“You said he was hot,” I remind her.
“I didn’t know it was him! He had his back to me when he was doing those squats!”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s like fifty years old!”
“With, and I quote, the thighs of a mountain man,” I say, snickering.
She takes her attention off the road long enough to scowl at me. “I never should have told you that. Also, it should be illegal for the professors to use the same gym as us! One minute you’re on the treadmill, and the next you’re trying to avoid a flash of ball sack from the guy who gave you a C in Child Dev.”
“Or admiring his cuts,” I tease.
“Oh my God, Jo,” she groans. “You’re the worst.” But she’s laughing as she says it.
“I am,” I agree easily.
Then she’s pulling into the crumbling asphalt lot outside of Happy’s—and parking across the yellow lines, as usual. We hurry for the door, with Lennie leading the way, the heels of her leopard-print ankle boots click-clacking. It’s only once we’re inside that I realize Lennie never told me who she ran into. But she no longer needs to.
On the far side of the bar, I spot Chessa and Daan in one of the big booths, and they’re not alone.
Broad shoulders pull at a blue sweater and the matching striped button-down underneath. The sleeves of both are rolled up his forearms in crisp, precise folds. Only the gold-glinting stubble on his jaw and the lock of matching hair across his forehead say, “casual, laid-back,” but knowing him, he likely orchestrated both. His middle name should probably be Control Freak, but it’s actually Thomas.
“Carter!” Lennie shouts with delight. “You came!”
Well, fuck.
2
A year and half ago, when I couldn’t stand the thought of spending another stultifying summer at home in Highland Park with my mother’s silence, I broke down and took Lennie up on her offer to stay at her place in Beecher. She was going to be gone a good chunk of the summer anyway, back home visiting friends—and random European countries, as one does—but her lease at River Crossing was year-round and her building is swank. Cool gray walls, faux hardwood floors, central air-conditioning, and built in the last couple of years instead of the last couple of centuries.
The problem was that Crossing, a Beecher University–owned complex, is inhabited mostly by grad students.
Which is where I messed up.
“Lennie,” I say now, slowing down. Carter’s gaze flicks past Lennie to land on me. His blue eyes meet mine and heat spreads up my neck and into my cheeks, my heart giving a tortured, anguished beat.
His nod at me is cool and brief. Like I’m some random undergrad that he vaguely remembers from a class he taught.
As if he’s never gripped my hips so hard he left thumbprint bruises on my skin, as if I haven’t felt the soft catch of his breath against my neck, as if the friction and pressure of his thigh between mine is just a fantasy in my head.
Fury rushes in, hot and tight in my chest, and I stop walking.
Lennie glances over her shoulder and pauses. “Don’t make it weird, Jo,” she says in a pleading voice. “Carter hasn’t been your TA for almost a year now.”
Like that’s the issue, the pure discomfort of hanging out socially with someone who used to determine my grade, my future. Then again, as far as Lennie knows, it is.
She turns to face me, walking backward toward the booth. “Come on, please? I think he’s single. But I caught him staring at Annie Caughey at my Halloween party. I need to find out if he’s interested before he moves on.”
I don’t know what Carter’s saying about his relationship status this year. It’s not something we’ve ever discussed. However, I do know that Annie Caughey—tiny, petite, adorable Annie—was standing in front of me at Lennie’s party, while I hovered awkwardly near the makeshift bar for most of the night. Pretending not to notice Carter as he pretended not to notice me.
Guess one of us is better at that game than the other.
I should just turn around and walk out. Ishould.
But I’m not full, and I haven’t eaten actual food, either. Plus, in spite of everything else, curiosity curls and flickers through me—why here, why now? It’s a curiosity, though, like running your finger through an open flame, testing how long it takes before you feel pain—it’s going to hurt, you just don’t know when, exactly.
“Fine,” I say.
