“I need a study room,” a deep voice says. I’m not looking straight ahead but mostly observing the computer screen in front of me. The screen just shows a fill-in-the-blank spot for all the study rooms.
“Can I see your ID?” I hold out my hand for the ID card and as soon as the cold card is placed in the palm of my hand, my eyes wander to the picture.
In an instant, I look away from the computer and scowl at the blue-eyed boy in front of me. “You.”
Speak of the devil. Again, the gods are seriously fucking with my life because it’s as if the boy was just poofed into thin air right in front of my damn face.
“Me,” he taunts. “I need my ID back now.”
I input his ID into the system and hand it back to him without sparing another glance at his bangs. See, it’s already difficult enough to tolerate his presence in class and the house behind mine. Now my place of work? I take a deep breath, thinking on the bright side: at least we’re not in the same program.
When I find myself looking back at the front, Carson’s still standing there. For some odd reason. I don’t need him to stand there like an Adonis for shits and giggles. Some people have work to do.
Wait, why did my mind go there? Adonis? I can describe Carson Ryder with a lot of adjectives—anything but Adonis, which is high praise from me. Praise that he doesn’t deserve.
“What do you need?”
He frowns. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me what room to go to?”
Oh, I almost forgot about that. My cheeks heat up slightly and I murmur, “Room 210. You know the drill.” I hand him the key to the study room and he still hasn’t moved. “Hit anyone with pies, lately?”
He smirks, no doubt unfazed by my question. “Only those who deserved it.” Instead of turning away, he stuffs the key into the pocket of his denim jacket and reaches into his book bag to pull out a familiar-looking notebook.
Wait, that’s mine.
“What are you doing with that?” I ask warily.
He holds it out to me. “Enzo told me to drop this off since he can’t.” His roommate and I share a class and since he’s behind on the material, I volunteered my notebook so he could look over the notes. Or, in Enzo’s case, take photos of them.
I hesitantly take it from his grasp, and in that brief interaction, the tips of my fingers brush his knuckles. On any other day, I wouldn’t think anything into it.
Not today, apparently. His fingers are smooth, almost rich. It might be the weirdest thought to cross my mind in my junior year of college but that’s honestly the best I can describe it. Honestly, nothing’s hotter to me than a guy who knows how to take care of himself and not depend on anyone else.
“Something on your mind, Dirty Diana?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Donotcall me that.” Ever again. Just…no. As much as I love my name, I don’t like being compared to a Michael Jackson song that’s about a creepy stalker. Carson doesn’t have to remind me of the comparison every time I see him. Like before class, when he borrows something from my house.
Basically every fucking time he sees me.
I’m not even named after the song—though my mother used to love it—but whether or not he has decent intentions I still can’t stand the nickname.
“Come on,” he teases. “It’s iconic.”
“It’s unoriginal, that’s for sure,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
“Okay, maybe Sassy Diana is a better fit for you.”
“That’s even worse!”
“Well, then. What do you want me to call you?” He raises a challenging brow.
I sigh, my bangs lifting slightly. “Just Diana is fine.” If it can get him to leave me alone and back to work. Or watchingGilmore Girlssince it’s pretty dead in here.
Carson tilts his head slightly, his chestnut-colored hair following the movements. I can’t help but allow my eyes to follow it. How is it that someone who can get under my skin with ease could be blessed with such good hair? That’s just unfair.
“Alright then,Just Diana, it is.” He winks before walking off and it takes about half of my energy to restrain myself from lifting my middle finger at his retreating figure. I like nicknames as much as the next guy does—the only exception is when the next guy sucks at giving them out.
Carson knows how to pick at every bone in my body. Yet, somehow, I still let him.
