He’s not giving up on the questions. “You mentioned the logo?”
“It’s a flower.”
“Wait.” Tapping on his phone, he stops and turns the phone my way. “This logo?”
Wow, he found that fast. “Yep. That’s the one.”
“So, he plays professional rugby.” He pauses, then punches out, “For. England.”
I shrug again. “I guess.”
Bryant chuckles. “Wow.” Looking back down at me, he smiles. “Leave it to ditzy Quinn to befriend a professional athlete and not even know it.”
Hold the gosh dang phone. Ditzy Quinn? I’m not ditzy. “I’m not ditzy.”
Patting the top of my hand again, he smiles, but it’s not sincere. “You know what I mean.”
No, I really don’t. But I’m not going to argue with him about this. It gives me some things to think about, though.
“What’s his name again?” Bryant picks his phone up and holds it like he’s ready to go.
“Cooke.”
“Cooke?”
Why is he asking? If I let on that I probably know more than I should about the hot guy from England, Bryant might get the wrong idea. “Cooke the rugby player from England.”
Bryant chuckles, shakes his head, and types. I wait in silence as he stares down at his phone. Looking up at me, he asks, “Cooke Thompson?”
I lift both shoulders and attempt to show him that I have no idea.Why do I care what Bryant thinks?I doubt he’d be jealous of a guy half-way across the world.
Reaching out, Bryant slaps my back. Hard. So hard that I wince. “Leave it to somebody like you to fall into something like that. Jesus. You’re friends with fucking Cooke Thompson.”
I lift one shoulder. “I wouldn’t call us friends.” I wouldn’t. We’ve talked on the phone a few times. So what? “I didn’t realize you followed rugby.” Honestly, I know very little about Bryant.Except that I thought I loved him.
“I’m abigrugby fan. My team is Wales.” There’s a weird silence between us. Uncomfortable. That is until he says, “Yeah, well, the reason I stopped by….”
Oh, here we go.
“Do you happen to have your friend Kara’s number?”
Oh. No. He. Didn’t.
Before I can even think to speak, I slam my book shut, then slap my notebook down on top of that. Then I take both and shove them into my backpack. First off, “MyfriendKara?” What the ever-loving hell? Secondly, why would he askme? I’m—he’s supposed to likeme.
“Quinn?”
Grabbing the handle of my backpack, I stand. Turning to him, I say the only thing I can and still save face. “Kara isnotmy friend.” I mean, didn’t he hear the shit she was saying about me last night? I doubt it stopped when I left. “I just met her, and I’ve been doing my best to stay as far away from her as possible.”
“Why?” He’s standing up now too.
“She’s mean.”
“Mean? She seemed nice.”
“To you,” I spit. I’m not doing this.
I start to step away when I feel him grasp my upper arm. I quickly pull back because I hate my arms. His voice is soft. “Quinn. Stop.”
