“Modern American Lit?” I grin. “Lots of sexually charged novels in that curriculum, right?Lady Chatterley’s Lover,Tropic of Cancer…”
“Lady Chatterley’s Loveris British and—never mind. Is there anything else?”
I stand slowly, taking my sweet time stretching outallof my muscles. Trevor’s breathing almost ceases to exist. My shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin, and I catch his eyes darting down before snapping back to his computer screen. When I reach the door, I pause and glance over my shoulder.
“You know, if you ever want tonotdiscuss that night again, you have my number.” I wink. “Unless you deleted it along with those photos you begged me to send.”
Another pencil snaps. “Get out, Mr. Larney.”
“See you around,Mr.Banks.”
I saunter out, high on the adrenaline of sexual tension and my own audacity. His secretary peers up from a pile of paperwork, and my swagger falters.
Marla Kensington. Pre-med student, killer smile, and owner of a tongue piercing that did incredible things to my?—
She’s pregnant.
And not first-trimester pregnant. We’re talking watermelon-under-the-shirt, any-day-now pregnant.
“Drew?” She blinks at me, hand moving instinctively to her belly. “Oh. Hi.”
My heart stops beating.When did we hook up?It had to be freshman year because I remember her dorm room had that poster of the periodic table where someone had replaced all the elements with Nicolas Cage faces. But freshman year was…I count backward.
Two and a half years ago.
My shoulders drop three inches, my lungs empty in a whoosh, and a sound bursts from my throat—half-bark, half-giggle—that makes Marla’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “Congrats on the…” I gesture vaguely at her midsection.
“Thanks. It’s been a journey.”
“I bet. Well, good luck with everything.”
I sprint away, not stopping until I’m outside in the January cold. Sweat rolls down my back despite the temperature.Jesus Christ.For thirty seconds there, I thought my habit of using sex as emotional bubble wrap had finally caught up with me.
That’s what I get for fucking with Trevor.
I pull out my phone to text the group chat about my near-death experience, then freeze. There are messages from Jackson.
Jackson
Hey, pal! Thanks again for yesterday. Even though my dick still hasn’t forgiven me.
Want to grab lunch at The Brew?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Lunch with Jackson. Sitting across from him, watching him eat, pretending I don’t want to crawl across the table and lick the crumbs off his lips.
This is why I fuck around. Because wanting someone you can’t have hurts worse than any childhood trauma. At least with random hookups, I control the narrative. I’m the one who leaves. I’m the one who doesn’t get attached.
But Jackson? He makes me want impossible things.
7
JACKSON
Iknew exactly what I was doing when I suggested lunch with Drew at The Brew, and it had nothing to do with their scrumptious sandwiches.
The place buzzes with the sound of laptop keys and desperate sighs. On every table, phone screens rest unlocked beside half-empty mugs. In the corner booth, a girl with purple-streaked hair climbs into her boyfriend’s lap, his hand disappearing beneath the table as they exchange saliva. Oliver darts between the espresso machine and register, sweat beading on his temples, calling out order numbers that barely rise above the din.
I’ve snagged a booth by the window, and I’m sipping my coffee when the door swings open, and there’s Drew. He’s in jeans that appear painted on, a sweatshirt that says, “This is my masturbation clean-up sweater,” and Ugg boots that, on any other guy from the hockey team, would be absurd.
