The Deal (Off Campus #1)(7)

Wellsy? Is that a nickname? And how on earth does he know that my last name is Wells? I never told-argh. Damn sign-up sheet.

Garrett notices my surprised look and cocks his brows again. "I learned a  lot about you in study group. Got your number, your full name, even  found out where you work."

"Congratulations, you really are a stalker."

"Nope, just thorough. I like to know what I'm up against."

"Jesus Harold Christ! I'm not tutoring you, okay? Go bug somebody else."  I point at the menu in front of him. "Are you ordering? Because if not,  then please go away and let me do my job in peace."

"Jesus Harold Christ?" Garrett snickers before picking up the laminated  menu and giving it a cursory glance. "I'll have a turkey club." He sets  the menu down, then reaches for it again. "And a bacon double  cheeseburger. Just the burger, no fries. Actually, I changed my mind-yes  to the fries. Oh, and a side order of onion rings."

My jaw almost hits the floor. "You're seriously going to eat all that?"

He grins. "Of course. I'm a growing boy."

Boy? Nuh-uh. I'm only noticing it now-probably because I've been too  distracted by how insufferable he is-but Garrett Graham is all man.  There's nothing boyish about him, not his chiseled good looks or his  tall frame or that ripped chest of his, which suddenly flashes to mind  as I remember the picture he sent me.

"I'll also take a slice of that pecan pie and a Dr. Pepper to drink. Oh, and some tutoring."

"Not on the menu," I say cheerfully. "But the rest is coming right up."

Before he can argue, I abandon his booth and head to the back counter to  place his order with Julio, our night cook. A nanosecond later, Lisa  rushes over and addresses me in a hushed voice.

"Oh my God. You know who that is, right?"

"Yep."

"It's Garrett Graham."

"I know," I answer dryly. "That's why I said yep."

Lisa looks outraged. "What is wrong with you? Why aren't you freaking  out right now? Garrett Graham is sitting in your booth. He talked to  you."

"Holy shit, he did? I mean, his lips were moving, but I didn't realize he was talking."

I roll my eyes and walk over to the drink station to pour Garrett's  drink. I don't look his way, but I can feel those smoky gray eyes  following my every movement. He's probably sending telepathic orders for  me to tutor him. Well, too bad for him. There's no way I'm wasting the  little spare time I have on a college hockey player who thinks he's a  rock star.

Lisa trails after me, oblivious to my sarcasm and still gushing about  Graham. "He's so gorgeous. Like unbelievably gorgeous." Her voice lowers  to a whisper. "And I hear he's amazing in bed."

I snort. "He probably started that rumor himself."

"No, Samantha Richardson told me. She hooked up with him last year at the Theta kegger. Said it was the best sex of her life."

I have no response, because I couldn't care less about the sex life of  some girl I don't even know. Instead, I shrug and hold out the Dr.  Pepper. "You know what? Why don't you take his booth?"

The way Lisa gasps, you'd think I just handed her a check for five million dollars. "Are you sure?"

"Yep. He's all yours."

"Oh my God." She takes a step forward as if she's going to hug me, but  then her gaze darts to Garrett and she appears to have second thoughts  about broadcasting her terribly unwarranted joy. "I owe you so big for  this, Han."

I want to tell her that she's actually doing me the favor, but she's  already dashing toward the booth to wait on her prince. I watch in  amusement as Garrett's expression clouds over at Lisa's approach. He  picks up the glass she sets in front of him, then meets my gaze and  slants his head.





  

As if to say, you're not getting rid of me that easily.

*

Garrett

SHE'S NOT GETTING rid of me that easily.

Clearly Hannah Wells hasn't been around many athletes. We're a stubborn  lot, and the main thing we all have in common? We never, ever give up.

God help me, but I'm going to convince this girl to tutor me, even if I die trying.

But now that Hannah has dumped me off on the other waitress, it's a long  while before I get another opportunity to plead my case. For the next  twenty minutes, I endure the blatant flirting and undisguised interest  of the curly-haired brunette who's serving me, but although I'm polite  to her, I don't flirt back.

