Oh, yeah, and I promised myself I’d stay far, far away from boys this semester. So on paper, it was probably a mistake to ask him to be my tutor—the little flush of jitters I feel is proof—but I like putting my self-control to the test. And it’s been too long since I was tested like this.
In the end I settle for tight jeans, high-tops, and a V-neck tee, the same thing I’d wear to the library if I weren’t meeting the star quarterback and his dazzling blue eyes. But this time I don’t skip the eyeliner and hot-pink lipstick.
The library is as empty as I’ve ever seen it—not surprising considering I’ve never been here on a Friday night before. When I reach our meeting spot—second floor, back tables, the section reserved for quiet conversation—Reeve is already there. He looks me up and down, then stands, a lollipop stick pressed between his lips. I know that look on his face, and I feel a little glow in anticipation, because I already know he’s going to tell me I look good. Maybe I’ll even return the favor and let him know I’m not hating the way his gray zip-up hoodie shows off a subtle but tantalizing hint of chest hair.
“Way to be on time,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down. “I was about to duck into the bathroom and jerk off just to pass a few minutes.” Just like that, the glow disappears. From the neighboring tables, people turn to stare, but of course when they see it’s everyone’s favorite football star who’s being a rude, disgusting jerk, they only turn back to their work.
“Iamon time. We said six forty-five.”
“Six thirty, babe. Hope you’re better at Spanish than you are at telling time.”
“I can assure you I’m not. I’m fully fluent in telling time, which is why I showed up at six forty-five, the precise time we agreed on.”
“Uh-huh.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Want to check our texts?”
He smiles arrogantly, revealing the shiny red lollipop set between perfect white teeth. “I bet all that boyfriend of yours had to do to get you wet was whisper ‘Yes, dear.’ Am I right?”
“Okay, let’s check the texts,” I say, pulling out my phone.
Reeve’s quick to wave me off. “Don’t waste my time. Get out your Spanish stuff so I can see what you’re working on.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I mutter as I get out my laptop, textbook, and a crumpled Spanish quiz showcasing my most recent display of mediocrity. “By the way, what’s with the name tag?” I narrow my eyes at the sticker stuck to his broad chest, his name printed under a fuzzy black-and-white headshot. “I wouldn’t have thought there was a single person on campus who doesn’t know the famous Reeve Dalton.”
He looks down at the sticker like he’s just remembered it. “You’re correct.” He peels it off his hoodie. “It’s a hospital visitor pass.”
“Everything okay?”
“Uh-huh. Me and some of the guys try to get over to the hospital once or twice a month to visit the kids.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “That’s what you choose for your phony ‘good guy’ act to try and get laid? God, that’s cliché.”
Reeve looks at me, letting my words sit in the air between us.
“Okay, sorry ... that was pretty bitchy,” I say as guilt creeps up.
“Don’t need to tell me.”
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s just very?—”
“Cliché. So you said. But, honey, do I look like someone who needs to put on an act to get laid?”
I roll my eyes, but when he turns to pick up my Spanish quiz, I can’t help letting my gaze wander over his sculpted shoulders and his picture-perfect profile. This is definitely not a man who needs to do anything to get laid except exist.
Reeve looks over the Spanish quiz and scowls. “You’re worse than I thought.”
“I’m not paying you to insult me.”
“You’re not paying me at all.” He glances at my chest. “At least not in dollars.”
Reflexively, I pull my shirt higher. “What’s that mean?”
“Take it easy. I was just thinking about that kiss.”
I swear to god he must have some internal switch he can flip to take his eyes from beautiful to fucking hypnotizing, because right then he sets his gaze on me, and suddenly the heat of that kiss is all I can feel, taste, or think about. I force myself to blink, but it takes a few seconds to get free of his invisible grip. “Well, don’t,” I say weakly. “Teach me how to conjugate irregular verbs in the preterit.” Behind us, someone shushes me, and I turn around to glare. “This isn’t the quiet section,” I tell everyone in view, since the shusher is too chickenshit to reveal themselves.
When I turn back to Reeve, he’s watching me and smirking. “Anyway ... what grade do you have in Spanish?”
