The Deal (Off Campus #1)(6)

Shame tugs at my gut. Shame and regret and a touch of awe, because man,  she truly is an incredible friend. She doesn't have to stay sober and  remain vigilant just to make me feel comfortable, but she does it every  time we go out, and I love her deeply for it.

But I hate that she has to do it.

"Okay," I relent, not just for her sake, but my own. I had promised her  I'd be more social, but I also promised myself that I would make an  effort to try new things this year. To lower my guard and stop being so  damn afraid of the unfamiliar. A frat party might not be my idea of a  great time, but who knows, maybe I'll end up enjoying it.

Allie's face brightens. "Boo-yah! And look, I didn't even have to play my trump card."

"What trump card?" I ask suspiciously.

A grin lifts the corners of her mouth. "Justin is going to be there."

My pulse speeds up. "How do you know?"

"Because Sean and I ran into him in the dining hall and he said he'll be  there. I guess a bunch of the meatheads were already planning on  coming."

I scowl at her. "He's not a meathead."

"Aw, look how cute you are, defending a football player. Hold on-let me go outside to see if pigs are flying in the sky."

"Ha ha."

"Seriously, Han, it's weird. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm totally on  board with you crushing on someone. It's been, what, a year since you  and Devon broke up? But I just don't understand how you, of all people,  are into a jock."

Discomfort climbs up my spine. "Justin is … he's not like the rest of them. He's different."

"Says the girl who's never spoken a single word to him."

"He's different," I insist. "He's quiet and serious and from what I've  seen, he doesn't bang anything in a skirt the way his teammates do. Oh,  and he's smart-I saw him reading Hemingway in the quad last week."

"It was probably a required reading."

"It wasn't."

She narrows her eyes. "How do you know that?"

I feel the blush rising in my cheeks. "Some girl asked him about it in  class the other day, and he told her Hemingway is his favorite author."

"Oh my God. You're eavesdropping on his conversations now? You're such a  creeper." Allie heaves out a sigh. "Okay, that's it. Wednesday night  you're exchanging actual dialogue with the guy."

"Maybe," I say noncommittally. "If the opportunity arises … "

"I'll make it arise. Seriously. We're not leaving that frat house until  you talk to Justin. I don't care if it's just you saying hey, how are  ya. You're talking to him." She jabs her finger in the air. "Capiche?"

I snicker.

"Capiche?" she repeats in a strict tone.

After a beat, I release a defeated breath. "Capiche."

"Good. Now hurry up and take a shower so we can watch a couple episodes of Mad Men before bed."

"One episode. I'm too exhausted for any more than that." I grin at her. "Capiche?"

"Capiche," she grumbles before waltzing out of my room.

I chuckle to myself as I gather the rest of my shower supplies, but I'm  sidetracked yet again-I've barely taken two steps to the door when a cat  meows in my purse. The high-pitched wail is the ringtone I chose for  text messages because it's the only one annoying enough to get my  attention.

I set my toiletry case on the dresser, rifle through my bag until I locate my cell phone, then scan the message on the screen.

Hey, it's Garrett. Wanted to hammer out the deets re: tutoring sched.



Oh, for fuck's sake.

I don't know whether to laugh or groan. The guy's tenacious, I'll give  him that. Sighing, I quickly shoot back a text, short and not at all  sweet.

Me: How'd u get this number?



Him: Study grp signup sheet.



Crap. I'd signed up for the group at the start of the semester, but that  was before Cass decided we had to rehearse on Mondays and Wednesdays at  the exact time the study group meets up.

Another message pops up before I can respond, and whoever said it isn't  possible to detect a person's tone via text was totally wrong. Because  Garrett's tone is full on irritable.

Him: If u just showed up to study grp, I wouldn't have to text u.





  



Me: U don't have to text me at all. Actually, I'd prefer if u didn't.



Him: What'll it take to get u to say yes?



Me: Absolutely nothing.



Him: Great. So you'll do it for free.



The groan I've been holding slips out.

Me: Not happening.



Him: How bout tmrw night? I'm free at eight.



Me: Can't. I have the Spanish Flu. Highly contagious. I just saved your life, dude.



Him: Aw, I appreciate the concern. But I'm immune to pandemics that wiped out 40-mil ppl from 1918 to 1919.



