The Deal (Off Campus #1)(2)

Because I'm a coward. Yep, a total chicken-shit coward. I'm terrified  that he'll say no, but I'm even more terrified he'll say yes.





  

I was in a good place when I started college. My issues solidly behind  me, my guard lowered. I was ready to date again, and I did. I dated  several guys, but other than my ex, Devon, none of them made my body  tingle the way Justin Kohl does, and that freaks me out.

Baby steps.

Right. Baby steps. That was my therapist's favorite piece of advice, and  I can't deny that the strategy helped me a lot. Focus on the small  victories, Carole always advised.

So … today's victory … I nodded at Justin and he smiled at me. Next class,  maybe I'll smile back. And the one after that, maybe I'll bring up the  coffee, dinner or brunch idea.

I take a breath as I head down the aisle, clinging to that feeling of victory, however teeny it may be.

Baby steps.

*

Garrett

I FAILED.

I fucking failed.

For fifteen years, Timothy Lane handed out A's like mints. The year I  take the class? Lane's ticker quits ticking, and I get stuck with Pamela  Tolbert.

It's official. The woman is my archenemy. Just the sight of her flowery  handwriting-which fills up every inch of available space in the margins  of my midterm-makes me want to go Incredible Hulk on the booklet and rip  it to shreds.

I'm rocking A's in most of my other courses, but as of right now, I'm  getting an F in Philosophical Ethics. Combined with the C-plus in  Spanish history, my average has dropped to a C-minus.

I need a C-plus average to play hockey.

Normally I have no problem keeping my GPA up. Despite what a lot of  folks believe, I'm not a dumb jock. But hey, I don't mind letting people  think I am. Women, in particular. I guess they're turned on by the idea  of screwing the big brawny caveman who's only good for one thing, but  since I'm not looking for anything serious, casual hookups with chicks  that only want my dick suit me just fine. Gives me more time to focus on  hockey.

But there won't be any more hockey if I don't bring up this grade. The  worst thing about Briar? Our dean demands excellence-academically and  athletically. While other schools might be more lenient toward athletes,  Briar has a zero-tolerance policy.

Fuckin' Tolbert. When I spoke to her before class asking for extra  credit, she told me in that nasally voice of hers to attend the  tutorials and meet with the study group. I already do both. So yeah,  unless I hire some whiz kid to wear a mask of my face and take the  makeup midterm for me … I'm screwed.

My frustration manifests itself in the form of an audible groan, and from the corner of my eye I see someone jerk in surprise.

I jerk too, because here I thought I was wallowing in my misery alone.  But the girl who sits in the back row has stuck around, and she's making  her way down the aisle toward Tolbert's desk.

Mandy?

Marty?

I can't remember her name. Probably because I've never bothered to ask  for it. She's cute, though. A helluva lot cuter than I realized. Pretty  face, dark hair, smokin' body-shit, how have I never noticed that body  before?

But I'm noticing now. Skinny jeans cling to a round, perky ass that just  screams "squeeze me," and her V-neck sweater hugs a seriously  impressive rack. I don't have time to admire either of those appealing  visuals because she catches me staring and a frown touches her mouth.

"Everything okay?" she asks with a pointed look.

I grumble something under my breath. I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment.

One dark eyebrow rises in my direction. "Sorry, was that English?"

I ball up my midterm and scrape my chair back. "I said everything's fine."

"Okay, then." She shrugs and continues down the steps.

As she picks up the clipboard that contains our tutorial schedule, I  fling my Briar Hockey jacket on, then shove my pathetic midterm into my  backpack and zip it up.

The dark-haired girl heads back to the aisle. Mona? Molly? The M sounds  right, but the rest is a mystery. She has her midterm in hand, but I  don't sneak a peek because I assume she failed just like everyone else.

I let her pass before I step into the aisle. I suppose I can say it's  the gentleman in me, but that would be a lie. I want to check out her  ass again, because it's a damn sexy ass, and now that I've seen it I  wouldn't mind another look. I follow her up to the exit, suddenly  realizing how frickin' tiny she is-I'm one step below her yet I can see  the top of her head.

