What the shit is that all about?
If she’s playing a game to keep me guessing, she should know better than to play an athlete.
We aren’t deterred that easily.
I make one last-ditch effort, give her one last chance to change her mind and come to her senses. “James, what if we meet for dinner after you’re done cleaning? I’ll take you for a burger, no strings attached, and you can bring your laptop.”
“You just invited my roommate to go with you instead!”
“Who cares?” I scowl down at Jameson, who cringes.
“She can hear us arguing, you know.”
I barely spare Sydney a glance. “So?”
“You’re absolutely ridiculous.”
“You seriously won’t meet me for dinner?” I’ll admit it, I’m this close to stomping my foot on the ground like a child who’s not getting their way.
“I can’t meet you for dinner. I’m helping Allison.”
“I’m not going to beg, Jim.”
She laughs. “I don’t want you to.”
“How about a threesome?” Kidding, not kidding.
“Oz.” Her tone carries a warning that I’ve pushed far enough. We stare each other down until Sydney uncomfortably clears her throat between us.
“A burger sounds great.”
“Excellent. I’m starving.” I lick my lips for show, both girls following the movement of my tongue with their widened eyes. “In fact, I could eat just about…anything right now.”
Sydney bites her bottom lip, fighting back an excited squeal, and rattles off some house numbers.
An uneasy feeling settles over me when I look to James for any sign of disapproval, some hint that she’s bullshitting. Any second now she’s going to throw her hands up and announce she’s kidding—of course she’ll meet me at Malone’s!
Instead, the large smile pasted on her face appears sincere. Apologetic. Exaggerated, but sincere.
I should be relieved. I should feel ecstatic to have James off my back. No nagging. No bitchy comebacks. No sass.
I shouldn’t feel anything.
But goddammit if I do.
Jameson
I should be relieved.
I should feel excited for Sydney; Sebastian Osborne is her type one hundred times over. From his broad, firm shoulders to his black tattoos, his dirty mouth to his popularity on campus.
I shouldn’t feel anything for him.
But…damn if I do.
Crap.
Sebastian
“So what’s the deal with you and Jimmy?”
“Who?”
I tap my index finger on the table impatiently. “Jameson. You know—you two aren’t…” I jiggle a limp French fry over the appetizer platter in the center of the table. “You aren’t exactly who I’d place together in a lineup.”
I take a bite of my fry, watching Sydney intently, chewing slowly while appraising everything about her with male appreciation. In the hour I gave her to get ready for…whatever this is…she used every spare minute to get freshened up. Smoky eye makeup, sleek wavy blonde hair, tight pale blue sweater.
Tighter skinny jeans.
At the moment, we’re sitting in a corner booth at Malone’s, one of the closest bars to campus that serves the best burgers in town. You might reek like deep fryer when you walk out, but the food more than makes up for it. If I’m going to be railroaded on a date—which is costing me what little extra money I have—I’m going to eat a delicious goddamn hamburger, even if it I have to do an extra two miles of running and fifty extra squats to burn off the calories.
“Placed together in a lineup?” Sydney’s dark blonde brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?” Her long hot pink nail pokes at a mozzarella stick on the appetizer platter, but she makes no move to eat it.
I nab another fry and pop it in my mouth. “Seriously.” I swallow. “Conservative Mary and Malibu Barbie? How’d the two of you end up living together?”
Another poke at the mozzie sticks. “Conservative? Who on earth are you talking about?”
In a move I’m going to later blame on Jameson, I roll my eyes. “James.”
How can she not know who I’m talking about?
“You’re talking about James?” she asks, baffled.
I gotta give the girl props: Sydney has the good sense to look affronted. I give her another few points for loyalty, and one for the irritated expression she’s trying to mask behind her faltering smile. “Jameson Clark? Conservative?”
She says it so incredulously I begin to wonder if I’m starting to piss her off.
Nonetheless…
“Do you know more than one Jameson?” I recline back in my chair and cross my arms. Sydney’s eyes, lined in heavy black liner, rake my tattoo-covered biceps, flaring with obvious interest.
