He hunched his shoulders, and his mouth flattened into a line. “No. I just meant that’s where Callahan’s girl lives.” The car in front of us inched into traffic, and he slowly pulled the truck forward for his turn. “Do you live on Jamaica’s floor?”
“No. I’m the RA on the floor above hers.”
That tidbit seemed to relax him. His shoulders dropped as he eased us out onto the main road. “What year are you?”
“Junior.”
With a nod, he added, “Physics major.”
My brow shot up. The kind of mesmerized stare he’d given me when Jamaica had introduced us had made me think he hadn’t heard that part.
“And you’re bio-chem.”
Simultaneously we said, “Science nerds.”
The awkward tension that had filled the cab of his truck from the minute we climbed into it evanesced with the grins we exchanged.
We rolled along at about five miles per hour below the speed limit. Apparently, Finn wanted to spend some time with me. The idea warmed me far better than the seemingly nonexistent heater in his truck. When I glanced at the dials, I noted he didn’t have it turned on. Coupled with the fact he was wearing only his game-day jersey and no hoodie, jacket, or even an undershirt, I figured this guy’s motor never stopped. I clamped my thighs together as thoughts of what that meant sizzled my brain.
As though he’d read my mind, he reached over and flipped a dial. The scent of dust filled the cab. “Sorry. I don’t use the heater in this much.” His sheepish tone pulled my eyes to his face, the dash lights revealing a dull red hue high on his cheeks.
“Guess you run hot.”
Finn chuckled as I clamped my hand over my mouth.
“Sorry. That didn’t come out right.”
We pulled up to a red light and stopped. “From what I’ve heard tonight, I get the idea you always say what you mean.”
The atmosphere inside the cab kept shifting, and I was struggling to keep up. My cheeks, already heating beneath my hand, flamed to red-hot as I recalled how rude I was when Jamaica introduced us earlier this evening in the bar at Stromboli’s. I’d heard from my friend that Finn entertained jersey chasers—specifically Tory Miller and her posse of mean girls—on the regular, so my comments were admittedly harsh. Then I’d met him in person, and the only excuse I could make was self-defense in the face of how freaking hot he was. Until this evening, I’d never come up close and personal with Finn McCabe, so I had no business stereotyping him like that.
“Look, I’m sorry for what I said at Stromboli’s about your taste in women and who you hang out with. I was way out of line.”
He smiled over at me. “No offense taken.”
His genuine smile momentarily stunned me. Did I mention how gorgeous the guy was?
We rode a couple of blocks in silence, the awkwardness different now as if each of us was aware of the other. He broke first.
“Why physics?”
“It’s a good premed major for sports medicine.”
A sly smirk tipped up the corner of his mouth. “You maybe want to work with football players?”
I shrugged. “Possibly.” Before he could chase that thought, I asked, “Why bio-chem?”
It was his turn to shrug. “I want to help cure childhood cancer.”
“Any particular reason?” I slapped my hand over my mouth again. “Sorry. Sorry. That was super-personal.”
His warm chuckle filled the cab of the truck. “Relax. My major isn’t because of some childhood tragedy.” He sobered. “I saw those commercials on TV of those little kids hooked up to machines with tubes stuck in their arms, and it bothered me that they couldn’t play with other kids their age.” He turned down a side street, taking the long way to my dorm.
Hiding a smile at his not-so-subtle extension of our conversation, I said, “So that’s the truth about Finn McCabe. You’re a big ol’ softy.”
The terrified expression on his face as he pretended to look for eavesdroppers cracked me up. “Shh! Don’t say that out loud. Everyone knows I’m a badass defensive lineman.”
I pretended to zip my lips shut and toss away the key. “I wouldn’t dream of revealing your secret...Softy.”
