My jaw ticks. About the guys.
I don’t let myself think about that.
I swipe a palm down my jaw. “If something happens, can you let me know? You’re over there because you have a reason to be. There’s not much I can do unless someone keeps me informed.”
Another wavering smile is what he graces me with in reply. “You know I will. If I knew what she meant to you before I would have told you about shit at the house sooner. And the brownies. You’ve got it bad, huh?”
Truthfully, I already knew who’d made the brownies. They tasted exactly like the kind my mother makes, which makes sense considering she’s who taught Ivy the recipe. It was the hint of coconut that gave it away.
Caleb’s known Raine his whole life, which is the only reason I admit, “We were neighbors. Became best friends. Got separated a few years back. When I saw her at Bea’s the first time, I almost couldn’t believe it was her. Thought I was imagining a ghost.”
It was the eyes that convinced me she wasn’t some sort of mirage. The honey tone is brighter than anything I’ve seen on anyone, even when she’s in a mood—something she’s been in since the day I approached her at Bea’s. That unique gold color told me all I needed to about the girl I’d missed for too damn long.
His eyebrows dart up. “No shit? How long has it been?”
“Too long.” My jaw ticks, not wanting to think about what she said. “She left when she was sixteen. I’ll leave it at that. The past doesn’t matter. We’ve somehow landed in the same town, at the same college, and trust me when I say that shit shouldn’t have happened.”
I think of the scars.
“But it did,” he says slowly, knowing the reason I got hauled here.
I got distracted.
I let people under my skin.
I forgot what I wanted most.
And Ivy? She went through shit I can’t even pretend to imagine.
“But it did,” I confirm, cementing an old belief that things happen for a reason. Dad always tells me there’s no such thing as coincidences in life.
“DJ said you asked him to keep an eye on her in class,” he remarks.
My chin dips. “It’s not like I’m asking anyone to follow her around. Only to let me know if something goes on. She’s been through a lot, man. She doesn’t need anything else happening. If I can make things easier for her here while I’m around, then I’ll do it.”
“Does she know about the combine? That this is your last semester here?”
A dark feeling rises inside me. “No.”
He reads my mood and grabs my shoulder. “I’ve got your back. So does DJ, even if he’s a flirt. If anything goes down at the house, you’ll be the first to know.” Looking away, he sighs again and glances at a group of girls giggling and waving as they pass us. “Those girls at the house can be real bitches. Raine hates most of them, but it’s a place to live. I imagine it’s how Ivy feels too since Lindon doesn’t have a lot of off-campus housing.”
I don’t confirm or deny my agreement.
When we part ways, I’m left sitting in my truck knowing I should go home. Instead, I find myself driving toward the bakery.
The younger girl who’s usually talking Ivy’s ear off sees me before my old friend does. It gives me time to check out Ivy’s curvy figure while her back is to me. Her long legs are wrapped in tight blue denim that’s formed to her hips and perky ass, and her arms are covered in sleeves that go well past her wrists for reasons I know well. I know that there’s a huge cupcake on the front with Bea’s written in big font across her chest and a bee buzzing around it. I’d be lying if I said one of the first things I noticed, beside her eyes, was anything other than how big her tits had gotten. Last time I’d seen her, a few guys at our high school had pointed out how they barely filled out her bra.
I’d punched one of the dickheads who’d made the comment and nearly got suspended. Mom scolded me when she got the call to pick me up, but quickly changed her tune when she found out I’d only hit him to defend Ivy.
Bea’s granddaughter catches me staring and grins, her cheeks turning pink when I shoot her an unashamed wink, and then bumps Ivy’s arm, tips her head toward me, and heads in the back to leave me alone with her.
When Chaos turns, surprise flickers across her face. “It’s not Sunday,” she blurts, wiping her hands off on her thighs.
I crack a grin. “I’m aware.”
She glances down at the floor, hesitates a moment, then walks over to the counter closest to me. “Did you want your usual? Or is that only your Sunday order?”
I can’t help but wonder if that’s an invitation to make dropping in at random a common occurrence. “I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” I admit. “Practice was rough, and I have homework to do still.”
She probably doesn’t care, but she at least pretends she does as she goes about preparing my regular. While she’s busy, I look around the empty bakery. “Slow day?”
“It’s usually slower this time of day.”
“Oh.”
We go silent again. The sound of liquid pouring into the cup is the only thing between us. I shift on my feet, slide my hands in my pockets and watch her pour in my shots of milk.
Eventually, I say, “How has your day been?”
She pauses what she’s doing for a moment to glance over her shoulder at me, the colored hair falling down her back, then puts the lid of the cup and walks back to the counter. “It’s been fine. Do you want anything else? Bagel?”
“Are you asking just so you can eat the half I don’t?” I swear her cheeks color. “I noticed, by the way. You’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes and punches in the order before giving me an amount. “You can’t pretend you do it for me.”
All I do is smile and then pass her the money I owe. “Keep the change.”
“I don’t need your pity,” she grumbles under her breath, even though she doesn’t try to give me the remainder.
Fighting a smile, I pick up my coffee.
She clicks her tongue. “Did you come in here for coffee?”
I play along, sipping my drink. “What other reason would I come in here for?”
Her brightly painted lips part to answer, then quickly close. Ivy has never been the shy type when it comes to me, so catching her off guard is amusing.
Chuckling, I let her off easy. “I wanted to see you. Though the coffee really is needed. I’ve been procrastinating with my assignments, so they’re piling up in my room.”
She toys with the hem of her shirt sleeves, avoiding my eyes. “Are you still a brainiac and pretending not to be for the sake of your reputation as a meathead jock?”
I lift a shoulder, not confirming or denying that I break more than one of the stereotypes tied to football players. “Maybe.”
Her eyes narrow, the honey brown color filling with skepticism.
Relenting, I smirk. “4.0 GPA.”
Not that she says so, but I can tell she’s impressed. Something clouds over that though, and I cock my head when she murmurs, “Is there anything about you that’s changed besides your appearance or are you still perfect?”