Palming my beer bottle, I take a quick pull. “Yeah. Prim and proper. Smart mouth. What’s up with that?”
I’m kind of being an asshole, but she doesn’t seem to care. Well, she cares, but I don’t.
Sydney blushes out a stiff, “James is not boring.”
I scoff. “I didn’t say she was boring—I know why she’s always studying, but what other stuff is she into? She does do other stuff, yeah?”
“I think she’s just serious about school. She doesn’t like to be bothered when she’s studying.”
I suppress an eye roll. “I know. Has it occurred to her that she doesn’t need to wear cardigans and shit to be serious about school or to be left alone?” I ask more to myself than to Sydney. “Does she ever go out and have fun? Let loose? Dress slutty?”
Inquiring minds want to know.
“Yes?”
Yeah, right. My brows rise dubiously. “Really? What kind of fun?”
Sydney’s arms flail helplessly on her side of the booth. “I don’t know! You just saw us at a party—that kind of fun. She likes snowboarding and swimming in the summer, so she does that a lot.”
“Snowboarding?” I ask incredulously.
Sydney nods. “She’s really good, too. I think she’s in the snowboarding club; they’re leaving for Utah for spring break soon.”
No fucking way. “Snowboarding?” I parrot, sounding like an idiot. “There’s no fucking way.”
Sydney stares at me then, across the table, the most perplexed look on her face. Brows creased into deep lines, her mouth is downturned in an arch. “Sorry? I’m getting really confused.”
Her ditzy laugh doesn’t reach her eyes, and the air between us gets awkward.
Shit. This isn’t cool. I’m a dick, but if I keep overtly acting like one, there’s no chance in hell Sydney’s going to blow me in the bathroom at the end of this quasi date.
I switch gears and turn on the charm. “You know what? Forget I said anything; I was just curious. So tell me more about yourself.”
Now her whole face changes, goes from guarded to animated when she gasps an excited breath. “I’m a senior nursing major originally from Tennessee, I’m on the dance team, and I just love wrestling. I’m a huge, huge fan.”
A huge fan for someone who thought I was on the football team, I think sarcastically.
“Uh huh.” I nod, half listening, and eat another limp fry, chasing it down with a swig of beer while trying to visualize Jameson Clark snowboarding.
I’m fucking sorry, but I cannot for the life of me reconcile the image in my mind. Tiny Jameson, bearer of buttoned up cardigans and pearl necklaces, snowboarding? Terrain parks and half-pipes. Boxy jackets and bib overalls.
There’s no freaking way.
Sydney’s voice drones in and out.
“…and then I transferred last year when I toured the campus with my cousin. That’s how I met Allison, who was already living with Jameson. I have to make up a few classes at the end of this year that weren’t accredited at my previous school, which will set me back a semester. That’s gonna suck.”
Absentmindedly, I reply, “That does suck.”
“Right? My parents are going to kill me.” Suddenly, Sydney’s mouth broadens into a huge smile. “So, enough about me. Tell me more about you. What’s the famous Oz Osborne’s story? I can hardly believe I’m sitting here with you. I feel like we have a lot in common.”
Her teeth flash bright white in her spray-tanned face and she gives a tiny squeak of delight.
Great. Just great. Jameson tricked me into going out with a sports groupie. I’m going to kill her the next time I see her; maybe she’ll let me stick my tongue down her throat as punishment.
I lean forward in the booth, resting my elbows on the sticky tabletop. “I don’t know what there is to tell. I’m here on a wrestling scholarship, but everyone knows that. My major is HR, my—”
“HR…like, as in human resources?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” Her response is one I’ve seen a million times before. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a guy majoring in HR. What made you decide to do that?”
I have my reasons, but they’re no one’s business. I don’t know Sydney, don’t care to get to know Sydney—so I don’t tell her the reason I majored in HR when there were a million other career paths I could have chosen.
“So Sydney, what else do you like to do for fun.” The tone of my voice is obviously an innuendo, an invitation I’m not quite feeling in my pants.