Another shrug as I shovel a mouthful of food into my mouth while he watches my mouth with envy. “I guess they delivered to the wrong dorm room. How careless to get it wrong twice in one day.”
He narrows his eyes before wagging his finger at me. “You know that’s mine.”
“I do?” My voice goes up at the end, like I’m wholly clueless about what he’s talking about. “It came to my dorm.” Another bite. I chew slowly like I’m making a point. “You should be more careful when you order your food.” I wiggle my fork at him.
He takes a half-step toward me, and the fork becomes a potential stabbing implement.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” I gesture with my chin for him to move back.
“I want my food.”
“And I wanted you to stop being annoying, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”
He folds his arms. I’d love to say his corded forearms don’t affect me at all, but it would be a big fat lie. And if I didn’t hate him—which I remind myself three more times that I most certainly do—I’d be super tempted to sink my teeth into his deliciously full biceps.
Might do it anyway, but for different reasons.
His eyes harden. “I want my food.” His voice is cold and level as he repeats himself.
“And I want a different neighbor.”
He shakes his head before running his palm over his jaw. “What the fuck is your problem, Pitstop?”
I hold up my hand as a stop sign. “You don’t get to call me that. My name is Penelope. Or neighbor. Or.” I cant my head. “Better yet? Just don’t fucking talk to me.” I swing the door toward his face. I won’t lie, part of me hopes it smacks himsquare in his perfectly imperfect nose, but he catches it, pushes it open, and steps toward me.
“Want to know what I think?”
Yes. “No.”
He smirks like he knows I want him to keep talking. “I think your problem is that you like me, Pitstop. That’s what I think. I think you freaked out when you kissed me in our sophomore year, and I think you ran scared, and you know that if you kissed me again, if you lowered your defences, you’d risk getting hurt.” He looks so fucking smug, so pleased with himself like he worked out the secret to an ancient riddle he’s been trying to solve for years.
“Is that so?” The temptation to dump my stolen dinner on his head is overwhelming, but I’d have to clean it up, and I’d probably end up eating the noodles from the floor because they’re just too delicious to waste.
“It is.” He nods, confidence rolling off him in waves. “And I think you need to get over yourself and give me a shot.” He grins. And good God it’s a beautiful sight. But he’s so fucking arrogant, I just want to stab him in his goddamn face. Does he really not know what his dad did?
I press the fork into his chest and walk at him, moving him back a step at a time until he’s outside my door again. “Ofcourseyou think this is a ‘me’ problem, and that all life’s mysteries stem back toyou. I hate to break it to you, Casanova. This isn’t about you.”
Except it kind of is.
“And not everyone has to like you, want you, or acquiesce to you.”
When he doesn’t react, I continue.
“That meansconcedeto you.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know that.”
“Good. Because this isn’t that. I don’t secretly hold a flame for you.”
Liar. You want to tear his clothes off and fuck him right here in the corridor.
“I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to kiss you. And I certainly don’t want to do anything more with you.” Liar. Liar. Nipples on fire. I do want to kiss him, and I most definitely want to do more with him. I just can’t get past the guilt holding my body hostage when I think of him as anything other than my enemy.
For a split second, Tate’s mouth drops open, then snaps closed. His eyes harden again, and a muscle feathers in his face as he grits his teeth. My poor guy doesn’t seem to get rejected very often. And from the screams of his relatively frequent bedfellows, I can see why.
From what I can tell, he’s very talented with his... stick.
“Then what the fuckisyour problem?” He smacks his palms off his legs in exasperation, and the tone of his voice, desperate to understand almost makes me crack.
