I risk a glance in his direction, wondering if I’ll see disappointment etched across his expression.
Athletes don’t usually identify with quitters, and if I’m being honest, I fall into that category.
“What did your parents say?” he asks into the night.
“They were relieved. I think they were sick of getting crying phone calls from me every week. Plus, I was a walk-on, not a scholarship athlete, so there was no free ride for tuition. My grades were suffering, and I can’t afford to be here five years.”
Unlike Rhett, who was courted and recruited by not one, but multiple top-tier universities. I wonder how good he actually is, making a mental note to Google his stats when I get home.
We walk the remaining three blocks, hands brushing a few times in the dark, neither of us choosing to break the distance by stepping away.
We arrive at his Jeep.
“Need a lift home?” His deep voice is a rumble in the night.
My eyes flicker briefly to my SUV parked three spaces down. I clamp my lips shut.
“Sure. That would be great.”
Rhett hits his key fob, unlocking the doors. Pulls the passenger side open and holds it. “Hop in.”
I get all melty at his chivalry, brush against him when I scoot past to scramble inside, settling into the cab of his Jeep with a sigh. Setting my backpack in my lap, I glance around curiously while he jogs around the front.
He waves to someone coming down the sidewalk from the library. Throws them a smile.
Yanks open his door and climbs up.
“Which way we headed?”
“I’m three blocks in the other direction, over near Kinsey. Know where that is?”
“Huh,” he says, putting the Jeep in reverse. “That’s where I’m at.”
“On Kinsey?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m one over—technically I’m at the crossroad, McClintock, but everyone knows Kinsey so I just say that.”
“Got it.”
I study his profile, the bump in his nose. The strong set of his jaw. The stubble on his neck and chin. The reflection from the rearview mirror like a mask across his dark brown eyes.
Surprisingly, the cab of the Jeep smells clean but masculine. Musky, like cologne, and not old gym socks.
I’m tempted to scoot closer for a covert whiff of him but think better of it because, Jesus, I must be losing my damn mind. I can’t be attracted to him.
Can I?
Shit, what if I am?
It takes a measly three minutes to reach my street, the glowing windows of our little college rental a small beacon at the end of the road, ramshackle but quaint.
“I’m that one.” I point to the tiny white house on the corner, the one with dilapidated siding and a broken screen door. Our landlord hasn’t cut the grass or fixed the cracked window above our kitchen sink, but you can’t see any of those imperfections in the dark.
Donovan and Lana’s cars are both gone.
They must be at work.
Still, the little light above our stove glows, dim but warm.
“This one?” Rhett slows to a stop in front of my house, shifting the Jeep into park. His arm goes across the seat back, body arching to look out the windshield behind us. “See that house over there? The blue one?”
I crane my neck, cheek brushing his hand. “Where?”
I’m such a damn liar—I can totally see which house is his, the blue one with black trim. When his hand inadvertently brushes against the back of my neck, tickling the loose hairs…
I shiver.
“That one there. It’s…” He counts the houses between his house and mine. “Nine houses over.” He tips his chin down so he’s looking into my eyes. “What are the odds?”
“What are the odds?” I repeat, whispering into the dark, staring at his profile when he glances out the driver-side window. I stare at his full lips.
Rhett pulls away. “Where’s your car?”
“Uh…my roommate has it. She must be working.”
“You goin’ to be okay by yourself?”
“I’m here alone all the time,” I remind him, in no rush to climb out.
“Duh. Right.” He nods. Clears his throat. “Right.”
Rhyt.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem.” When he smiles, jeez, it changes his whole face. His straight white teeth shining in the dim light, the small cleft visible in the center of his chin. I want to press my finger there just to see his reaction.
“Good night, Rhett.”
“À la prochaine, Laurel,” his mouth whispers, and holy mother my ovaries can’t take it. My crotch actually tingles.
“Um, maybe don’t do that.”
“Don’t what?”
“Speak French. Around me, specifically.”
One brow rises. “All right…I won’t?”
“Good.” My hand reaches reluctantly for the door handle. Grips it. “Okay. I should go inside, I guess.”
