“Listen,” he says as I lower myself into the driver’s seat. “The car’s a hot rod, but you don’t need to drive it that way.”
I smile. “Noted.”
Jamie’s expression sobers. “That’s not me going soft and sentimental over you. I just don’t want you damaging my property.” He inclines his head at my body.
Cocking an eyebrow, I repeat, “Noted.”
I’m into this insane construct where he both objectifies me and tells me to drive carefully. It’s been a long time since anyone worried about me, and for some reason, it means more coming from Jamie. He claims we’re not going to get attached, but I wonder if it’s possible to remain detached after sex like we just had.
After sliding the key into the ignition, I look over at him. “You took my number but didn’t give me yours. Is that part of the rules?” Trying to keep the challenge out of my tone, I ask, “You’re the only one allowed to initiate contact?”
“With some exceptions. We’ll talk about it.” He reaches out and rubs my lower lip with his thumb. “I’ll text soon so we can get time together on the schedule.” His hand slides up the back of my neck, and his fingers close around a handful of hair. With a tug, he forces my head back, so I’m staring up at him. “Right, okay.” He murmurs the words as if he’s actually addressing himself rather than me.
I think he might kiss me. Instead, he releases my hair and steps back.
“Go on, Cranberry Sauce. Before I drag you back to my bed.” The words cause a surge of satisfaction. I don’t really understand our chemistry, but I love it.
Driving back to school, I can’t stop thinking about Jamie. For the first time since I’ve gotten to Granthorpe, I think college could be more than just a stepping stone in my career.
I pull into the campus lot with the most direct route to our dorm. Once I’m on the path to Central Residence Hall, I realize I need to formulate what I’m going to say to Ash about how I ended up at Jamie’s.
I run out of time when I’m within sight of the dorm, however, because Ash is sitting on top of a picnic table with her phone in hand, eyes fixed on the screen. On the opposite side of the table, there’s a path to the quad and, approaching from that direction, are my horrible adopted brother Brad and his friend, Crosby Bergmann.
A glance at the men reveals their attention is locked on Ash. Uneasiness engulfs me. Quickening my pace, I crunch over leaves until I’m practically jogging.
For some reason, Crosby, the stocky power lifter, always makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. But, as far as I know, he’s the lesser of two evils. My brother is the real menace.
I reach the patch of grass in front of Central before the guys do.
Brad spots me and narrows his eyes as I move to the end of the picnic table to block their access to Ash.
“Hey,” I say, more loudly than necessary, letting Brad know I’m prepared to draw attention to us if they cause trouble. Not that I expect them to with CC cameras all over.
They’re more the type of guys I never want my friends to cross paths with after dark. Clean cut and well spoken, theyseemtrustworthy. But more than once my brother’s high school friends plied some girl with so many drinks she passed out and had little recollection of what she did at a party. After, there would be rumors she’d been screwed by some jerk—or more than one. So sleazy.
Brad was never the one accused, but the company he kept was. And he definitely never criticized what any of his rich, powerful friends did. Bullying people. Using people. Humiliating girls. All fair game.
On top of my general reasons for disliking him, there are more specific ones. He’s always treated me like a charity case who got lucky by landing in his family. While that’s pretty much true, I don’t need to be constantly reminded of it.
As we make eye contact, my stomach lurches with a sick feeling. My pseudo brother’s scowl triggers horrible memories. The way he viciously taunted me over everything… my Southern accent, now gone, the gap between my front teeth, now gone, and my sensitive nature, definitely gone. At times, his anger even turned violent.
It was a relief when Brad went away to college. So much so that knowing he would be here, I almost didn’t apply to Granthorpe. But it was something my mom really wanted. And the GU Briar Club is a way to prove myself to my Allendale grandparents who consider me fruit of a poisonous tree.
The older Allendales forbid Robert—my dad—from adopting me, threatening to cut him off if he did. I didn’t know the truth until Brad told me when I was eleven. Dad was calm when I went to him in tears. I felt betrayed, but he assured me the delay was just part of his plan. We would bide our time. Eventually, he would control the massive family fortune himself, and he’d make the adoption legal and official. Until then, I needed to be patient. Sometimes, I was frustrated he didn’t take a stand, but he always treated me like I was his real daughter, which meant a lot to me.
Dad formally adopted me at seventeen, just before I aged out. In other words, just in time. Maybe I should’ve been annoyed that he didn’t announce it to his family, but I was just happy and grateful he did the right thing in the end. I’d started to think I might turn eighteen and be on my own.
Standing at the end of the picnic table, I study the pair of men when they reach us. Crosby is stocky, with a barrel chest and a surprising layer of fat across his middle, despite broad shoulders and muscular arms that strain against his shirt. His legs are as thick and sturdy as tree trunks, and his cloying aftershave barely covers the musky smell of male sweat as he starts to sidestep me.
We nearly collide, but Brad grabs my arm and jerks me out of his friend’s way, freeing Crosby to move in front of the bench where Ash’s feet are resting.
Trying to pull my arm free, I glare at my brother and notice there’s a raised reddish bruise on Brad’s cheek. My eyebrows rise. What happened? Did he fall down while drunk? That isn’t like him. He always wants to be in control.
“Ashling.” Crosby’s voice is excessively New England blue blood, which is crazy since his physique makes him look like a thug who went shopping at a yacht club.
Ash lowers her phone to her jeans-clad thigh. “Hello.” Her gaze cuts from Crosby to my brother, her blank expression resting where Brad’s hand grips my bicep before lifting to Brad’s face once more.
I aspire to that level of cool.
