The odds of two guys imparting the same sage wisdom seem slim, but the odds of Cooper being Frat Boy Yoda have to be slimmer. No way. There’s no way he’s the rando I’ve been texting. He probably has a harem of women sliding into his DMs, so why would he bother chatting with a chick he doesn’t even know?
It’s ridiculous.
Imposs—
“You still with me?”
I blink, bringing the party back into focus. Coop’s staring at me, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Huh?”
“We’re up.” He lifts my hand and drops a ping-pong ball into my open palm. “Ready to kick some Sig ass?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I smile, attempting to match his easy grin.
“We make a good team. When we’re not fighting.”
I arch a brow. “You mean when you’re not interfering in my sex life.”
“I wouldn’t need to interfere,” he says, a dangerous edge to his voice, “if you’d just drop this ridiculous mission.”
Anticipation hums through my body, a visceral response to that soft growl, but I hold my ground, all his prior good deeds forgotten. “Not. A. Chance.”
20
QUINN
It’s Sunday afternoon,and like most of Wildcat Nation, I’m nursing a hangover. The only difference is that mine stems from an unprecedented run at the beer pong table, not a celebratory drinking binge.
I groan and reach for my water bottle, which is on the nightstand next to my bed.
Homework and hangovers are not a thing, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different.
I’ve been staring at my laptop for an hour and I’ve only produced about fifty new words on my term paper. At this rate, it’ll take me all semester to finish it.
Serves you right bragging about being hangover-proof.
I really should’ve known better.
Still, I shut down the snarky little voice in my head. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
No, what I need is a decent topic for my term paper. Not to mention a solution for my virginity problem. Five weeks into the semester and I’m no closer to ditching my v-card than I was day one.
If that’s not the definition of an epic fail, I don’t know what is.
I sigh and press the backspace key, deleting the last sentence I wrote.
It’s trash and I know it.
There’s a knock at my bedroom door, and when I look up, I find Haley peeking in.
“Got a minute?” She pushes the door open with her foot. She’s hiding something behind her back and there’s a mischievous glint in her dark eyes as she grins, revealing a row of brilliant white teeth. “I have a surprise for you!”
My stomach drops. Haley’s last surprise was a creepy doll painting that gave me nightmares for a month.
Please don’t let it be another creepy AF painting.
I rack my brain, trying to remember what she’s working on in her art classes. There’s new media—whatever the hell that is—and glassblowing, which seems harmless enough. Last week, she brought home an adorable little pumpkin with a curly stem.
“Ta da!” Quick as a flash, Hales reveals her creation, holding it out like an offering on her upturned palms.
