And because I am apparently not humiliated enough for one day, my eyes sting.
I break the stare first.
Obviously.
I look down.
Keep walking.
Tell myself my spine is still straight and nobody can see the crack in it.
Then a huge shadow falls into step beside me.
I don’t even have to look.
Only one man on this campus moves like a building learned how to flirt.
“What’s up, baby?”
I turn fast, already armed with a reply sharp enough to draw blood.
“Do not?—”
And before I can finish it, Drew Travers hooks one broad hand lightly around my elbow, leans down, and kisses the corner of my mouth.
Not deep.
Not invasive.
Not some gross tongue-first stunt that gets men slapped and rightfully so.
Just quick.
Warm.
Possessive enough to be seen.
It happens so fast I don’t even have time to react before he’s already pulling back, one arm settling across my shoulders likethis is the most natural thing in the world and he has, in fact, been on boyfriend duty since birth.
I stop walking.
“What the hell was that?”
He keeps us moving.
His voice stays easy.
Too easy.
“Good afternoon to you too, Texas. Long time no see…”
I twist to glare at him.
He’s in football sweats and a gray Stanford hoodie cut over shoulders that should require zoning permits, carrying his helmet bag like he just wandered out of a testosterone commercial and decided to improvise.
“Did you just kiss me?”
He glances down at me.
