“Please stop.” I cover my face with my hand, hoping the images leave my brain forever.
“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “But in all seriousness, this could be fun and maybe working with him will make you realize you like him too.”
“You mean like how living next door to Aiden Matthews has made you like him more?”
Her lips purse and jaw clenches. Oh, yeah. I hit a nerve, but if she can push me, I can push her.
Looking up to the ceiling, I say, “Speaking of dicks, has the mystery of Aiden's alleged piercing been solved yet?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” she snaps. “Did you know he hacked my alarm clock this morning and started blasting Christmas music at 3am? I didn’t think he was smart enough to do something like that.”
“I’m guessing Matty helped. He's the only one in that house with enough brains to manage anything more complex than putting milk in a bowl for their cereal.”
The professor walks in, and the room falls quiet. I glance at Lyss. She raises an eyebrow. A look that says everything.
She thinks something’s going to happen with Scotty.
I know she does, but she’s wrong. Completely, totally, catastrophically wrong.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to happen between me and Scotty Hendricks.
Even as I think it, though, I can’t help remembering the way he looked at me in class.
Or how he said he liked my freckles.
Or how his entire face lit up when he realized we’d be working together.
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I shake the thoughts away.
I am not here for a relationship. Especially not with someone like him. I have goals. Plans. A future.
None of which involve getting anywhere near a hockey player with a hoagie dick.
Chapter 5
“Winner is exempt from dishes this week,” Alex announces as we line up at center ice.
I snort. “Didn’t we all agree we’d do our own dishes when we moved into the dorm?”
He deadpans, “The dishes piling up in our kitchen say otherwise.”
“Those aren’t mine.”
“They’re everyone’s at this point,” he fires back. “There’s a fork in the sink that’s been there so long I think it’s developed a personality.”
“That’s Erik’s fork,” I argue.
Alex scoffs. “Erik doesn’t use forks. He eats like a raccoon with opposable thumbs.”
“That tracks,” I admit.
Alex bumps my shoulder. “So, loser does dishes. Winner gets to pretend we’re functional adults for one more week.”
