“I know you hear me, Lumberjack.”
Finally, I turn her way. Tipping my head, I feign thinking about it and then mouth, No.
“Come onnnn,” she whines.
Aiden gives her a look. He sprung another pop quiz on the class. We both finished already, but not everyone’s done.
I unlock my phone and type, You do realize telling me that it would please you to see me beardless is all the incentive I need to grow this thing indefinitely, right?
Willa rolls her eyes and types back, Nothing about looking at you pleases me. I just want to stop having nightmares about Sasquatch and deranged, closed-lip Vikings.
Been dreaming about me, have you?
Willa’s cheeks pink as she reads it. Clearing her throat, she straightens in her seat and types, Yeah. They’re my anti-spank bank material. When I see a man so hot I just want to jump him, I think of that gnarly animal tail on your face, and my libido shrivels up, just like that.
I narrow my eyes at her, then type, Who are these hot men you’re borderline jumping?
She smirks, idly twirls a curl of hair around her finger, and doesn’t answer.
Willa.
Completely ignoring me, she writes, We need to peer review our individual reports on our happy couple hike before we turn them in to Mac. I don’t have a ton of time to go back and forth, so can we just meet at your place and go over them at the same time?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, then type, Fine. Tonight or I can’t until the weekend, which is your game, so…tonight.
Perfect. Fair warning, Coach promised to make us wish we’re dead at practice today, so I’ll be cranky and ravenous. I’d like to submit a formal request for the Sulking Swede’s famous meatballs.
I’m not sulking, I type. You’re just not answering my question.
Aiden collects quizzes and starts discussing the reading assignment I already did. Willa pretends deep concentration in what he’s saying, before finally turning back toward me when Aiden finishes. Holding my eyes, she sweeps her books into her bag and zips it up. When she stands, I see her whole outfit for the first time and swallow thickly.
Dark jeans hug her muscular legs, sitting low on her hips. A sliver of tan skin peeks out beneath a tight tank top with tiny flowers in all the colors that make me think of Willa—gold, russet, crimson, caramel. Her cardigan’s creamy white and slips off her toned shoulder. She’s pulling that sexual teasing shit again. I scowl because it worked. I’m going to have to sit at this desk for a few minutes once she leaves to cool things down.
Smiling, she hikes her bag higher on her shoulder. “Bye, Mountain Man. Gotta run.”
I stare after her and have to bite my cheek not to groan because Willa’s got an ass and it is in its element in those jeans. Turning back to my desk, I scrub my face.
After a very important minute in which I visualize the most revolting thing I can think of—and with six prank-inclined and vindictive siblings, I have plenty of material—I stand without embarrassing myself, then leave.
I can’t tell you why I cross the quad when I otherwise typically go straight home and eat lunch after this. I can’t tell you why I wander toward the campus café that offers smoothies and decent coffee and fresh salads, the spot where I know Willa eats her lunch on this day because then she has Feminist Literature soon after and there’s no time for her to go home and cook, and she hates soggy sandwiches—all packed lunch ingredients, actually—with the passion of a thousand blazing suns…
Not that I remember her telling me all that.
I can’t tell you why I drop into the line when I see Willa four people ahead of me, biting those tempting full lips as she reads the menu.
Well, I can. But if I did, first I’d have to own the truth of what I’m up against. That since the hike, keeping Willa in the frenemy zone is harder than before. That my feelings for her have grown big and scary and serious. That my heart now does a twisty, unnerving summersault every time I look at Willa.
I’m looking at her now. Staring, honestly. Daydreaming about running my fingers through her crazy hair, a tangle of waves and tendrils, swirling chocolate brown and caramel streaks and raspberry ribbons, that catch the high noon sun. Watching a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed guy who’s not butt-ugly walk up to her and wrap an arm around her shoulders.
My heart drops to my stomach. It’s beyond stupid of me to have assumed that Willa wasn’t interested in anyone. But all I’ve seen is that she never gives any guys who eye her up a second look. She’s not boy crazy, she’s never out on dates, and given her many anti-male diatribes that she weaves in our evenings together working on the final, I assumed Willa more or less truly hated men, except for me basically, and maybe Tucker and Becks who seem to have grown on her during our project nights at my place.
This guy seems to be the exception. He grins down at her and gives her hair a noogie. Asshole.
I can’t tell you why I do it. Why I watch them when my heart corrodes in the acid of my jealousy. But I can’t look away.
17
Willa
Playlist: “Hot Knife,” Fiona Apple
“Willa Sutter. Look at you.”
If his irritating voice weren’t unforgettable, I’d have recognized him by his asshole move—giving me a noogie. Stepping out of his arm’s grip around my shoulder, I peer up at Luke Masters, a creep of a jock I stupidly slept with last year. He’s on the basketball team. We have a few events per year that bring the women’s and men’s athletics programs together, and since our hookup in which he ditched before I even woke up, and left the condom on the floor, I tolerated seeing him at those events and nothing more.
Until this past summer, when he and Rooney slept together. Rooney had no clue about our history since I’m me and I never told her Luke and I hooked up in the first place. It’s weird but that’s not even the worst part. After he pulled the same stunt on Rooney, he told everyone what—in his words—a freak between the sheets she is. Now, instead of tolerating him I downright hate his guts.
“Luke the Duke of Douchery.” I reach up and pinch his nipple, making him yelp and step back. “What brings you here, polluting the atmosphere with your existence?”
He rubs his nipple and looks me over. “Just saying hi to my favorite fellow star.”
“Ah.” Luke is…vain. He likes to be seen with the right people, to maintain a reputation of having the best connections, rubbing shoulders with people who he thinks make him look good.
I had an incredible game in the semifinals. A hat-trick and a mind-blowing assist to Rooney. I was on fire. I’ve been in the news, and I gave an interview that’s made the rounds. I’ve had nice publicity through the playoffs, and this last game took it to the next level. Like many men before him, Luke’s here to ride the wave of a woman’s blood, sweat, and tears, hoping he can coast on her momentum.
“How’d your last game go?” I ask, stepping forward as the person in front of me steps up too, and places her order. “Ohhh, wait, that’s right. You lost. Again.”
Luke’s face sours. “Damn, Willa. Have you always been this much of a bitch?”
There’s a shuffling sound a few people behind me, but I don’t look back to see what caused it. I’ve got a dick to emasculate. “Ever since you told everyone who’d listen about my friend and her sexuality, yes, Luke. Now—”