I shrug. “We’ve been… hanging out.”
“Hanging out,” she repeats, dramatic as hell. “God, you’re so cagey.”
I glance down at my phone again. Another text from him.
Hawkins
what are you doing after the world’s worst frat party?
and can I see you?
I tuck my phone to my chest and try to bite down the smile. Too late. Lacey’s already clocked it.
“Delilah,” she whispers, “you look happy.” She smiles softly at me. “You deserve it.”
I’m standing in a party I don’t want to be at, surrounded by people who wouldn’t notice if I left but my heart is lighter. There’s a guy out there whoseesme, all my edges and flaws and still wants to know more. I might like him. A little. I might even more than like him.
I pull Lacey aside before Brianna can drag us into some drama, and tell her I’m heading out early. She grins like she knows exactly why.
And for once, I don’t care.
The guard is down. The door is open.
And when his name lights up my phone again, I don’t hesitate.
I’m on my way over
When Troy opens the door,he’s in grey sweatpants and a worn UMS hoodie, barefoot, and smiling like I’m the only thing he’s been waiting for all night.
Like warmth or a hug, or the part in the book where the heroine finally exhales.
“Hey, Greer,” he says, voice low and soft.
God help me, I think my panties are soaked already. What does this man do to me.
“Hey.”
His eyes sweep over me. Not in a gross way. Not in the typical Troy Hawkins ‘I’m a walking thirst trap’ way. Just gentle. Checking in.
Then he steps aside to let me in, and I catch the smell first.
Garlic. Butter. Herbs.
“You cooked?” My stomach is already rumbling.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You didn’t eat dinner, right? Figured you might want something real after whatever horror snacks frat parties offer these days.”
I step inside and blink.
There are two plates already out on the counter. Pasta—simple, cheesy, perfect. Steam curling into the air.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs again and grabs forks. “I wanted to.”
We head up to his room first, he says he’s got a gift for me. Forme.
That’s when I see it. Folded neatly on the back of his chair. A hoodie. Not his. A brand new one. Still has the tag on it. And on the draw beside his desk, an open drawer, empty, but labeled.
