Laurel
He’s seated at a table in the far corner when I spot him from the door. He’s not hard to miss—not with his purple Louisiana t-shirt in a sea of black and yellow, big wide shoulders, and wavy mussed hair.
He’s slouching, hunched over his table.
Defeated. Tired.
My stomach rolls with guilt, guilt that has me rooted to the spot in the doorway, watching him.
Just watching.
For the entire four minutes I stand here, he sits immobile, studying his laptop, eyes moving along the screen, completely transfixed by whatever he’s reading.
Learning.
“Just go over there,” I whisper to myself, blowing out a puff of pent-up air.
I put one foot in front of the other and begin toward him, spine ramrod straight, steeling myself, prepared for another argument.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen.
Eight.
Two.
“Hi.”
No reply.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” I lay my hand on the back of the wooden chair across from him, intending to pull it out.
He stiffens but doesn’t lift his head. “Yes I mind.”
“Would you mind if I sat at the table next to you?” I’m pushing his buttons, looking for a reaction, but he only spares me a brief glance.
Shrugs. “Free country.”
I bite my lip to hide a smile, glad he didn’t tell me to take a hike. “I guess I deserve that rebuff.”
Up goes one eyebrow. “Rebuff?”
“Yes, that’s when you—”
He snorts but still doesn’t look at me. “I know what a rebuff is, Laurel. I’m just surprised you do.”
Shit. I get that he’s pissed, but does he have to be such a jerk?
I huff, loudly. “You don’t have to be mean.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you, of all people, were so sensitive. Guess you’re not a fan of being on the receivin’ end of a joke.”
My fingers grip the chair across from him tighter. “I get what you’re doing.”
“Jokes are supposed to be funny, right? Ha ha.”
“I guess I deserve that,” I allow, shifting on the balls of my feet, transferring the weight of my backpack from one shoulder to the other. It’s getting heavy and I don’t know how long I want to stand here holding it. “So, can I sit here?”
“I don’t know why you’d want to.”
“Because I…” I can’t finish the sentence because I don’t know what to say.
“You want to sit here because you feel bad? You feel guilty? You want to apologize again?” He’s rattling off questions, rapid-fire, but still not looking at me. “Trust me, whatever you have to say, you can stop worrying about it. I’m over it.”
What a liar.
“Rhett, please, I’m trying here.”
He grumbles under his breath in a language I can’t understand. “Oui en effet.”
“Why won’t you at least look at me?”
This time his hands pause above his laptop keys. He lifts his face and narrows his eyes—his dark brown eyes.
“You’re a real bitch, do you know that?”
“I-I…” My mouth falls open. “No need to be so harsh.”
“You honestly thought all that shit was cute, didn’t you? Texting and sexting me then showing your fucking cousin.”
“No. That’s not how it was.”
“Do you think you can pull that shit because you’re pretty? Think you can do whatever you want?”
“No.” I mean, sometimes, yes.
“God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I should have known.”
“I didn’t show my cousin the texts, I swear. I just told her about them because she kept asking.”
“What’s the difference? Telling and showing are still invading my privacy.”
I roll my eyes. “Only if you’re going to be literal.”
“She knew you texted me as a joke.”
“Yes.”
“And she knew about the sexting.”
I blush. “Yes.”
“Sex isn’t a big deal to you, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you don’t believe in privacy?”
I groan. Why is he being so stubborn? “The only thing I lied about was my name. Fine, and my hair color. It’s not like I did anything terrible. I’m sorry. How many times are you going to make me say it?”
Those wide shoulders lift nonchalantly. “You’re the one who walked over here. I told you to leave me alone.”
True, but this is going to drive me nuts. “You’re wrong about me, you know—sex is a big deal, and so is my privacy,” I say in a defeated voice, bravado gone.
“Whatever.” Rhett takes a pair of ear buds off the table, stuffs them in his ears. Lowers his head.
My bag is heavy and I hoist it, unsure.
I know he doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I respect and understand why, I just…
Can’t let it go.
Can’t.
And yet, I don’t know what else there is to say to him. What can I do to make it better? Nothing.
There’s nothing.
Just as I’m about to give up and walk away, “Laurel, either sit down or walk away.” He shoves the chair I’m gripping out with his foot.
Thank God.
I hurry to set my bag down in the extra seat before he changes his mind, pulling mine the rest of the way out so I can join him. To study.
Study him.
I take another good, hard look while he’s pretending to ignore me.
He’s certainly not what I’d call cute, or good-looking, or handsome by any stretch of the imagination—and I presume he already knows it.
However…
There is something drawing me to him, and I wish I knew what it was so I could make it stop, make this weird fascination I have with him go away.
Maybe it’s the fact that he wants nothing to do with me. Maybe it’s the challenge he presents. Maybe it’s his broad shoulders and corded, athletic neck.
The shaggy brown hair hiding his eyes.
The scowl that crosses his face every time he turns his hurt eyes on me.
And, of course, let’s not forget this small fact: his friends are determined to get him laid. Plastered his face and number around campus. If that means what I think it means, Rhett is hard up.
