And right there, putting the car in drive and stealing glances at her as she works with that fierce concentration, something clicks into place inside me.
No. Not that. Anything but that.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles going white. This can't be happening. I don't do this—I'm Troy fucking Hawkins. The guy who makes jokes about commitment being a prison sentence. The guy who high-fived Jared last semester for his “three-date maximum” rule.
The guy who watched his dad walk out and his mom fall apart and swore he'd never give anyone that kind of power over him.
But the feeling's still there, pulsing beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat.
This isn't just attraction anymore. This isn't just admiration for her mind or appreciation for how she looks in the morning light with her hair falling across her face and that little crease between her eyebrows when she's concentrating.
I think I'm falling for Delilah Greer—hard and fast and completely. And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.
I steal another glance at her, pencil between her teeth, completely absorbed in her work. She has no idea what's happening inside me right now. How could she? I barely understand it myself.
She'd probably laugh if she knew. Or worse, pity me. Or worst of all, pull away completely.
So for now, I'll keep it locked down. Buried. I can't risk scaring her off—not when she's finally starting to trust me. Not when we've finally found this fragile balance.
I'll just drive her to coffee. And help her make this brilliant vision come to life.
I turn the radio up a notch, hoping the music will drown out my thoughts. Hoping that somewhere in the middle of all this, she might be falling a little bit too.
But knowing better than to count on it.
19
TROY
There's a particular sort of disorder that happens when six college students get crammed into a too-small kitchen. Alex is already lighting one of her hippie soy candles, preaching about how it'll “neutralize the meat toxins” or whatever. Freddie's rolling his eyes behind her back while sneaking extra jalapenos into the guac because he knows she can't handle heat. Ethan's shouting “Fajita Friday, baby!” from the living room like it's a national holiday, trying to trash-talk Alfie into a Mario Kart rematch. Meanwhile, Tara's frantically trying to save the rice from boiling over. And me? I'm manning the stove like the culinary god I am. Which, compared to these disasters I call roommates, isn't a high bar.
The pan sizzles as I toss another batch of peppers and onions with a flick of my wrist. The whole kitchen smells like lime, chili, and garlic. I'm in my zone – head slightly sweaty, biceps flexed (not on purpose, but it's a nice bonus), apron on (yeah, I rock an apron, fight me), and totally dominating this situation.
Until I hear the knock.
Shit. Is that her? Did she actually show?
Tara practically sprints to the door and flings it open with the enthusiasm of someone who's spotted a puppy on the sidewalk. She's been talking Delilah up all week like they're suddenly besties.
And there she is, rocking a black zip-up and jeans that should be illegal, giving the room this cautious once-over like she's already calculating her escape route. My throat goes dry at the sight of her. Thosefuckinglegs.
I have to force myself to look away before I get caught staring like some lovesick idiot.
She's never been big on crowds. At camp, I thought she was just allergic to fun, always sitting off by herself or hanging with the ancient cafeteria lady. But now I'm wondering if it's just people in general that stress her out.
“Hey!” Tara practically sings, grabbing Delilah's arm. “You came! I'm so glad!”
“Yeah,” Delilah says, clearing her throat. “Kind of hard to say no when you're peer pressuring me all week on Instagram about the best ever fajitas.”
“You guys follow each other?” I can't help asking. Delilah won't even accept my follow request, but she's buddies with my sister? Unbelievable.
I glance up from the stove, and our eyes lock for a split second. That familiar electric current runs through my veins, hot and immediate. My body reacts before my brain can catch up—pulse quickening, muscles tensing, blood rushing south with embarrassing speed.
I shoot her my best lazy smile. “Told you I wasn't lying. I cook.”
“We're pals.” Tara smirks at me, clearly enjoying this way too much.
Delilah looks around, taking in the scene before her eyes land on me at the stove. Her gaze drags over me slowly,lingering on my forearms, my shoulders, before snapping back to my face.She was checking me out. The thought sends a surge of satisfaction through me.
