Gee, thanks. Way to drop a truth grenade and run Em. I shoot another glance at Cal and am surprised to see he’s already looking at me. Caught under his gaze, I can’t seem to break away.
Maybe my friends are right?
Chapter Seven
One Week Since the Life-Altering Kiss
I love to read and am always writing, journaling, sticking quotes all over my room, so it surprised no one in my math-focused family that I decided on an English major before I finished my freshman year, despite the thirty-five other possible majors offered.
And while I absolutely am addicted to the smell of books, the expense for all these theory textbooks and hard-to-find editions with their required forwards sure adds up. Thankfully, Thatcher College’s library has extensive archives and an impressive cross-state lending system.
My latest bulk order arrived today, thus why I’m bogged down carrying a stack of books from my bellybutton right up to under my chin. One more title would have tipped me over. The soft skin under my chin is starting to chafe from the load, but luckily, someone is holding the front door to Tasker Hall open for me as I waddle forward.
Unlucky, I correct, when my peripheral vision catches a glimpse of Cal pushing the door wider. “Doing some light reading, or are you opening up a bookstore?” he asks with his perfect smile.
“I wish,” I admit before I can prevent myself.
“You wish to open a bookstore.” He states this not as a question, but as a mere fact that he’s processing. “I can see it. Beauty and the Beast, ladders and all.”
God, yes, my heart practically leaps out of my chest at my ideal future life. I grunt an affirmative because I can’t nod, or my pile will collapse to the floor.
“Let me help you,” Cal offers, but I skirt away from his extended arms. It’s the New Yorker in me, I guess, and these are my precious. And besides, I’m now only a couple of yards away from our rooms. “Alrighty then,” he allows, “but at least let me get your door for you. Where are your keys?”
I don’t refuse his latest offer because, while I consider myself a feminist, I’m not a moron, and I could use someone’s assistance or a rolling suitcase next time. “In my front pocket,” I answer without moving my jaw too much, but then immediately start to panic, belatedly realizing that he’s going to have to stick his hand in my jeans to fish them out. I break out in a sweat and regret my earlier decision not to hand over the books in the first place. I have no idea what I was trying to prove.
We’ve reached my door, and I rest a hip on the wall to balance myself.
Cal’s hand slips into my pocket, but it’s a tight fit between the snug bootie jeans I’m wearing and his large, manly hands. Seriously? I know women don’t typically keep wallets in their pants, but we can use a little more pocket room than designers give us. His hand wiggles in deeper, pulling the material tighter against my crotch in the process. The friction hits my sensitive target and causes a surprised gasp and desire swimming through my veins.
“Got it!” His voice is so deep and sensual that I almost moan. Yeah, you do.
But then Cal adds, “I think we just went to third base.” Grr! And there went the stirrings I was feeling as effectively as if I’d just done the Ice Bucket Challenge. Guys suck!
I hear the jangling of my keys as he puts it into the antique-brass lock on the wooden door.
“Um … hmm,” he mutters, the door still not opening. If he takes any longer, I’m going to throw these books at him and do it myself. “Now don’t be mad …”
Uh-oh! That’s never good. “What?” I ask through gritted teeth, my arms starting to feel like two taut rubber bands about to snap just like my temper. Instead of answering me, his arms are enveloping my book babies as he lifts them out of my aching hands, placing them on the floor next to us.
“The key sort of broke in the lock,” Cal says, holding up my key ring. My eyes narrow as I see that only the top part of my key is in his hand. My gaze flies to the lock, and sure enough, I can see the missing teeth wedged inside it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” he rushes out. “It was the oddest thing. It felt like cutting into butter.”
“You have to go easy,” I whine.
Cal shoves a hand through his hair and stares at the door handle. “Not to worry, I can fix this.”
“How?”
“We’ll call maintenance and they’ll put in a new lock. No problemo.”
I groan because the few times I’ve had repair issues previously, it took forever to get someone to even come out.
“Here, come inside my room to wait in the meantime,” Cal says, unlocking his own door with ease and I shoot him a petulant glare. He shrugs, looking contrite and uncomfortable. He holds his door open, and I enter his domain for the first time.
I do a double take. It’s clean and orderly, and I grimace, realizing that much like his handwriting, he’s way neater than I am. The room even smells like fresh linens or some sort of soap. Where is the pile of stinky socks and open food containers littered about? Isn’t that how jocks are supposed to live?
I gape, taking in the motivational business posters on his walls with quotes from Steve Jobs to Jeff Bezos. Cal doesn’t seem to notice my shock. Instead, he’s on the phone, speaking with the help desk and explaining what happened. I assume it’s a female operator because he’s all Cal charm, and when he makes a lame joke about how he’d hate to have to sleep out in the mean streets of our seaport town, I hear lyrical laughter come through from the other end of the line.
“She says someone will be over right away,” Cal says after he hangs up. While that hasn’t been my experience with past help desk tickets, I believe him as I’ve seen what charming Cal can accomplish.
