“Ah, look at you. That is very polite.” He flashes me one of his sexy grins. “I hate to be admitting this, but I’ve heard rumors about you around campus.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have.” Lincoln sighs, staring down at his clasped hands. “You’re either practically celibate like Hartley and Asher, or you deal with the talk.” He tilts his head to the side as the sun starts to set behind him. I feel my breath catch as I stare at this man who I can only describe as a real-life Ken doll. “What have you heard?”
I switch to stretching my glutes and try to erase the butterfly feeling in my chest from that one look from him. “Uh, you know, the typical stuff. Amazing body . . . big dick.”
He smirks and looks away. “Can’t argue with that.”
“You’re also terrible at calling people back when you say you will.”
Lifting up his hat, he pushes his hand through his hair. “I never make promises to girls. I always leave it with maybe I’ll call you sometime. Easier that way. Trust me, I’m nowhere near man-whore status. I don’t have the time and energy to go looking for women.”
“I don’t think you’d need to look hard. Pretty sure if you said you were looking to bone, half the school would line up.”
He presses his hand to his chest and says sarcastically, “Thank you for the compliment.” When I roll my eyes at him, he says, “What about you? Thinking about having sex with Deacon?”
“So, we’re crossing that line, huh?”
“I mean, we are friends after all.”
I switch legs and groan some more, using my hands to get my leg into position. “Deacon is sweet, he’s hot, and jumping into bed would most likely be awesome.” Lincoln tenses next to me and it makes me chuckle. He asked. “Just not sure I’m ready for any of that. Especially with the season starting soon.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll probably go out to dinner and see where it goes.”
“Cool,” Lincoln answers tersely.
I release my stretch and poke him in the arm. “Don’t be weird.”
“Please just don’t have sex in our house. I don’t want to hear you praying to Jesus.”
“Are you assuming I’m loud when having sex?”
Loosening up a little, he makes a show of sizing me up, looking at my face and trying to peer around both my ears. He’s being ridiculous, and I push his face away only for him to laugh that addictive laugh of his. “Yeah, you’re a screamer all right, but not just for anyone. A guy has to earn a scream from you.”
“That’s disturbingly accurate.” Very disturbing. I get chills from thinking about screaming during sex with . . .
“I bet you also make a gargle sound when you orgasm.” Out of nowhere, he throws his head back, rolls his eyes and convulses, arms stretched out like Frankenstein as he makes creepy gargling noises.
I push him to the side but barely put a dent in his position. “That is not me.”
“How do you know? Have you ever recorded yourself?”
“Yes, and that’s not how I look.”
He tilts his sunglasses down. His jaw falls slightly open. “Uh, I’m going to need to review the footage myself.”
“Get out of here.” I push him again and hop off the wall. “Come on, Castle, I’m buying us dinner.”
Chapter Eight
LINCOLN
“This makes me appreciate you so much more,” I say, sitting on the bench across from Indie.
She reaches to the tray of fries we decided to share and pops one in her mouth. “The fact that I treated you to Chicago-style hot dogs, or because I got two?”
“Both.” I laugh. “I never would have picked you as a hot dog-eating girl.”
“I don’t live my life for hot dogs, but ever since moving to Chicago, I stop by Dreaming of Wieners when I’m in this part of town.”
“Was it the name that pulled you in?”
“At first, no.” She chuckles. “I spent the summer before college training and reading. I came across this book called The Mother Road. It was in my mom’s stack of romance novels. The watercolor skyline of Chicago on the back caught my eye, and I thought I’d give it a try. The book was hilarious. About a family’s road trip across Route 66 to eat a Chicago dog in Chicago. There was more substance to it, but that’s what made me think of wanting to try a Chicago dog. So, when I moved here, I had to find out what the big deal was. If an author could write so passionately about a damn hot dog, that had to be something worth trying, right? I went on Yelp, found Dreaming of Wieners—they won me over with the name—and I had my first Chicago dog right at this bench. It’s when my life changed forever.” She smiles. Leaning forward, she whispers, “I think it’s the celery salt that makes them so damn good.”
She’s cute, really fucking cute.
“I’m sorry, I’m still caught up on the fact that you read a romance novel.” She chucks a fry at me, and I catch it and pop it in my mouth with a grin. “Was there sex in it?”
“Of course there was sex,” she scoffs. “Dirty sex. Brother’s-best-friend sex. Oral-on-an-RV-kitchen-counter sex.”
“Oh damn.” I chuckle. “Vivid stuff, huh?”
“Yup.”
My lips curve up. “Learn any pointers?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I would.
I really would.
When I invited Indie out for a walk, I didn’t think it would end up with us sharing a tray of fries and hot dogs, but I’m glad it has, because I really enjoy her company. I feel like she gets me on a whole other level. She knows what I’m going through, and I understand what she’s going through. She’s unpredictable, makes me laugh, and I love being around her.
I considered texting her earlier in the day to see how she was, but it felt desperate, especially after Deacon came home boasting about how amazing Indie is. Trust me, buddy, I know. And I can’t even be mad about it because I have no claim over her. Hell, I was the asshole who didn’t know who she was when I first met her. And I kick myself in the ass every day for that.
But as time ticked away, I decided I’d text her around four to see if she wanted to go for a walk. Knowing her intense workout from yesterday, she’d be sore, so getting out would be helpful.
And here we are now, eating dinner together. It’s been a good fucking day.
“Do you have the book still? Maybe you want to lend it to a good friend.”
“It’s my mom’s, sorry. Check the library.”
“Maybe I will.” I lift my hot dog, so does Indie, and we both take a bite. “It’s the fucking celery salt,” I say through a mouthful.
“Right?” Indie replies, mustard hanging off her lip.
On instinct, I reach out and wipe the mustard away and then lick it off my finger.
Her eyes widen, shock and amusement written over her face. “Did you just wipe mustard off my lip and eat it?”
“Yup,” I answer with no shame. “Got a problem with that?”
“No, just surprised is all.”