Or maybe his friends are just giant assholes.
Total douchebags.
Either way, I love a good challenge, and he’s giving me one whether he intends to or not.
The idea thrills me.
Plopping down across the table, I spread out my supplies, making myself at home as if I have every right to be here. Flip open a textbook, crack open my laptop.
Proceed to ignore the fact that Rhett is resolute in his determination to ignore me.
Get to work on my homework, determined to word vomit enough characters to constitute an entire English Lit paper on the importance of strong female protagonists. It’s just riveting enough I might actually pull off near perfect points.
Satisfied with what I’ve written after forty-five minutes of actual working, I hit save then go to save it to an external drive. As I’m about to do that—
“How long are you going to sit there pretending you’re not dying to say something?” His low timbre sounds both irritated and resigned.
I raise my head and smile in his direction, pleased he’s finally paying me some attention. “Long enough. I was waiting you out, hoping you’d be the first to speak, and you were.”
I give him a wide grin, biting down on my lower lip, feigning bashfulness.
He blinks.
Blushes.
Runs a big hand through his hair and blows out a puff of air, like an angry dragon.
I hone in on the fingers in his hair, those rough man hands. The hair on his forearms. The big palms flattening over his unkempt locks.
Okay, so maybe he’s not horrible looking after all. He’s not Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame horrible, he’s just not…
Cute, or pretty, like some guys are. He’s not hot.
At least, not in the conventional way.
Everything about him is too something. Too rugged. Too unpolished. Nose too broken. Eyes too serious. Hair too disheveled. Forehead too scarred. Ears too bent.
Ears too bent? God I sound like an asshole.
But I like that he is kind and charming and southerly sweet. A gentleman.
And he definitely seems to need friends—new ones, not the guys who keep shitting on him and leaving him hanging out to dry. Those guys are nothing but trouble.
I’ve dated guys like that, obviously, the athletes who think they’re the kings of campus. They train hard, party harder, and seem to only want one thing.
Sex.
Uncomplicated sex. No-strings-attached sex. No commitments. No emotions.
Just sex.
I wonder if Rhett is the same way, but it’s highly doubtful—not with the way he rejected my advances. Didn’t bite when I was flirting. Seemed embarrassed by my attention.
Although…he did get off by our sexting because he told me he came all over his stomach. I know he came because I did too.
My cheeks flush, remembering the conversation that’s saved on my phone. I may or may not have peeked a few times since, just because. No harm in that, right?
“So you might as well tell me what you’re workin’ on,” Rhett finally says. “Since you’re determined to stay sittin’ here.”
Sittin’ here.
“An English paper.”
“How’s that going?”
I beam. It’s nice that he’s asking. “Almost done.”
He grins then, and I stare, struck by how nice his smile is. How it lights up his face. How straight his teeth are, how white. He actually has really nice, beautifully shaped lips.
A small divot in his chin beneath his five o’clock shadow.
Hmm.
I grab hold of my pen to keep my hands busy and tap it a few times against the tabletop. “What about you? What are you working on?”
“Correcting French midterm papers.”
“French?” What! “Correcting French papers? What are you, a professor?” I tease.
A soft chuckle escapes his mouth. “I’m a TA for the French Immersion class.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Wait, what?” Aren’t immersion classes the ones where you speak zero English?
“I’m a TA for the—”
I put my hand up to stop him. “No, no, I heard you fine the first time. How are you fluent enough to correct midterm papers?”
“It’s my second language; my grandmother lived with us growing up and she’s old school. She’s from the Louisiana bayou, and Creole French was her first language.”
“So French is your major?”
“International studies. It felt like a natural fit.” He shrugs.
“Wow. International studies? That’s…wow. That’s unexpected.”
“Oui.” He laughs, my eyes following the corded muscles in his strong neck. “Mai je suis fort en ce sujet.”
My eyes widen, because sweet baby Jesus that was sexy.
Whatever it was he just said, I want to hear more.
It was hot.
I lean in. “What did you just say?”
“You said, ‘That’s unexpected,’ and I said, ‘Yes, but I’m good at it.”
I swallow, shifting my gaze. “So French was the language you used in our text messages.”
“Oui. Parfois je ne peux pas m’en empêcher.” He laughs, spreads his big hands flat on the table and leans back in his chair. Props his hands behind his head.
I track his movements, eyes raking the hard planes of his pecs beneath the purple tee, the smooth pale skin of his biceps.
Oh jeez Laurel, get a grip.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, sometimes I can’t help myself.” Another pleasant laugh and the butterflies in my stomach awaken. “It just comes out. I don’t know I’m doing it half the time.”
“Wow. Did you only speak French growing up?”
A quick nod and his arms come down. “When my Nanan lived with us. We stopped when she died a few years ago, right when I started high school.”
“Nanan is your…?”
“Sorry. That’s what I called my grandma.”
Cawled. “I’m sorry.”
His left shoulder lifts. “She was old.”
“Yeah, but still. My grandparents were from Poland and I never hear them speak a lick of Polish, just gesundheit when we sneezed.”
