Hmm.
I grab hold of my pen to keep my hands busy and tap it a few times against the tabletop. “What about you? What are you working on?”
“Correcting French midterm papers.”
“French?” What! “Correcting French papers? What are you, a professor?” I tease.
A soft chuckle escapes his mouth. “I’m a TA for the French Immersion class.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Wait, what?” Aren’t immersion classes the ones where you speak zero English?
“I’m a TA for the—”
I put my hand up to stop him. “No, no, I heard you fine the first time. How are you fluent enough to correct midterm papers?”
“It’s my second language; my grandmother lived with us growing up and she’s old school. She’s from the Louisiana bayou, and Creole French was her first language.”
“So French is your major?”
“International studies. It felt like a natural fit.” He shrugs.
“Wow. International studies? That’s…wow. That’s unexpected.”
“Oui.” He laughs, my eyes following the corded muscles in his strong neck. “Mai je suis fort en ce sujet.”
My eyes widen, because sweet baby Jesus that was sexy.
Whatever it was he just said, I want to hear more.
It was hot.
I lean in. “What did you just say?”
“You said, ‘That’s unexpected,’ and I said, ‘Yes, but I’m good at it.”
I swallow, shifting my gaze. “So French was the language you used in our text messages.”
“Oui. Parfois je ne peux pas m’en empêcher.” He laughs, spreads his big hands flat on the table and leans back in his chair. Props his hands behind his head.
I track his movements, eyes raking the hard planes of his pecs beneath the purple tee, the smooth pale skin of his biceps.
Oh jeez Laurel, get a grip.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, sometimes I can’t help myself.” Another pleasant laugh and the butterflies in my stomach awaken. “It just comes out. I don’t know I’m doing it half the time.”
“Wow. Did you only speak French growing up?”
A quick nod and his arms come down. “When my Nanan lived with us. We stopped when she died a few years ago, right when I started high school.”
“Nanan is your…?”
“Sorry. That’s what I called my grandma.”
Cawled. “I’m sorry.”
His left shoulder lifts. “She was old.”
“Yeah, but still. My grandparents were from Poland and I never hear them speak a lick of Polish, just gesundheit when we sneezed.”
Rhett wrinkles his forehead, confused. “Gesundheit is German.”
I sigh. “I know.”
Rhett laughs, low and rich and deep, his neck bent, smiling down at the table, not meeting my eyes. Bites down and drags his teeth across his bottom lip. Back. Forth.
I tear my eyes away, blushing.
“So.” I open a new file on my computer to appear busy, shooting a cursory glance over my laptop screen. “A wrestler, huh?”
“All my life.”
Obviously. He still has his hands behind his head, so my eyes take another jog along the lines of body, down his toned arms and torso—the results of a lifetime of being physically fit.
He has really amazing arms.
“Laurel?”
I snap to attention. “Huh?”
“I asked if you’ve ever watched wrestling.”
“Uh, no.” Not yet. I make a mental note to Google it later. “Do you love it?”
Rhett shrugs modestly. “I’m good at it.”
He’s lying again. They don’t recruit juniors in college and steal them from other Division I universities if they’re just good.
“I bet you’re not just good. I bet you’re phenomenal.” I lean forward, watch his eyes dart to the neckline of my plunging V-neck shirt then fly to my face. I smile wickedly. “How do you feel about those little speedos they make you wear?”
This time when he laughs, he throws his neck back, the Adam’s apple in his throat moving from the motion. He hasn’t shaved today; the coarse stubble covering his neck makes him look harsh and slightly sloppy, like he rolled out of bed and didn’t care.
His hair though? It’s wavy and looks like he might have actually brushed it. Thick and silky, even if a tad long, just begging to have a set of hands running through it.
“Those speedos are called singlets.”
“I know that, but it’s fun to tease you.”
Rhett blushes deep, scarlet red, from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears.
“Million-dollar question: does the lack of material ever make you uncomfortable?”
