Rude.
“Damn, Texas.”
I close my eyes.
No.
Absolutely not.
I know that voice.
Too deep.
Too amused.
Too close.
Remember the sound of it groaning against my throat.
He’s standing beside the empty chair next to mine in sweats and a sleeveless Stanford training shirt, one massive forearm wrapped in tape, dark hair still damp from lifts, looking at me like I’m cotton candy at a county fair and he just got handed cash.
I hated him instantly.
I have always hated him instantly.
Everything about him is excessive.
Too broad.
Too loud.
Too smirky.
Too comfortable taking up space that does not belong to him.
There is probably not a single thought in his head that doesn’t arrive wearing shoulder pads.
He drops into the seat beside me before I can tell him not to.
“Morning,” he says.
I blink slowly.
“Was it?”
That grin gets bigger.
See?
Unbearable.
“Touchy.”
“Observant.”
His gaze flicks to my phone, screen-down in my hand.
Then to my face.