The only person I'm interested in tonight is Hannah, and my gaze sticks  to her like glue as she works the room. I wouldn't put it past her to  make a run for it when I'm not looking.

Her uniform is kinda hot, if I'm being honest. Powder-blue dress with a  white collar, big buttons down the front, and a short white apron around  her waist. Looks like an outfit right out of Grease, which I guess  makes sense considering Della's is a 50s-themed diner. I can easily  picture Hannah Wells fitting in during that era. Her dark,  shoulder-length hair has a slight wave to it, and her bangs are pinned  to the side with a blue barrette, giving the hairstyle an old-fashioned  vibe.

As I watch her work, I wonder what her story is. I asked around at study  group, but nobody knew much about her. One guy told me she's from a  small town in the Midwest. Someone else said she dated some guy in a  band all through sophomore year. Other than those two meager details,  she's a total mystery.

"Can I get you anything else?" my waitress asks eagerly.

She's looking at me like I'm a celebrity or some shit, but I'm used to  the attention. Fact: when you're the captain of a Division I hockey team  that's won two consecutive national titles, people know who you are.  And women want to fuck you.

"No, thanks. Just the bill, please."

"Oh." Her disappointment is unmistakable. "Sure. Coming right up."

Before she can go, I voice a gruff question. "Do you know when Hannah's shift is over?"

Her disappointed expression transforms into one of disbelief. "Why?"

"She's in one of my classes. I wanted to talk to her about an assignment."

The brunette's face relaxes, but a flicker of suspicion lingers in her  eyes. "She's off now, but she can't leave until her table does."

I glance over at the only other occupied table in the diner, where a  middle-aged couple is sitting. The man has just pulled out his wallet,  while his wife peers at the bill through her horn-rimmed glasses.

I pay for my food, bid my waitress goodbye, then head outside to wait  for Hannah. Five minutes later, the older couple waltzes out of the  diner. A minute after that, Hannah appears, but if she sees me lurking  near the door, she doesn't let on. She simply buttons up her coat and  takes off toward the side of the building.

I waste no time hurrying after her. "Wellsy, wait up."

She looks over her shoulder, frowning deeply. "For the love of God, I'm not tutoring you."

"Sure you are." I shrug. "I just need to figure out what you want in return."

Hannah whirls around like a dark-haired tornado. "I want to not tutor you. That's what I want."

"All right, so it's obvious you're not interested in money," I muse as  if she hasn't spoken. "Has to be something else then." I mull it over  for a beat. "Booze? Weed?"

"No, and no, and get lost."

She starts walking again, her white sneakers slapping the sidewalk as  she marches toward the gravel lot at the side of the diner. She makes a  beeline for the silver Toyota hatchback parked right next to my Jeep.

"Okay then. I guess you're not into party favors."

I follow her to the driver's side, but she completely ignores me as she  unlocks the door and tosses her purse into the passenger seat.

"How about a date?" I offer.

That gets her attention. She straightens up like someone shoved a metal  rod up her spine, then swivels her head in astonishment. "What?"

"Ah. I've got your attention."

"No, you've got my disgust. You actually think I want to go out with you?"

"Everyone wants to go out with me."

She bursts out laughing.

Maybe I should feel insulted by the response, but I like the sound of  her laughter. It's got a musical quality to it, a husky pitch that  tickles my ears.

"Just out of curiosity," she says, "after you wake up in the morning, do you admire yourself in the mirror for one hour or two?"





  

"Two," I reply cheerfully.

"Do you high five yourself?"

"Of course not." I smirk. "I kiss each of my biceps and then point to  the ceiling and thank the big man upstairs for creating such a perfect  male specimen."

She snorts. "Uh-huh. Well, sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Perfect, but I'm not interested in dating you."

"I think you're misunderstanding, Wellsy. I'm not looking to make a love  connection with you. I know you're not into me. If it makes you feel  better, I'm not into you either."

"That does make me feel better. I was starting to worry I might actually  be your type, and that's too terrifying to even contemplate."