Students flow around us, bikes blur past, the whole campus keeps moving while I stand there trying to process the fact that Drew Travers just used my face as a tactical decision.
“You giant, smelly neanderthal?—”
“That’s still my favorite one.”
“—what is wrong with you?”
He plants his feet in front of me, all six-foot-a-lot of him blocking half the foot traffic without even trying. Then, for once, the grin fades a little. Just enough that I realize there may have been an actual thought under all that muscle.
“You looked like you were about to bleed out in public,” he says.
I blink.
The words hit harder than they should.
Maybe because they’re blunt.
Maybe because they’re not pity.
I cross my arms.
“So your solution was to maul my face?”
His mouth twitches.
“That was not mauling.”
“Drew.”
“Isa.”
I stare at him.
He stares right back like this is a fair fight, which is laughable considering he is roughly the size of a refrigerated truck and I am one bad day away from using a thumbnail as a weapon.
Then his gaze flicks over my shoulder.
Toward wherever Stella and Tristan still are.
When he looks back at me, something in his expression sharpens.
Not jealousy.
Not protectiveness either.
Opportunity.
And that should worry me more than it does.
“What?” I ask.
He shifts his helmet bag higher on his shoulder.
“Fake date me.”
I actually laugh.
Not because it’s funny.