Another laugh. “No. I’m used to it.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Does the fabric ever, you know…get stuck in places it shouldn’t?”
He wheezes, surprised by my inappropriate question, coughing into his elbow, chuckling. “Sometimes.”
“Rhett?” I say it quietly, switching gears.
“Yeah?”
“I know it’s not my place to say this, especially since we’re just getting to know each other, but you know…” I take a deep breath. “You know your friends are jerks, right?”
It’s the last thing he expects me to say. “Yeah, I know.”
“I’ve seen some real douchebags in my life, but those guys take top prize. What a bunch of assholes.”
“Not much I can do. I’m stuck here for the next two years.”
“Stuck?”
“Yup. There’s no turnin’ back.”
“That’s right—you transferred all the way from Louisiana.”
“Correct, and my parents were super pissed about it, so there’s no transferring back.” He picks at a sheet of white notebook paper on the table.
“And you’re living with those guys? The dine-and-dash crew?”
“Two of them, yeah.”
My smile is sad. “You seem like a decent guy. You don’t deserve to be treated like crap.”
He grimaces. “I know. Trust me, I know.”
“Can you tell me about all the hazing that’s been goin’ on?”
Rhett crosses his arms, the bulk of his biceps flexing beneath the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric straining and stretching across his broad chest.
Nice.
“I guess.” His sigh is weighty but he gives in. “Obviously I’m new to the team, right? A few of them have been callin’ me New Guy since day one, which drives me bat-shit crazy. My roommates can’t stand my last name.”
“Which is…”
“Rabideaux.”
“Rabideaux,” I repeat. Rab-ee-doe.
Rhett Rabideaux. I turn the name around in my head, romanticizing it.
Kind of sexy, really.
So French.
“What about you? What’s your last name?”
“Bishop.”
“Laurel Bishop.” It slides off his tongue slowly, quietly, like he’s saying it to himself and not to me. I see it rolling around in his brain, see him trying it out.
“Oui,” I whisper.
His eyes crinkle at the corner when I throw out the one French word I’ve picked up over the years, his dark chocolate irises softening as we regard each other across the library study table.
Those soulful eyes of Rhett’s land on the big, messy bun perched and piled atop my head. Fly to my hairline. Eyebrows. Lips.
I smile.
He clears his throat.
“Can we talk about the dine and dash for a second? You know I was there with my friend Donovan.” I hedge carefully, knowing it’s rude to ask. “How much did that cost you?”
“Four hundred bucks.”
“What!” I come out of my seat, indignantly shouting in the library. “Four hundred? Are you shitting me? Sorry, I shouldn’t swear, but are you shitting me right now? That’s horrible!”
“Shh, Jesus Laurel, calm down. Sit back down.” He leans over, those long fingers yanking on the hem of my shirt, tugging me down into my chair. “I’m still trying to decide how to tell my parents before the credit card statement does the tellin’ for me.”
I plop back down but, sympathetic, reach across the table and squeeze his forearm…his warm, solid, strong forearm. I’m tempted to wrap my palm around it for good measure. “I am so sorry. That sucks.”
He pulls his arm back, drags it under the table and out of my reach.
“Why are you sorry? It’s not like you did anything wrong.”
“No, but I did text you after they put those flyers up, and that probably didn’t help.”
God, I’m as big a douchebag as those assholes he hangs out with.
Rhett
Laurel’s wide eyes are the oddest shade of blue I’ve ever seen up close. Dark, with a little bit of brown around the edges.
Blue with a heavy liner running the ridge on top, sweeping out at the corner. Her skin is clean and clear, unblemished.
A ginger with no freckles, cheeks a bright pink, lips full and glossy.
Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe Laurel Bishop.
She fiddles with her notebook, picking at the end of the metal spiral, lithe fingers fidgeting, bright blue nail polish shining.
“I feel really bad.” Her voice is a whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t. It’s fine.”