“Naah, no torch here,” he finally answers. “Why? You aiming to tap that?”
Already have, dude. But I repeat what I told Sheena. “Maybe.”
“Gotcha. Well, if you’re looking for more than a hookup, she’s not your girl.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Seriously, Tuck, she’s closed tighter than a clam. She doesn’t have time.” Beau wrinkles his forehead. “She’s got like four or five jobs and you have to fit in on her schedule. Like a doctor on call.”
“That’s good to know.”
He finishes out his reps in silence. When he’s done, he pushes upright, and I toss him a bottle of water I find next to the bench.
“Need any more help?” I ask.
“Naah, I got it.”
“See you around then.” I take a step, then glance over at him again. “Do me a favor and keep this convo between us?”
He nods. “Gotcha.”
I’m at the exit door when Beau calls out to me.
“Hey, what if I said I was still interested?”
I turn around to meet his eyes. “That’d be too bad.”
Beau chuckles. “I thought so. Well, more power to you, dude, but I’m warning you—there are easier women than Sabrina.”
“Why would I want someone easy?” I flash him a grin. “That doesn’t sound like any fun.”
5
Sabrina
I’m having one of those days. The kind of day where I’m living in a cartoon and I’m the Road Runner, speeding from one place to another without a single opportunity to sit down or breathe.
Well, technically I do a lot of sitting in my morning classes, but it’s not relaxing at all, because we’re gearing up for our con law papers which make up the entirety of my grade, and I stupidly chose one of the hardest topics—the differing legal standards applied to examine the constitutionality of laws.
Breakfast consists of a cheese croissant that I scarf down on the way from Advanced Political Theory to Media and Government. And I don’t even get to finish it, because in my haste I trip on the cobblestone path that winds through campus and end up dropping the croissant in a puddle of slush.
My stomach growls angrily during the Media lecture, then gets louder and angrier when I meet with my advisor to talk finances. I didn’t find any acceptance letters in my mailbox this morning, but I have to believe that I at least got into one of the programs I applied to. And even the second tier schools will cost a pretty penny, which means I need a scholarship. If I don’t get into a top law school, there’ll be no BigLaw job offer with its BigLaw paycheck, and that means crushing, demoralizing, endless debt.
After the meeting, I have a one-hour tutorial for my Game Theory class. It’s run by the TA, a skinny guy with Albert Einstein hair and the annoying, pretentious habit of incorporating REALLY BIG WORDS in every sentence he utters.
I’m an intelligent person, but every time I’m around this guy, I’m secretly looking up words on my phone’s dictionary app under the table. There’s really no reason for a person to use the word parsimonious when they can just say frugal—unless they’re a total douche, of course. But Steve thinks of himself as a big shot. Though rumor has it, he’s still a TA because he’s failed—twice—to defend his dissertation and can’t get an associate professorship anywhere.
Once the meeting wraps up, I shove my laptop and notebook in my messenger bag and make a beeline for the door.
I’m so hungry that I’m feeling light-headed. Fortunately, there’s a sandwich place in the lobby of the building. I fly out the door, only to skid to a stop when a familiar face greets me.
My heart somersaults so hard it’s embarrassing. I’ve spent the last day and a half forcing myself not to think about this guy, and now he’s standing here, in the flesh.
My gaze eats him up eagerly. He’s wearing his hockey jacket again. His auburn hair is windblown, cheeks ruddy as if he’d just come in from the cold. Faded blue jeans encase his impossibly long legs, and he’s got his hands hooked lightly in the tops of his pockets.
“Tucker,” I squeak.
His lips quirk up. “Sabrina.”
“W-what are you doing here?” Oh my God. I’m stuttering. What’s wrong with me?
Someone jostles me from behind. I hastily step away from the doorway to let the other students out. I’m not sure what to say, but I know what I want to do. I want to throw myself at this guy, wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and maul him with my mouth.
But I don’t.
“You’re ignoring my texts,” he says frankly.
