“Cooking is my love language, Greer. Didn’t I tell you?”
I stare at him, momentarily stunned. Troy Hawkins, boy with the ego of a Greek god, who flirts like it’s a professional sport and I assumed thought seasoning means “extra protein powder” cooks? For his friends? On a quiet Friday night?
I don’t know why it shakes me. Maybe because it's another surprise about him I wasn’t prepared for. And judging by the spark of amusement in his stupid ocean eyes?
He knows it rattled me.
Smug bastard.
17
DELILAH
I'm halfway across the quad when I spot Lacey waving frantically from a bench near the science building.
“Delilah!” she calls, as if I could miss her in that blinding pink coat. “Over here!”
I adjust my bag on my shoulder and head her way, already mentally calculating how long this interaction needs to last before I can reasonably excuse myself to the library. It's not that I don't want to see her—I do. It's just that my brain is still stuck on last night. On Troy's hands. On the way he looked at me in the dim light of my apartment. On the strange, terrifying feeling of letting someone in.
“Delilah?” Lacey waves her hand in front of my face.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Just thinking about the project.”
She smirks, not buying it for a second. “Uh-huh. So that's what we're calling Troy Hawkins these days? 'The Project'?”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel heat rising to my cheeks. “We're grabbing coffee or what?”
“Always so charming,” she teases, linking her arm throughmine. “Yes, please. I need caffeine before this hangover takes over my brain or I'm literally going to die.”
We cut across the lawn toward CC's, Lacey chattering about some party drama I've completely missed. I nod at appropriate intervals, but my mind keeps drifting back to the way Troy's voice sounded when he said he needed me.
We're passing the campus gym when I spot a familiar figure kneeling in what looks like a small garden patch beside the building.
Alex. Freddie Donavan’s girlfriend.
She looks up just as we're about to pass and her entire face lights up in recognition.
“Delilah!” She waves, garden gloves covered in dirt. “Hey!”
Lacey pauses mid-sentence, glancing between us. “You know her?”
“She's one of Troy's friends,” I say, already uncomfortable with the calculating look forming on Lacey's face.
“Freddie’s girlfriend?”
I nod, hesitant. I don't want to get pulled into a conversation, but I also don't want to be rude. Alex had been nothing but welcoming to me.
“Go say hi.” Lacey nudges me. “I'll wait here.”
I shoot her a look but make my way over to Alex, who's surrounded by gardening tools and what looks like packets of seeds.
“Hey,” I offer, hovering awkwardly.
“Perfect timing!” Alex beams up at me, not seeming to notice or care about my discomfort. “I'm just doing some late-season maintenance. Want to see?”
Before I can formulate an excuse, she's gesturing proudly to the small plot of land that, to be honest, doesn't look like much—just some dried stalks and scattered blooms struggling against the approaching winter.
“This is our little wildflower project,” she explains, herenthusiasm undimmed by the garden's current state. “Freddie started it a couple years ago and then the environmental society and I have taken charge.”
