He shrugs. “Fake IDs.”
Of course.Probably half the students have them.
I take Grant to the first floor. The interior of Burton Quad is all warm wood—both the walls and floor. A wood floor is wasted on college kids, though; this one is scuffed and marred to the point that there’s more scar than wood. But the overall feel is upscale and welcoming, rather than dank, jail-like claustrophobia.
It’s sort of interesting in a sad way that, even in college, money matters, and the students are separated into the haves and have-nots.
Grant gestures at a door to our right, and we enter a three-bedroom suite together. The place could fit eight of my room. No wonder everyone calls Howell Hall “the Hovel.”
The suite is comfortably furnished, but very college-boy-like—lots of game consoles piled in front of a huge TV, a couple of Bluetooth speakers, a mountain bike leaning against the wall behind the TV and a huge bowl about a quarter-full with stale popcorn. Even the air in here smells like testosterone.
“Sorry it’s a bit messy.” The tips of his ears actually go red. “We weren’t expecting a visitor.”
“Don’t worry about it. Which one’s your room?”
“There.” He points to a room on the other side of the TV.
I gird my loins. Grant doesn’t come across as the type to clean up after himself, and given the condition of the common area, his room probably isn’t that much better. I’ll be happy if it doesn’t have a jumbo-sized bottle of Vaseline lotion and a box of extra-soft Kleenex by his bed. One of the boys who wanted to get into my pants in high school came up to me during lunch and told me how he kept those for the times he couldn’t stop thinking about me. He ended up wearing my pasta.
But Grant’s room is astonishingly neat. No trash. No dust. No lotion. His Kleenex is the standard kind. There are three large cardboard boxes neatly stacked by his desk, which has nothing but his laptop and tablet. The walls are barren—no posters of hot girls or fancy cars. Or maybe he doesn’t need them because he already has a Maserati.
He pulls off his polo boots and grabs a towel and a couple of things off his desk chair. “I need to shower.”
“Yeah. You probably should.” He smells like horses and sweat. Not that that’s necessarily terrible, but he probably feels gross. Then I realize I made it sounds like he’s stinky. “I mean, just to make yourself more comfortable.”
“Right.” He nods slowly. “Are you still nervous about me being loopy or something?” A corner of his mouth tilts up.
“No, I’m not going to hover over you in the shower. I’ll be right here. If you need anything, holler.”
“I don’t know. What if I feel faint and collapse before I get a chance to holler? Or I could slip.”
“I’ll call 911 if I hear you fall and crack your skull open for real.”
Laughing, he vanishes into the bathroom. Meanwhile, I pull out my phone and Google what happens when you experience what Grant has.
The articles are dire. The only thing they don’t bring up is epilepsy, which isn’t really comforting.
I have a shift at the library later today. Should I call and ask for time off? On the other hand, wouldn’t it be presumptuous to assume thatI’mthe one who should be keeping an eye on him? Sadie could come barging in later. Or any of the other girls who’d love an opportunity to get close to Grant. But I don’t like the idea.
What’s wrong with me?It’s weird to act like I have any kind of hold over him. He’s just… Okay, so he’s a surprisingly nice guy, and he bought me a thank-you dinner. But that doesn’t mean we’re in a position to feel jealous about the opposite sex’s interest.
Is this how stalkers are born?
Grant comes out of the bathroom in a gray shirt and black shorts. His hair is slightly damp—probably towel-dried, since I didn’t hear a dryer—and he looks incredible. The little scrape on his left cheek looks redder, but not infected.
He smells like his shampoo and body wash—some subtle musk and wood. It isn’t anything I’ve ever sniffed in a supermarket. He probably uses some ultra-exclusive brand. It’s the kind of scent that makes me want to bury my nose in the crook of his neck and inhale.
“So, no need for 911?” I try to joke, so I can quit thinking about how delicious he smells. I’m not here to sniff him like a pervert. He’s injured, for God’s sake!
“Nah. Told you I’m not that hurt.”
I shoot him an I-don’t-think-so look. “Into bed, please.”
“Join me?” He smiles charmingly.
“Uh, no.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Grant crawls into the bed. I wait until he’s settled, then pull the sheets all the way up to his chin. “Happy?” he asks.
