1
The Arrival
Baya
I’m pretty sure flashing your boobs at the hottest guy in a ten-mile radius isn’t the best way to meet new friends on move-in day.
“Shit!” I pull my tube top up, quick as a flicker, but it doesn’t matter, “the girls” have already made their startling debut right here in Founder’s Square in front of a demigod who’s witnessed the first of many embarrassing episodes I’m sure to have at Whitney Briggs. “I swear I don’t know how that happened.” I pluck and adjust, while struggling to hold onto the oversized duffle bag I’ve filled with all of my dad’s favorite books. When he died I sort of adopted them, and, now, I’m dragging them around like a body. It was the one bag I didn’t check and thankfully so since the airline sent the rest of my things to Kansas. “It’s like a ghost just pulled it down. Stupid top.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid.” He gives a lopsided grin, and my insides squeeze tight. He’s gorgeous, and built, and way the hell out of my league. “I think it’s friendly.” He dips his gaze to my cleavage again as if waiting for a reprisal.
“It’s not friendly, and neither am I.” I take a step to the left, and he’s quick to block my path. “Look, sorry about the peep show. My clothes usually don’t make a habit of falling off in front of people.” His caramel hair glows in the dappled sunlight. It looks glossy and slick, and it’s all I can do to keep my fingers from running through it.
“Don’t feel too bad—clothes everywhere have a habit of falling off in my presence. Especially the undergarment variety.” He gives a cocky grin. “In fact, I double dog dare you to do it again.”
Perfect. He’s tanned, ripped, and evidently ready to dip his wick.
“I’m leaving now.” I ditch around him and step into the swell of humanity. Girls in every level of undress scream and hug as if summer had somehow lasted a thousand years. Dozens of skateboards jet by, quick and lethal as bullets, as I struggle my way through the main thoroughfare. If I wasn’t lugging around all my father’s books, which have decidedly morphed into bricks, I might have actually enjoyed my first stroll through campus. I had seen snippets of it in the glossy brochures, but I’ve basically shown up at Whitney Briggs sight unseen. The first thing I noticed when the airport shuttle dropped me off is the fact the air is thinner in the mountains of North Carolina, much more than it ever was in Texas. Back home you could take a bite out of the heat, and here it feels like I’m filling my lungs with something just this side of helium.
A pair of bicycles zoom at me in either direction, and I squeeze my eyes shut in a passive effort to avoid the near collision. They whisk by, and I force my lids to open once again. I could use a serious nap right about now and maybe a defibrillator if I ever manage to trek across this overgrown scholastic terrain. Swear to God, this campus is uphill both ways. Whoever thought it was a good idea to plop a school on the side of a mountain must have been part billy goat.
“You need a hand?” It’s the tanned, ripped, dip-wick willing and able with his half-cocked smile, and I’m sure he’s got a half-cock in his pants to match. Just as I’m about to protest the idea, he swipes the duffle bag from me without the proper invite, not that my tired muscles are willing to fight him. “Which way you headed?”
“No really, it’s okay.” I try to snatch it back, and he swings it just out of reach. His muscles redefine themselves, and a series of lightly sketched tattoos track up over his biceps.
“I promise I won’t say a word to your dorm sisters about ‘nipplegate.’”
I suck in a quick breath.
“Nipplegate?” Crap. I’m not on campus five minutes, and already I’ve caused a quasi-political scandal of mammary proportions, not that my boobs are anything news worthy. “I’m in Prescott Hall.” I sag into the idea of him schlepping my things. I bet he’s secretly going to call me nipples each time he sees me. In fact, I’m sure he’ll share this juicy tidbit with his lowlife friends, and I’ll have to endure four long years listening to things like nips, the nippler, nipapolis, the rack,gah—thenomrack!
Just shit.
I scan the area for signs of my brother, but he’s nowhere to be found. He’s the reason I’m at Whitney Briggs to begin with. I miss him. He’s been out of the house for three long years, and I’m dying to be near him again. Cole is my favorite person in the world, no offense to Mom who is also pretty great. But after Dad died, Cole really became so much more than a big brother. Once he left, I lived for his weekly phone calls, and now that I’ll get to spend time with him every day, the idea brings tears to my eyes. He’s that sweet.
“Prescott it is.” The blonde duffle bag wielding demon leads us to an overgrown building that to my surprise is in close proximity and doesn’t require mountain climbing gear to get to. On the lower level there’s a packed café with a giant sign in the window that readsHallowed Grounds.The smell of fresh brewed coffee transforms the vicinity into a nirvana-like heaven. He gives a sly smile as he walks alongside me, and a fire rips through my bones.
A breath gets caught in my throat at the sight of his pale grey eyes—stunning is the only word I can think to accurately describe them. He’s watching me, heating my skin with his stare, and my cheeks catch fire being this lethally close to him. I move my gaze lower and note his bulging biceps with the beginnings of a tattoo peering out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt. Whoever this is, he’s spent some serious time at the gym, or prison—or maybe the gyminprison.
“So you’re a freshman?” He opens the door to the building with his back and nods me in first.
“What gave it away? My ‘How to Survive Your First Year at University’ handbook for dummies or my perky peach nipples?” I smart as we step into the waiting elevator. I punch in the third floor, and we start to float.
“Neither, but the perky peach nipples were a nice surprise. You really know how to brighten a guy’s day.” His teeth illuminate like a row of stars, and I blush a deeper shade of crimson.
I want to say they don’t call me BayaBrightonfor nothing but resist the lame joke at the expense of my sir name.
His smile fades as he takes me in. There’s a sadness hiding there beneath those lightning grey eyes, and I can’t pinpoint where it might be coming from.
“You’ve just got that freshman look about you.” His voice gravels it out low, like a secret. “You look sweet—yet to be tainted by the masses. Most of the girls around here eat frat boys for breakfast. You don’t strike me as the man-eater type. You’ve got ‘good girl’ written all over you.” He says it with a leer as if he’s ready and willing to revoke my good girl visa. And the way my thighs are quivering, I’m not sure I’d mind.
God, he sounds just like Cole. If I hear what a “good girl” I’m supposed to be one more time, I’m going to hurl all over his shiny new tennis shoes. As much as I love my brother, I’m tired of him reminding me of what a little angel I am. Honestly, sometimes it feels as if Cole wants to keep me a little girl forever.
“Yeah, well, being a good girl is highly overrated.” I should know. Much to Cole’s approval, I am one.
We step out, and I follow the number on the doors all the way down the hall. Most of the doors are opened, exposing the fact girls are busy decorating their miniaturized abodes with wall decals and superfluous purchases from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Music blares from a room to our right and a tall redhead stomps out and tapes a poster of a fuzzy white kitten over her door that reads, A, B, C, D, E, then below the fuzzy cute kitty, F.U.
“Nice,” I say, glancing over at the demigod of moving day. “Looks like I’m not the only friendly one around here.”