Just as we reach the door, she stumbles on absolutely nothing and the books in her hand clatter to the floor.

"Shit. I'm such a klutz."

She drops to her knees and so do I, because contrary to my previous  statement, I can be a gentleman when I want to be, and the gentlemanly  thing to do is help her gather her books.





  

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I'm fine," she insists.

But my hand has already connected with her midterm, and my jaw drops when I see her grade.

"Fucking hell. You aced it?" I demand.

She gives a self-deprecating smile. "I know, right? I thought I failed for sure."

"Holy shit." I feel like I've just bumped into Stephen fuckin' Hawking  and he's dangling the secrets to the universe under my nose. "Can I read  your answers?"

Her brows quirk up again. "That's rather forward of you, don't you think? We don't even know each other."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not asking you to take your clothes off, baby. I just want to peek at your midterm."

"Baby? Goodbye forward, hello presumptuous."

"Would you prefer miss? Ma'am maybe? I'd use your name but I don't know it."

"Of course you don't." She sighs. "It's Hannah." Then she pauses meaningfully. "Garrett."

Okay, I was waaaay off on the M thing.

And I don't miss the way she emphasizes my name as if to say, Ha! I know yours, asshole!

She collects the rest of her books and stands up, but I don't hand over  her midterm. Instead, I hop to my feet and start flipping through it. As  I skim her answers, my spirits plummet even lower, because if this is  the kind of analysis Tolbert is looking for, I'm screwed. There's a  reason I'm a history major, for chrissake-I deal in facts. Black and  white. This happened at this time to this person and here's the result.

Hannah's answers focus on theoretical shit and how the philosophers would respond to the various moral dilemmas.

"Thanks." I give her the booklet, then hook my thumbs in the belt loops  of my jeans. "Hey, listen. Do you … would you consider … " I shrug. "You  know … "

Her lips twitch as if she's trying not to laugh. "Actually, I don't know."

I let out a breath. "Will you tutor me?"

Her green eyes-the darkest shade of green I've ever seen and surrounded  by thick black eyelashes-go from surprised to skeptical in a matter of  seconds.

"I'll pay you," I add hastily.

"Oh. Um. Well, yeah, of course I'd expect you to pay me. But … " She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I can't."

I bite back my disappointment. "C'mon, do me a solid. If I fail this  makeup, my GPA will implode. Please?" I flash a smile, the one that  makes my dimples pop out and never fails to make girls melt.

"Does that usually work?" she asks curiously.

"What?"

"The aw-shucks little boy grin …  Does it help you get your way?"

"Always," I answer without hesitation.

"Almost always," she corrects. "Look, I'm sorry, but I really don't have  time. I'm already juggling school and work, and with the winter  showcase coming up, I'll have even less time."

"Winter showcase?" I say blankly.

"Right, I forgot. If it's not about hockey, then it's not on your radar."

"Now who's being presumptuous? You don't even know me."

There's a beat, and then she sighs. "I'm a music major, okay? And the  arts faculty puts on two major performances every year, the winter  showcase and the spring one. The winner gets a five thousand dollar  scholarship. It's kind of a huge deal, actually. Important industry  people fly in from all over the country to see it. Agents, record  producers, talent scouts … . So, as much as I'd love to help you-"

"You would not," I grumble. "You look like you don't even want to talk to me right now."

Her little you-got-me shrug is grating as hell. "I have to get to  rehearsal. I'm sorry you're failing this course, but if it makes you  feel better, so is everyone else."

I narrow my eyes. "Not you."

"I can't help it. Tolbert seems to respond to my brand of bullshit. It's a gift."

"Well, I want your gift. Please, master, teach me how to bullshit."

I'm two seconds from dropping to my knees and begging her, but she edges  to the door. "You know there's a study group, right? I can give you the  number for-"

"I'm already in it," I mutter.

"Oh. Well, then there's not much else I can do for you. Good luck on the makeup test. Baby."

She darts out the door, leaving me staring after her in frustration.  Unbelievable. Every girl at this college would cut her frickin' arm off  to help me out. But this one? Runs away like I just asked her to murder a  cat so we could sacrifice it to Satan.