Diana
Just as I’m getting settled into the pull-out couch in the tiny-ass living room with my laptop, a can of cherry cola Olipop, and some leftover takeout from yesterday’s Japanese late-night excursion, the fucking doorbell rings.
Who could be coming here this late? Everyone else is at a party—I didn’t care to ask for the details, knowing damn well that I wouldn’t be attending—and even the guys next door joined. My family back in Miami didn’t plan a visit so…
I’m extremely confused.
The doorbell rings again.
Can’t a girl watchHarry Potterand eat day-old sushi without interruptions? I want just one night to myself, where I can forget about all my responsibilities and the people in my life who drive me crazy. This is not the time for unwanted guests, even in my least respectable pajamas—my Hufflepuff set I bought at Universal Orlando with the logo so worn out it’s almost gone.
The doorbell rings a third time and I groan out loud. Since it’s just me, I hesitantly stand up and remove the blanket from my shoulders.
Maybe I need to be more social. I’m not shy, like my roommate Emma, but at least she chooses to go to parties and have fun. When I envision having fun, getting drunk, and grinding on sweaty frat boys is not the picture I paint in my head.
To each their own, I guess.
I don’t even look into the peephole before opening the door and finding Carson Ryder, standing on my porch with a box in one hand. The box isn’t even what catches my attention—nor is the black leather jacket that he dons, which shouldn’t have made him look more like Logan Huntzberger than he already does—but the fact that he’s even here has my gears spinning.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I decide to cut straight to the chase. “What are you doing here?” He could’ve used the back door but that’s not at the forefront of my mind at the moment.
“Wow, what a way to greet your neighbor,” he says with a hint of sarcasm, which vanishes as he takes in my pajamas. Again, not a pair I would feel comfortable wearing in front of anyone outside my family and roommates.
Carson does not fit in either category.
“What are you doing here?” I repeat, enunciating each word and drawing his attention from my slippers and back to my eyes. “There’s no one else here.”
“I know,” he responds casually. “I came to see you.”
What? He came here specifically to see me? That seems out of character for him—actually, him showing up without any of his buddies in the middle of a Friday night with a random box in hand is out of character for Carson.
I still don’t say a word when Carson just lets himself in, stepping aside from me, my shoulder brushing his chest. Woah, that’s a hard chest if I’ve ever felt one and he smells earthy, almost woodsy. Why is he making it so hard to be mad at him?
“You didn’t go to the party?”
“What’s with all the questions?” Carson sets the box on the countertop and takes a seat on the couch, next to the pile of blankets I had made for myself.
Please do not ruin it. If you were somewhat of a decent person not condemned to the Fields of Punishment, Carson whatever-your-middle-name-is Ryder, you would not ruin that perfect pile of blankets that took me longer to set up than I would like to admit.
Much to my delight, he dismisses the pile of blankets. “Well, if you’re so curious,Just Diana, then no. I didn’t go to the party.”
Good. Not that I even cared in the first place. I’m just more concerned about my blankets.
“I’m not that curious,” I argue.
“Admit it,” he pesters. “You were wondering why I, of all people, would grace you with my presence.”
I scowl. “More like why you’re choosing to bother me instead of anyone else.” That and what’s inside of the box.
“Well,” he begins. “I may or may not have overheard your little predicament from a friend of yours.”
“What predicament?” I am extremely confused. And—to no one’s surprise—annoyed. “Just cut to the chase, Ryder.”
“Lucia told me about how you’re struggling.”
My eyes widen. Seriously? She went behind my back especially when I told her not to. “That blabbermouth,” I mutter.
To preface, I’m attending university on a full scholarship—which I had worked four tirelessly long years of high school to achieve. It has always been that way as long as I could keep my grades up. That was never a problem for me until this semester when my calculus grade started falling faster than Hephaestus down Mount Olympus.
