it was hard to say. The American team had finished third in the Davis Cup, due in no small part to Sam’s efforts, and he’d ended his year with his number two ranking firmly in place. If everything stayed the same next season, he had a legitimate shot at grabbing number one from Javier Trevino, the Spaniard who had held the spot for the past three years—who, also according to the Internet, was also Sam’s practice partner.
There was disturbingly little information and even less gossip about Sam Bradford, aside from the typical ladies’-man assumptions. I found nothing that told me where he lived in the off-season, where he liked to vacation, or who he’d supposedly been dating—the gossip sites did have archives under his name, mostly because he’d dated more than his fair share of hot models and/or actresses, but nothing current popped on a Google search.
His parents lived in Boca, at least officially, but they struck me as the kind of people who weren’t ashamed to ride their son’s financial coattails. Living this kind of life all of these years had given me several gifts, but none came in handier than my ability to read people with a pretty high reliability. I was almost never wrong. Sam’s parents were greedy assholes. I’d bet my hair on it, and I had a shameless, narcissistic love for my hair.
Stalking wasn’t getting my anywhere, and the sorority meeting started in fewer than ten minutes. I took a deep breath, grabbed my phone, and scrolled through my contacts. There was nothing under Sam or Bradford, and I rolled my eyes, thinking I should have known better. Now I had to guess where Quinn had stored his friend’s number.