“The beard looks better since you trimmed it. The last few weeks of the season, it was looking very Appalachian Trail scruffy.”
“Do you hike?” he asks.
“Only through the mall.”
The sound that comes from his throat is low and gruff.
It’s well known he’s a distance hiker who has logged thousands of trail miles. Which is impressive, though I won’t admit to him that I think so.
He doesn’t need to know what I know about him either, so I say, “I take it you hike?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Getting back to your own kind? Grizzly bears and Big Foot?” My tone is tart, and he arches a light brown brow at me.
“I heard the football team is going hiking. Your idea?”
A nod is his only contribution to keeping the conversation going.
There are a number of towering bookshelves, and I wander over to one. He has tons of books, which seem to be organized by genre and style. Science fiction is in a separate area from the big bestsellers. Nonfiction is on its own bookshelf altogether. True Crime fills two long rows. I stop in front of a collection of leather-bound journals and remove one. The pages are filled with scratchy, nearly-illegible handwriting. His, I realize.
Flipping through the pages, I find a sketch of a metal-studded door. My eyes skim the page, slowing at the words “dungeon” and “girl bound naked to a cross.”
Despite the cold, illicit warmth courses through me. I bite my lower lip, wondering if he’s talking about a sex dungeon. And whether this entry is true or fictitious. The feel of his hand smacking my ass floats across my mind, causing a riot of arousal deep inside me.
Before I can read the whole passage, he strides over and collects the journals, pulling the one I have away from me.
“What’s wrong? Afraid I’ll steal your ideas and write the great American novel before you get a chance?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I worry about. Is Arya Peralta a better writer than I am? Her lack of punctuation suggests a sparse style that, if ever made intelligible, is certain to catch on.”
If the barb had been directed at anyone but me, I’d have laughed at his sarcasm. Instead, my brows rise as the corners of my mouth move in the opposite direction. Has he read text messages I’ve sent? If so, how? Eden would never let anyone dig through her phone. Maybe he’s read some texts over Cami’s shoulder?
“What are you talking about? When have you ever seen anything I’ve written?”
“I covered for a comp class teaching assistant for two weeks. There are mostly freshmen in Comp 101. After reading your email on the expository essay, I understood why you put it off.”
“Screw you,” I say hotly. “I did fine on that assignment. Emails are like texts. Punctuation doesn’t matter.” I hate that my writing found its way to him. If I’d known he would be the one reading it, I would have—
What? You’d have made it perfect? To hell with that.
He sets the stack of journals on the counter.
“Not surprising you’re a better writer than most of us, old man. You took how long of a break after high school to live in the woods and write? Like some crazy Unabomber throwback.”
His brow cocks, but he’s otherwise silent.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
Hmm. He’s only a couple of years older than most GU juniors, which surprises me. Even as a Freshman, there was no boyishness left.
His phone buzzes, and he takes it out. Tapping the screen a couple times, he frowns. “Fuck,” he mutters with a roll of his eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “Had an appointment to get my hair cut. It’s being pushed back again. Time to resort to clippers.”
