I wonder whether the Viking will come downstairs to look for me. It would be satisfying if he did, since his normal M.O. is to remain unfazed by mere mortals.
A blast of cool air causes me to shiver. I look over my shoulder at the open door.
A tall skinny figure in black jeans and silk scarves saunters in. Even before he’s close, I spot Brayden Delmer’s scorpion belt buckle and stiffen.
My ex’s look is “Keith Richards circa 1970s meets rich frat boy.” Beneath his L.L. Bean coat, two scarves and a half-buttoned shirt frame his pale skin and bony ribs. Over-the-top and borderline pathetic.
He strides over. “Arya, I thought it was you.”
“Performing tonight?” I say with a small pang. I miss the times I joined his band onstage.
“Yeah, yeah.” Bray drops onto the couch next to me and pulls me against him in a hug, which I resist. His sharp inhale as he breathes makes me lean back farther. I don’t want him smelling my hair. Or getting this close, period.
His hands grab my arms and hold on. “We’re playing a mixer. Come with me. You can sing. Or just dance in front.”
I shake my head.
“I’ll make it worth your time. Five hundred bucks?”
Pursing my lips together, I feel my heart pound. I could use the money. The latest fight with my mom means my bank account has almost run dry. But I’m not taking money from Brayden. First, because our toxic relationship is over, and also because, fuck him for having so much family money that he never has to choose between music and a day job.
His large, bony hand cups my jaw. “Come on, beautiful girl. It’ll be hot. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got one of your sexy lingerie tops in my guitar case.”
“Pass.” I tilt my head to get my jaw free.
Bray grabs my upper arms and squeezes. “Come on, don’t be that way. It was just a weak, drunken moment. I said it won’t happen again. And anyway, you overreacted—”
My eyes narrow. “I didn’t overreact. And fuck you for saying I did.”
He shrugs, rolling his eyes as if we’re fighting about a stick of gum. “I know you’re interested in some of that yourself—”
I cut him off sharply. “Eden said there was a fight at the frat house during your last party. Because some assholes wore Casanova roses?”
“It was just a joke,” he says, drawling his response like a long-suffering, misunderstood trust fund kid who shouldn’t be forced to explain himself to the middle class. “That asshole Shane Moran turned it into a big thing. Just because his little stepsister took offense.”
My tone turns frigid. “You didn’t wear a rose, did you?”
“No, but so what if I did?” His finger traces a line under my breast.
I shove his hand away, but it springs back as though there’s a rubber band connecting us.
“Would that be another thing you’d hold against me?” he says with mock regret.
“Yes. And cut it out.” I push his arm away and shove his shoulder. We’re not together, so he should keep his hands off me.
Of course he reacts badly to being rejected, his expression darkening as he pushes me against the arm of the couch. When his hand reaches toward my chest, I block it. Despite everything, hestillfeels entitled to my body.
My blood boils with rage, and I’m about to scratch his face when a disapproving male voice says, “Delmer.”
Bray’s hands release me instantly as he jerks upright.
The voice doesn’t belong to who I was hoping to see. The Viking is nothing if not menacing. Instead, it’s one of Sorensen’s friends. And one of Shane Moran’s friends.
Declan Heyworth, the campus’s golden god, studies us. If Granthorpe is full of sworn knights, Declan is their king.
“Heyworth,” Bray says with a nod as he stands and smoothes down his clothes. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for my girl, so she doesn’t get accosted by assholes.” When it comes to looking down his nose at someone, Declan is world class.
