“There’s another seat,” he says, typing something on his laptop.
I stare at the back of his dark-haired head, briefly contemplating chucking my useless drink his way before deciding against decaf-induced violence. “I don’t want to sit with you,” I inform him, quickly amending it to, “I don’t want to sit with anyone.”
“Then I guess you’re out of luck, huh?”
I suck in a harsh breath. The absolutegall. “Listen, buddy—”
“Trevor.”
My teeth clack together. “What?”
“My name is Trevor,” he says, his voice low like the rumble of thunder. “And I know how to be quiet.”
“That’s not the point,” I manage, closing the distance between us and all but slamming my drink onto the table beside him. “This is my table. It’s always been my table. And I want to be alone.”
Trevor lifts his gaze, although he doesn’t have to lift it far to meet my eye, even from his seat. “‘The only way to have a friend is to be one.’”
I blink in shock. “Did you…just quote Ralph Waldo Emerson at me?”
“You know the guy?” Trevor asks, his eyes back on his work.
“I’m an English major, so yes, I know him. And for your information, I don’t want a friend.”
Trevor hums. “That’s too bad.”
Gritting my teeth against the absurdity of this morning, I tug out the chair next to him. “‘It is better to be alone than in bad company.’”
Trevor’s lips hitch up at the corner into what might be a smirk. “Emerson didn’t say that first.”
“I know that,” I tell him shortly, pissed thatheknows that. “Can you please find somewhere else to sit?”
Ever so slowly, Trevor’s eyes move to the chair I’m holding on to. He slides into it, his back warm before I tug my hand away, appalled at what I think is his form of humor. Or assholery.
“There you are,” he says, waving to the seat he just vacated. He sets my latte in front of it before tugging his laptopcloser.
“You…”
With a real growl this time, I plunk myself into the second seat, swinging my backpack around to set on the floor. I dig through it as Trevor taps his keyboard lightly next to me, the man’s presence really fucking big for how quiet he’s being. Granted, he’s a really fucking big guy. Well over six feet and plain thick underneath his cream-colored cable-knit turtleneck and jeans.
How the fuck does he look so good in a turtleneck, of all things?
Pretty sure he’d look good without it, too.
I toss my stupid conscience out the big window in front of us, imagining it splatting onto the concrete sidewalk below. He’s probably in athletics, considering that physique. And guys in athletics don’t mix with guys, like, well…me.
Plunking my textbook down, I eye Trevor as discreetly as I can manage. “Are you on the football team?”
Fuck. So much for not engaging.
Trevor’s head turns my way slowly, a sort of impassivity in his gaze that irks me. “No. Why?”
“You’re…” I wave my hand around for a second before landing on, “Huge.”
His eyebrow rises subtly. “Maybe you’re just small.”
My inhale is sharp. “I’m notsmall. I’m perfectly average.” Hearing my own words, I hastily add, “Betterthan average. Fuck off.”
The last part is mumbled, but Trevor catches it, based on the way he chuckles low in his throat. I ignore him, opening my textbook before doubling back for my highlighter. I bite the cap as I read, not a single word sinking in. Next to me, Trevor is still tapping away. I do a double take when I noticethe tattoos covering the tops of his hands, all the way down to his fingertips.