“Night.”
“See you around.”
“Au revoir.”
I narrow my eyes; he did that on purpose. “Bye.”
“Laurel, do you need help getting out?”
“No, I’m good.” I heft my backpack. “On second thought, this backpack is really heavy.”
The poor boy looks so confused. “You need me to carry it?”
“Would you?”
“Uh…sure.”
I wait for him to come around to the passenger side, open the door, remove the backpack from my very capable hands.
Then I stand next to the Jeep, imagination getting the best of me, wanting him to try to kiss me against the cold, steel door of his car. Wanting him to put his hands on my body, slide them under my jacket. Drop my bag and press his lean hips into mine. Run his giant wrestler hands up my ribcage, under my shirt.
I imagine all this while he stands waiting for me, imagine what it would be like if he touched me.
He doesn’t.
Of course he wouldn’t—why would he?
He’s a freaking gentleman.
I sigh, following him to my door.
I’m quickly learning that Rhett Rabideaux isn’t most guys.
Tres inconvenient.
Rhett
Laurel: I know I already mentioned it, but thank you for dinner tonight
Me: You’re welcome.
Laurel: And thanks for bringing me home. It wasn’t necessary.
Me: No problem.
Laurel: You’re a really nice guy, do you know that?
Me: So I’ve been told.
Laurel: What do you have going on this weekend?
Me: Meet Friday. Back Saturday.
Laurel: Oh that’s right, Ohio State. Do you think you’ll go out this weekend when you get back?
Me: Probably not. I usually spend the weekend after a meet icing my body.
Laurel: Do tell.
Me: Ha ha.
Laurel: Sigh. You are a tough crowd, Rhett Rabideaux.
Me: Hey, can I ask you something?
Laurel: Sure!
Me: I was telling my roommates I drove you home tonight, and after I mentioned where you live and pointed out your house, one of them said they always see three cars parked in front of your house?
Laurel: Ummmm.
Me: Did your roommate borrow your car, or did something happen to it? Or…
Laurel: No.
Me: You can tell me if something happened to it, Laurel.
Laurel: Promise you won’t get mad?
Me: Sure?
Laurel: My car is… God, I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding like a horrible person.
Me: Jeez, just tell me where your car is. Did it get towed?
Laurel: My car is parked in front of the library.
Me: What do you mean?
Laurel: I mean, my car was three spots down from your Jeep. It’s still sitting on campus—is that what you want me to say?
Me: I don’t get it.
Laurel: What don’t you get?
Me: Why would you accept a ride home when your car was literally RIGHT there? Now you have to go back and get it.
Laurel: Why don’t I let you figure that one out for yourself? Or if you really can’t figure it out, ask one of your more experienced roommates.
The last text comes through and I shake my head, baffled. Why would she have had me take her home if her car was parked right there?
It makes no goddamn sense.
Fresh from the shower, I toss the towel I used to dry my hair onto the bathroom floor then walk into the front room. My roommates are both spread out on the couch, watching some dude on a home improvement show saw a piece of wood in half and nail it to a wall.
I clear my throat. “Hey. Question.”
“Shoot.” Neither takes their eyes off the giant screen.
“So, remember how I told y’all I drove Laurel home, and then you said you always see three cars in her driveway? I messaged her about it.”
“Yeah?” Gunderson’s ears perk up at the mention of a girl’s name, his eyes fastened to the TV.
“She had her car at the library.”
Eric points the remote at the TV, hits pause. “Your cars were both at the library?”
“Right.”
“But she had you give her a ride home.”
“Yeah.”
He points the remote, hits play. “Uh, yeah—she wants to bone you.”
I laugh, crossing my arms.
Johnson shakes his head, disgusted, and sneers. “The chick obviously wanted you to give her a ride home, fuckwit, and there’s only one reason why. How goddamn dumb are you?”
“Fuck you, Johnson.”
“No, fuck you, Rabideaux. That chick wants you to fuck her.”
I stand there, holding my towel closed.
“Honestly New Guy, if you can’t figure out what it means when a chick tries to be alone with you, your chances of getting laid at this point are slim to none.”