Guilt tickles my throat. I’m not ignoring his texts—I haven’t gotten them. Because I blocked his number.
Still, my heart does another silly flip at the knowledge that he’s been texting. I suddenly wish I knew what he’d said, but I’m not going to ask him. That’s just looking for trouble.
For some stupid reason, though, I find myself confessing, “I blocked you.”
Rather than look offended, he chuckles. “Yeah. I figured you might’ve. That’s why I tracked you down.”
I narrow my eyes. “And how did you do that, exactly? How’d you know I’d be here?”
“I asked my advisor for your schedule.”
My jaw falls open. “And she gave it to you?”
“He, actually. And yep, he was happy to do it.”
Disbelief and indignation mingle in my blood. What the hell? The faculty can’t just hand out students’ schedules to anyone who asks for them, right? That’s a violation of privacy. I grit my teeth and decide that the moment I pass the bar, my first order of legal business will be suing this stupid college.
“Did he give you my transcript too?” I mutter.
“No. And don’t worry, I’m sure your schedule isn’t being passed around in flier-form around campus. He only gave it to me because I play hockey.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? The reminder that you’re a privileged jackass who gets special treatment because you skate around on the ice and win trophies?”
I take off walking, my pace brisk, but he’s big enough that his strides eat up the ground and he’s beside me in a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely regretful. “If it helps, I don’t normally play the athlete card to get favors. Hell, I could’ve asked Dean for your schedule, but I figured you’d like that even less.”
He’s right about that. The thought of Tucker talking to Dean Di Laurentis about me makes my skin crawl.
“Fine. Well, you tracked me down. What do you want, Tucker?” I walk faster.
“What’s the hurry, darlin’?”
“My life,” I mumble.
“What?”
“I’m always in a hurry,” I clarify. “I’ve got twenty minutes to get some food in me before my next class.”
We reach the lobby, where I instantly get in line at the sandwich stand, scanning the menu on the wall. The student in front of us leaves the counter before Tucker can speak. I hurriedly step forward to place my order. When I reach into my bag for my wallet, Tucker’s hand drops over mine.
“I’ve got this,” he says, already drawing a twenty-dollar bill from his brown leather wallet.
I don’t know why, but that annoys me even more. “First drinks at Malone’s, and now lunch? What, you’re trying to show off? Making sure I know you’ve got cash to spare?”
Hurt flickers in his deep brown eyes.
Fuck. I don’t know why I’m antagonizing him. It’s just…him showing up here, admitting he pulled favors to find me, paying for my lunch…
It was supposed to be a one-time thing, and now he’s in my face and I don’t like it.
No, that’s not true. I love having his face near mine. He’s so sexy, and he smells so good, like sandalwood and citrus. I want to bury my nose in the strong column of his neck and inhale him until I get a contact high.
But there’s no time for that. Time is a concept that doesn’t exist in my life, and John Tucker is too big a distraction.
“I’m paying for your lunch because that’s the way my mama raised me,” he says quietly. “Call me old-fashioned if you want, but that’s how I roll.”
I gulp down another rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.” My voice shakes slightly. “Thank you for lunch. I appreciate it.”
We edge to the other end of the counter, waiting in silence as a curly-haired girl prepares my ham and Swiss sandwich. She wraps it up for me, and I tuck it under my arm while uncapping the Diet Coke I’d ordered. Then we’re on the move again. Tucker follows me out the door, watching in amusement as I try to juggle my drink and messenger bag and unwrap my sandwich at the same time.
“Let me hold this for you.” He takes the bottle from my hand. There’s a gentleness on his face as he watches me sink my teeth into the lightly toasted rye bread.
I barely chew before I’m taking a second bite, which makes him laugh. “Hungry?” he teases.
“Famished,” I admit, and I don’t even care that I’m being rude by talking with my mouth full.
I quickly descend the wide steps. Again, he keeps up with me.
“You shouldn’t eat while you walk,” he advises.