Warmth crawled up my neck.
I gave him a look. “Do not baby me before ten a.m.”
“Fine.” His knee bumped mine under the table.“Texas.”
“That is not better.”
“It is for me.”
The professor walked in, saving me from whatever my mouth might have done next.
For forty-six minutes, I tried to take notes.
Tried.
Drew did not make that easy.
He sat beside me like a furnace in human form, drinking black coffee like a psycho, stretching one arm over the back of my chair halfway through the lecture because he claimed his shoulder was tight. His fingers did not touch me, technically. They just rested near my hair, near my neck, near every nerve ending I had stupidly brought to class with me.
At one point, he leaned over and wrote in the corner of my notebook.
Smile. People are watching.
I wrote back:
Die.
He drew a heart around it.
I pressed my lips together so I would not laugh.
That was the first problem.
The second problem happened after class.
The second the professor dismissed us, the blonde from the aisle appeared beside Drew like she had been summoned by protein powder and desperation.
“Drew,” she said, all sugar and lip gloss. “You were so good last weekend.”
He looked up. “Thanks.”
She touched his arm.
Touched it.
Just put her little French-tipped fingers right on his bicep like Stanford was a petting zoo and Drew was the prize livestock.
My vision sharpened.
“I mean, that catch in the third quarter?” she went on, squeezing him lightly. “Insane. We were all screaming.”
We.
Of course there was a we.
Probably a whole herd of them. Sorority girls with perfect blowouts and tiny tops and football knowledge limited to which players looked best walking out of the tunnel.
Drew’s eyes flicked to me.
