“Since Thor decided to hog the front row.”
“I’m Thor?” he asked, sounding a bit too pleased.
I guess being compared to a Viking war god was a compliment. I cringed inwardly at revealing that I sometimes envisioned him standing on the prow of a longboat with a horned helmet and a spear. In my fantasies he was shirtless even in the long, cold, Icelandic nights. Real Vikings, I theorized, would be immune to the cold. Or at least they were in my dreams.
Adopting my best uncaring attitude, I waved a hand down his body. “You add a spear and a helmet and you look like you should be standing at the prow of a longboat.”
Too busy rifling through my mental images of Bo, it wasn’t until he maneuvered me sideways that I realized I had walked all the way to the front again where we had sat on Monday.
“Just because we’re lab partners doesn’t mean we have to sit next to each other in class.” I frowned.
“I know.” Bo just grinned and pulled out my chair. “It’s a perk.”
Remaining immune to his infectious charm was going to be near impossible. I was given a momentary reprieve when the professor greeted us with an announcement about our lab studies. “You’ll have two primary lab projects this year. The first is to test the hypothesis of nature over nurture by examining whether there are innate differences between males and females. The second is to create a crossbred plant or animal that can survive here in the Midwest and combines whatever traits are perceived to be lacking in the other.”
I tried to pay attention to the details of our lab project, but as hard as I was attempting to ignore Bo, every shift of his body that brushed up against mine sent little prickles of electricity shooting throughout me. I felt his jean-clad thigh press against mine when he let his legs fall open. He stretched his right arm across the back of my chair. The smell of his cologne or aftershave or shampoo released into the air with each movement.
By the end of class, I felt like I was drunk on Bo Randolph. How in the world was I going to make it through a five-credit course with Bo Randolph as my lab partner and not become totally obsessed with him? Get a grip, I scolded myself. So what that he was so good looking he belonged on a movie poster? So what that he sent cute text messages? So what that every time I inhaled, I could smell a warm, inviting masculine scent? None of these were things I couldn’t find in some other guy. Okay, maybe not as good looking or as funny, but there had to be hundreds of non-Central College guys who smelled good.
And had big hands and broad muscular chests. And tousled blond hair with a thousand different colors that would take me a year to catalog, with a matching scruff around his chin and upper lip. I wondered what that felt like if it was close to your skin. Would it feel scratchy or soft?
“Something on my face?” Bo asked, his long fingers coming up to wipe at his cheek.
“Uh, no, why?” I said, still staring.
“Because you’re rubbing your cheek and staring at me like I have parts of my breakfast hanging off my chin.”
Heat burned my cheeks as I realized I was stroking my face as I fantasized about the texture of Bo’s stubbled cheek against my skin.
“Ah, no, just a scratch,” I lied, turning my nails inward, wincing at the pain as I scraped my skin too hard in compensation. “Don’t you type?” I tried to distract him. He was about the only one in class without a laptop.
“I can, but I also have impulse control problems.” He shrugged. At my questioning look, he went on, “I’d want to play a game or something. But I do get them typed up. Want to share?”
Why not. “Sure, text me your e-mail address and I’ll shoot you my notes.”
The indent on the left side of his mouth deepened as he smiled with approval. Was it wrong that I wanted to stick my tongue into that groove? I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, a movement that caught Bo’s attention. His eyes shifted down to my lap and then up to my face again. My breath stopped, or maybe it was just time that froze, as he leaned toward me, his ocean-blue eyes now the color of water at midnight. All thoughts of my immutable rules, the reasons why to avoid him, were gone, replaced by the shape of his lips, the hot, dark hue of his eyes, and the warmth of his breath as his face came ever closer.
His mouth brushed lightly across my cheek and I felt him inhale, his nose an infinitesimal space away from my jaw. His chest contracted, and he let out a waft of warm air that lifted my hair away from my neck. “You smell good, AnnMarie. It’s hard to concentrate, so I need my pen and paper to keep me on track.”
I was still shuddering when he drew back. An earthquake had happened inside my body. He was going to utterly ruin me.