I mean, why me?
What’s so fucking thrilling about chasing my ass around campus when half the female population of this school would be on their knees in a hot minute if he so much as snapped his fingers in their direction? He and I both know that I’m not necessarily his type. I mean, let’s be real, we are total opposites of each other. He’s the captain of the football team while I’m the girl who has never even so much as seen a game in her whole life.
He’s all-American perfection.
I’m the poster child for this country’s rejects.
He’s old Asheville money and privilege.
I’m the Southie eyesore that people steer clear from.
He’s caviar dreams and champagne wishes.
I’m the trailer trash his momma probably warned him about.
I doubt it can get any further apart on the social spectrum than the two of us.
So what’s his deal?
Unless Finn somehow filled his quota on debutant vajayjays and wants to take a ride on the wild side by slumming it up with a Southie for a change, I’m stumped as to what he wants from me. Especially because he’s gone to a lot of trouble to know where I am at all times. Guys like Finn don’t make that type of effort for just anyone. He’s the type of asshole who expects girls to chase him, not the other way around.
So what gives?
And how the hell did he get his hands on my class schedule in the first place? It’s the only explanation I have for him to suddenly have a GPS tracker on me, showing him exactly where I am at any given moment. During all my years at college, I’ve probably only seen Finn Walker a handful of times. Now, out of the blue, he just happens to pop up and run into me three to four times a day.
Yeah, I’m not buying it. Finn isn’t that lucky. Pretty boy makes his own luck, of that I’m certain. I’d bet my poor excuse for a paycheck that the entitled jock got his hands on my class schedule, either by pulling some strings or shelling out some cash for it. No matter how he got it, I feel like Finn is my constant shadow now, one I can’t seem to escape from.
Worst of all, he is totally unapologetic about his stalking tendencies. He makes no effort to hide himself from me, nor does he act like it’s a total coincidence. It’s happened more times than I can count, and honestly, I’m getting sick and tired of this cat and mouse game of his.
“Fuck off,” I announce as a way of greeting when I take the final step that puts me face to face with my new nemesis. Or I should say face-to-chest since Finn is fucking huge compared to my small frame.
“Good morning to you too, Stone. You’re late.” He smirks arrogantly, proving once again the fucker knows my ins and outs around Richfield.
But the cocky grin on his face starts to slip as his eyes begin to roam my body. I stand just a little bit straighter so he can have his fill, getting a sick satisfaction when I watch his scowl deepen, and his brows pinch together in aggravation.
Ever since Finn let out of the bag that my choice in clothing was not to his taste, I take an extra bit of care to be my usual savage self. Today, I’ve got on my favorite black, ripped jeans that hug my curves like a second skin, and my black army boots with silver skulls drawn on its side by yours truly. My boots are probably my favorite piece out of the whole ensemble, but it’s my frayed Sex Pistol’s top that has Finn flustered and jaw ticking.
“What? See something you don’t like?” I tease when his focus lingers a bit too long on my cleavage.
Pretty boy Finn hates it when Mary Kate and Ashley are proudly on display, popping out from my top a little too much for his liking. Sure, I could probably tone it down by using a different bra to keep the ladies contained, but then what would be the fun in that? His scowl is so deep that I’m sure he’s going to get premature wrinkles if he doesn’t relax. I stand victorious as I watch him poke his tongue into the left side of his inner cheek, inhaling a long irritated breath before he lets out his peeved reply.
“You think you’re cute, don’t you?”
“You tell me,” I quip back innocently, mockingly batting my eyes at him for good measure.
He releases a sharp exhale up into the air and begins to run his fingers through his wavy golden locks.
Like that will help him deal with my perky breasts all up in his face.
Little does he know that with this innocent force of habit for keeping his temper in check, he’s no longer the only one to be pissed off.
Yep, now it’s my turn to stew in discomfort.
He keeps combing his hair back absentmindedly, while I try not to stare at the strands that must feel like heaven to touch. Smooth silk teases his fingertips, making me just a tad envious he can play with his dark-golden mane any time he likes, and we mere mortals can only sit back and watch.
While Finn remains distracted eyeing the heavens—trying to have a moment with whatever deity he thinks will hear his disgruntled prayer for my hardcore wardrobe—I take the opportunity to do my own ogling of his majestic form. Today he’s wearing a sleeveless, navy blue Tommy Hilfiger shirt that makes his light, sapphire eyes pop.
Finn remains obsessed with my clothing size, but he has no reservations about his own clothes, which are tight enough that I can actually count how many abs he’s got going under the soft material—it’s eight by the way. Eight gloriously defined, mouthwatering abdominal muscles that must have taken years to perfect. But it’s his muscular arms that really pull the drool out of me. His shirt was made to highlight his bulging biceps, appearing as thick as tree trunks. He could easily pick a girl up and put her over his shoulder without breaking a sweat, real caveman-like (insert drool emoji here).
Damn.
I lick my lips as my eyes continue to crawl down his long, refined frame. The universe surely is a cruel bitch for putting such a flawless specimen walking around campus when it knows damn well that most of us don’t have the time or luxury to spend daydreaming about such perfection.
My eyes stop at Finn’s waist, noticing how he’s got low-rise jeans on. The way he continues to play with his hair allows his shirt to rise up slightly, giving me just a little hint of the tantalizing V he keeps hidden underneath.
Sweet baby Jesus! Finn might have been annoying the fuck out of me recently, but damn is he pretty to look at.
So pretty.
I school my resting bitch face as best I can, pretending to be unfazed and bored with his mere presence, before I clear my throat to bring Finn’s attention back to me.
“Move, quarterback. Some of us have classes to get to.”
His plump upper lip tugs at its side, before he waves his hand as if pulling out the red carpet for me. I try hard not to roll my eyes while I take the opportunity to bypass him, even though he’s only given me a narrow opening in between his steel-hard body and the cold, brick wall. As inconspicuously as possible, I take in a long breath, hoping the oxygen will be enough for the short walk through. No way am I going to take a whiff of Finn’s cologne again if I can help it.
When he accosted me at my truck a few weeks ago, the rich, warm, woodsy scent clung to me for hours, making it hard to concentrate on any of my lectures for the day. I ended up spending precious class time lost in my own head, picturing naked, sweaty bodies, entwined together by an open fire in the middle of some dark woods, consumed by the frenzy of their lovemaking. I swear, some of the fantasies were so hot that I almost skipped lunch just so I could go to my dorm room and use my favorite battery-operated toy to relieve the ache that Finn’s enticing fragrance provoked. Talk about powerful sensory stimulation overload. Pretty boy’s pheromones pack quite a punch, and I, for one, do not want to be knocked out again. My hormones couldn’t take it, nor could my attention span.