Me: How is it u know so much about pandemics?



Him: I'm a history major, baby. I know tons of useless facts.



Ugh, again with the baby thing? All righty. Clearly it's time to put an end to this before he gets his flirt on.

Me: Well, nice chatting with u. Good luck on the makeup exam.



When several seconds tick by and Garrett doesn't respond, I give myself a  mental pat on the back for successfully getting rid of him.

I'm about to walk out the door when a picture message meows out of my  phone. Against my better judgment, I click to download it, and a moment  later, a bare chest fills my screen. Yep. I'm talking smooth tanned  skin, sculpted pecs, and the tightest six-pack I've ever seen.

I can't help but snort out loud.

Me: FFS. Did u just send me a pic of your chest?!



Him: Yup. Did it work?



Me: In icking me out? Yes. Success!



Him: In changing your mind. I'm trying to butter u up here.



Me: Ew. Go butter up someone else. PS-I'm posting that pic on my-bri.



I'm referring, of course, to MyBriar, our school's equivalent of Facebook, which ninety-five percent of the student body is on.

Him: Go for it. Lots of chicks will be happy to have it in their spank banks.



Me: Lose this number, dude. I mean it.



I don't wait for a response. I just toss my phone on the bed and go take a shower.





4

Hannah


BRIAR UNIVERSITY IS five miles from the town of Hastings, Massachusetts,  which has one main street and only about two-dozen shops and  restaurants. The town is so miniscule it's a miracle I managed to land a  part-time job there, and I thank my lucky stars for it every day  because most students are forced to make the hour-long drive to Boston  if they want to work during the school year. For me, it's either a  ten-minute bus ride or a five-minute drive, and then I'm at Della's, the  diner I've been waitressing at since freshman year.

Tonight I'm lucky and get to drive over. I have an arrangement with  Tracy, one of the girls who lives on my floor. She lets me use her car  whenever she doesn't need it as long as I return it with a full tank of  gas. It's a sweet deal, especially in the winter when the whole area  turns into a snow-covered skating rink.

I don't particularly like my job, but I don't hate it either. It pays  well and it's close to campus, so really, I can't complain.

Scratch that-tonight I'm definitely allowed to complain. Because thirty  minutes before my shift ends, I find Garrett Graham in one of my booths.

Seriously.

Does this guy ever give up?

I have no desire to go over there and serve him, but I don't have much  of a choice. Lisa, the other waitress on duty, is busy tending to a  group of faculty members at a table across the room, and my boss Della  is behind the baby-blue Formica counter dishing out slices of pecan pie  to three freshman girls sitting on the tall swivel stools.

I set my jaw and march up to Garrett, making my displeasure obvious as I  meet his twinkling gray eyes. He runs a hand through his cropped dark  hair and flashes a lopsided grin.

"Hey there, Hannah. Fancy meeting you here."

"Yeah, fancy," I mutter, yanking my order pad out of my apron pocket. "What can I get you?"

"A tutor."

"Sorry, that's not on the menu." I smile sweetly. "We serve really good pecan pie, though."

"You know what I did last night?" he says, without acknowledging the sarcasm.

"Yep. You were text stalking me."

He rolls his eyes. "Before that, I mean."

I pretend to think it over. "Um … you hooked up with a cheerleader? No,  you hooked up with the girls' hockey team. No, wait, they're probably  not ditzy enough for you. I stick with my original guess-cheerleader."

"Sorority sister, actually," he says smugly. "But I'm talking about what  I did before that." He raises one dark eyebrow. "But I'm very intrigued  by your interest in my sex life. I can give you details about that  another time if you want."

"I don't."






  
"Another time," he echoes in a dismissive tone, folding his hands on the blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth.

He's got big hands with long fingers, short nails, and knuckles that are  slightly red and cracked. I wonder if he's been in a fight recently,  but then I realize the busted-up knuckles are probably a hockey player  thing.

"I was at study group yesterday," he informs me. "There were eight other  people there, and you know what the highest mark in the group was?" He  blurts out the answer before I can hazard a guess. "C-plus. And our  combined average was a D. How am I supposed to pass this makeup if I'm  studying with people who are as dumb as I am? I need you, Wellsy."