“A what?” someone asks from the row before me.
“How old are we again?” one of the girls scoffs.
“I want you each to turn to someone next to you,” he says. “That person is going to be your go-to when you need a copy of lecture notes. That person is also going to be your study partner. Their success is your success and vice-versa. Just because this is Anthro 101 doesn’t mean it’s an easy class. In fact, a quarter of you will drop out before the end of the semester, and the majority of you probably won’t walk out of here with A’s.”
Two people—a guy and a girl from opposite ends of the room—gather their bags and show themselves out, heads tucked.
“Aaaand there we go. That’s when I usually scare them away.” Longmire laughs at his own joke before scanning the audience. “Anyway, I’ll give you all a moment to find your partner. Don’t make a big deal of it, don’t overthink it. Just pick someone—anyone—close by.”
I gather a sea-salted lungful of air and take in my surroundings. The two girls beside me have suddenly replaced their disdain and are now clasping their hands together like a couple of junior high besties. The guys in the row ahead are already exchanging phone numbers, as are the guy and girl to their right. Within seconds, I surmise that everyone else around me seems to be spoken for—everyone, that is, except Talon.
Straightening my shoulders, I angle my body toward his and maintain a neutral expression.
The moment our eyes catch, he bites his lower lip and flashes a cockeyed smirk. “Guess it’s us.”
My stomach somersaults, but I play it cool. “Lucky me.”
“Yeah.” He laughs through his nose, his perfect white teeth flashing as he grins. “Lucky you.”
Chapter Two
Talon
I’ve never been a believer in bullshit like fate or destiny, but after the way the stars aligned this morning, placing Irie Davenport not only in my sight but directly beside me—I’m willing to reconsider my stance.
“We should probably exchange numbers,” I say to her as our anthro class is in the midst of a chaotic freshmen dismissal. “You know, since we’re partners …”
I refuse to use the word “study buddy.”
It’s just not sexy.
And partner has better … connotations.
Irie flips to a page in the back of her little pink notebook and scribbles something before tearing the page, folding it into thirds, and handing it over. A second later, she slings her messenger bag over her lithe shoulder and tucks a strand of silky caramel-blonde hair behind one ear, revealing a simple golden stud. It’s unpretentious and unexpected—much like her.
“Wait,” I say after unfolding and scanning the paper. “This is your email.”
“Yep.” Her expression is bland and indifferent, and it’s the same one she’s been giving me for the last four years, but her violet eyes flicker with life. With all her years of practice, she’s never been able to master the art of the true poker face. There’s a part of her—however miniscule it might be—that wants me just as much as I want her.
I see it.
I fucking feel it.
And if I feel it, I know Irie does too.
I tend to be numb to most things, most of the time, but not this. Not her. Not us—or rather, what we could be.
Our tension has been ripe since day one, so palpable you could slice it clean with an obsidian knife. Why she tries to fight it and deny it is the one thing I’ve yet to figure out.
For years, I’ve been trying to get her number.
And for years, she’s rebuffed me eight ways from Sunday.
“What if I need you right away?” I ask.
“Then you’ll send me an email and it’ll go straight to my phone,” she says as she begins to navigate her way down the row.
Most girls love to be needed.
Not Irie.
I grab my shit and follow closely.
“What if you need me? I don’t always check my email.” It’s the truth, but now that we’re partners, I’m going to have to change that.
“I won’t need you,” she says when she reaches the end of our row. “I never miss a class.”
Her hand, soft and delicate with glossy nails the color of the sky, glides down the railing as she makes her way to the lower half of the auditorium. The faint scent of her wildflower perfume catches in her breeze and I steal a generous inhalation, though it hardly satisfies.
I want to smell it on her skin—warm and brilliant, alive.
I also want to run my hands along her curves and bury my face between her thighs and hear her soft voice in my ear as her limber body melts beneath mine.
I want her nails digging so hard into my backside they leave marks for days. Marks I’d earn. Marks I’d deserve …
I could make her feel so fucking good if she’d just let me.
One night.
That’s all I want, all I need with Irie Davenport.
I want to unwind her, untighten that coiled personality. She’s guarded and private, unlike the other girls who throw themselves at me and the second they’re finished riding my cock, they lie in my arms and tell me their life stories like I give a shit. But Irie is different. She’s not from around here—someone told me she’s from the Midwest—and she’s not an open book.
She’s a padlocked diary.
A padlocked diary who wants nothing to do with me.
“Do you want my email just in case?” I ask, sounding like a schmuck as we pass through the door and into the hall. We’re side by side now but seconds from losing one another in a sea of shoulder-to-shoulder students.
“If I need it, I’ll look it up in the student directory,” she says.
“Cool, cool. See you Wednesday,” I say, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd.
Rebuffed again.
It’s not the first time.
And it sure as hell won’t be the last.
But I walk away with a smile the size of Texas and the swell of hope in my chest—no different from the feeling I get when I lead the team onto the field during the opening game of the season.
In football, when you see an opening, you take it. You hold onto the ball with your life and you run like fucking hell until you score—or at least until you advance the ball.
I’ve been advancing the ball since the first time I laid eyes on Irie at Collin Holbrook’s house party freshman year, and I’ve been running like hell ever since, but with four months until graduation, the end zone is finally in sight.
My cock swells in an anticipation of my sweetest victory yet.
I’m finishing the year with that touchdown.
Chapter Three
Irie
“Aunt Bette, I’m home,” I call as I hang my bag on the back of a kitchen chair. “Brought you dinner from the deli. Got that soup you like.”
I place the brown paper bag on the counter and trek to the living room to find my great aunt passed out in her recliner while the TV in the corner plays Wheel of Fortune. Well, technically she’s not my great aunt. She’s my mother’s brother’s wife’s aunt … but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter because she’s cool as hell and I’m honored to be related to her in any capacity.