I’d just blazed through rules one, two, three, and four.
Rule one: Make them curious, slightly jealous.
Rule two: Don’t appear too interested. Always be polite.
Rule three: Give them a method of contact, but keep the ball in your court.
Rule four: Never answer the first text, call, e-mail, etc. For some reason, the brain picks up on the number three as being the final try before you look desperate.
“What if he doesn’t—?”
“He will.” I winked. “Now, off you go.”
“Third text, evasive, polite,” she mumbled to herself as she took purposeful steps toward the building.
“Kind of like watching little ducklings hatch and finally make it into the water,” a deep voice said beside me.
I grinned. “Lex, what brings you to my side of campus?”
“Have you checked your schedule?” His grin was way too big for nine in the morning.
“What did you do?”
“Not me.” He held up his hands. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you later.”
I was just about to open my schedule when I noticed the time. “Shit.” I ran like hell toward the Paccar building, hoping I wouldn’t be late again. Pretty sure my whole “my aunt was sick and needed someone to talk to” excuse wasn’t going to go over well for the third time, and this particular professor hated me because Lex had screwed his daughter.
We may be best friends, but at least I looked before I laid, you know? Lex didn’t care who his appetite affected; if he wanted something, he took it. Odd, considering he put so much damn time and energy into Wingmen Inc. It was his baby, his love child. Then again, even though we were best friends, Lex was private. He shared things with his computer, and sometimes, if it was a good day, he shared personal shit with me, but it was rare.
There were two things Lex trusted in this world: technology and sex. Neither had ever let him down. Hell, thirty years from now Lex will be sitting on the front porch of his mansion sipping lemonade with his computer/automated robot, whispering sweet nothings into its ear.
I nearly collided with a bench as I continued my sprint.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
With one minute remaining, I jerked open the door to the classroom and ran right into a short boy.
“Sorry, bro.” I leaned down to help him pick up his books.
Pink nail polish? Well, to each his own, I guess.
“You,” a very female voice said.
A hood was covering the she-man’s head. I peered closer and really wished I hadn’t.
Blake.
And she was pissed. Then again, my girl parts would probably be pissed off too if I strapped on a tight sports bra, tank top, and long basketball shorts. And, damn, those flip-flops just wouldn’t quit.
“Why are you always . . . everywhere?” she spat, wearing a look of outright distaste.
Class still hadn’t started, but I was a very self-aware individual. Meaning I knew that every damn eye in that room was trained on me and probably wondering why the hell I wasn’t charming the chick in dude clothes.
Can’t charm the asexual, folks.
I handed Blake her books. She jerked them out of my fingertips and huffed out a breath, pulling the hood from her hair.
That I could work with.
Her hair was a pretty golden-brown, thick, glossy, the first thing you noticed about her—other than the flip-flops, mind you.
“Business major?” I pointed to her books.
“Gen ed. Why else would I be here if I didn’t have to take the class?”#p#分页标题#e#
“Stalking.” I winked. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been followed. Probably won’t be the last.”
“You clearly have too high an opinion of yourself.”
“Some may say not high enough.” I let out a low chuckle as a few girls in the front row started whispering loud enough for anyone with two ears to hear:
“So hot.”
“Three times! She said it was the best night of her life.”
Blake clenched her teeth and shot poison darts with her eyes. “Fans of yours?”
“The club has an opening.”
Blake shoved past me to make her way up the stairs to the last few empty seats. I followed her, mainly out of curiosity but also from the need to distance myself from the girls in front, who would have most likely tried to fondle me the entire class.
Last time that happened, I couldn’t even finish!
And by “finish,” I mean finish my finance class.
“They made posters last year,” I said with a sigh, plopping into the seat right next to her.
Jaw slack, she pointed at the other seats on either side of us, seats that would at least put a few empty desks in between us.
“Desks. Chairs. It’s a classroom, so that’s to be expected. Anything else I can help you with?”