I looked down at my bag and pretended I was above murder.
I was not.
Somewhere deep in the ugliest, least evolved part of my soul, I wanted to grab her wrist, peel her hand off him, and leave five perfect crescent moons in her skin as a warning to future climbers.
Which was insane.
This was fake.
Drew was not mine.
Drew was campus property. Prime candy. Public hazard. Six-three of broad-shouldered, dimpled, football-famous trouble wrapped in sweatpants and bad decisions.
I was keeping him at arm’s length.
The blonde laughed at something he hadn’t even said yet and leaned closer.
My pen snapped.
Again.
Drew’s mouth twitched.
He stood slowly, unfolding to his full unfair height, and the blonde’s hand fell away because it had no choice unless she wanted to dangle from his arm.
“Appreciate it,” he said, friendly enough to be polite, distant enough to be clear. Then he reached over without looking and took my bag off the back of my chair. “Come on, babe. You’ve got rehab.”
Babe.
The blonde’s face changed.
Mine probably did too.
Drew held out his free hand.
I stared at it.
He lifted one brow.
Right. Performance.
I put my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady, and the weird green thing clawing at my ribs settled so fast I almost hated him for it.
We walked out together.
The second we hit the hallway, I hissed, “You enjoyed that.”
“Which part?”
“You know which part.”
“The part where you looked ready to commit sorority homicide?”
“I did not.”
“You snapped another pen.”