Rhett wrinkles his forehead, confused. “Gesundheit is German.”
I sigh. “I know.”
Rhett laughs, low and rich and deep, his neck bent, smiling down at the table, not meeting my eyes. Bites down and drags his teeth across his bottom lip. Back. Forth.
I tear my eyes away, blushing.
“So.” I open a new file on my computer to appear busy, shooting a cursory glance over my laptop screen. “A wrestler, huh?”
“All my life.”
Obviously. He still has his hands behind his head, so my eyes take another jog along the lines of body, down his toned arms and torso—the results of a lifetime of being physically fit.
He has really amazing arms.
“Laurel?”
I snap to attention. “Huh?”
“I asked if you’ve ever watched wrestling.”
“Uh, no.” Not yet. I make a mental note to Google it later. “Do you love it?”
Rhett shrugs modestly. “I’m good at it.”
He’s lying again. They don’t recruit juniors in college and steal them from other Division I universities if they’re just good.
“I bet you’re not just good. I bet you’re phenomenal.” I lean forward, watch his eyes dart to the neckline of my plunging V-neck shirt then fly to my face. I smile wickedly. “How do you feel about those little speedos they make you wear?”
This time when he laughs, he throws his neck back, the Adam’s apple in his throat moving from the motion. He hasn’t shaved today; the coarse stubble covering his neck makes him look harsh and slightly sloppy, like he rolled out of bed and didn’t care.
His hair though? It’s wavy and looks like he might have actually brushed it. Thick and silky, even if a tad long, just begging to have a set of hands running through it.
“Those speedos are called singlets.”
“I know that, but it’s fun to tease you.”
Rhett blushes deep, scarlet red, from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears.
“Million-dollar question: does the lack of material ever make you uncomfortable?”
Another laugh. “No. I’m used to it.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Does the fabric ever, you know…get stuck in places it shouldn’t?”
He wheezes, surprised by my inappropriate question, coughing into his elbow, chuckling. “Sometimes.”
“Rhett?” I say it quietly, switching gears.
“Yeah?”
“I know it’s not my place to say this, especially since we’re just getting to know each other, but you know…” I take a deep breath. “You know your friends are jerks, right?”
It’s the last thing he expects me to say. “Yeah, I know.”
“I’ve seen some real douchebags in my life, but those guys take top prize. What a bunch of assholes.”
“Not much I can do. I’m stuck here for the next two years.”
“Stuck?”
“Yup. There’s no turnin’ back.”
“That’s right—you transferred all the way from Louisiana.”
“Correct, and my parents were super pissed about it, so there’s no transferring back.” He picks at a sheet of white notebook paper on the table.
“And you’re living with those guys? The dine-and-dash crew?”
“Two of them, yeah.”
My smile is sad. “You seem like a decent guy. You don’t deserve to be treated like crap.”
He grimaces. “I know. Trust me, I know.”
“Can you tell me about all the hazing that’s been goin’ on?”
Rhett crosses his arms, the bulk of his biceps flexing beneath the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric straining and stretching across his broad chest.
Nice.
“I guess.” His sigh is weighty but he gives in. “Obviously I’m new to the team, right? A few of them have been callin’ me New Guy since day one, which drives me bat-shit crazy. My roommates can’t stand my last name.”
“Which is…”
“Rabideaux.”
“Rabideaux,” I repeat. Rab-ee-doe.
Rhett Rabideaux. I turn the name around in my head, romanticizing it.
Kind of sexy, really.
So French.
“What about you? What’s your last name?”
“Bishop.”
“Laurel Bishop.” It slides off his tongue slowly, quietly, like he’s saying it to himself and not to me. I see it rolling around in his brain, see him trying it out.
“Oui,” I whisper.
His eyes crinkle at the corner when I throw out the one French word I’ve picked up over the years, his dark chocolate irises softening as we regard each other across the library study table.
Those soulful eyes of Rhett’s land on the big, messy bun perched and piled atop my head. Fly to my hairline. Eyebrows. Lips.
I smile.
He clears his throat.
“Can we talk about the dine and dash for a second? You know I was there with my friend Donovan.” I hedge carefully, knowing it’s rude to ask. “How much did that cost you?”
“Four hundred bucks.”
“What!” I come out of my seat, indignantly shouting in the library. “Four hundred? Are you shitting me? Sorry, I shouldn’t swear, but are you shitting me right now? That’s horrible!”
“Shh, Jesus Laurel, calm down. Sit back down.” He leans over, those long fingers yanking on the hem of my shirt, tugging me down into my chair. “I’m still trying to decide how to tell my parents before the credit card statement does the tellin’ for me.”
I plop back down but, sympathetic, reach across the table and squeeze his forearm…his warm, solid, strong forearm. I’m tempted to wrap my palm around it for good measure. “I am so sorry. That sucks.”
He pulls his arm back, drags it under the table and out of my reach.
“Why are you sorry? It’s not like you did anything wrong.”
“No, but I did text you after they put those flyers up, and that probably didn’t help.”
God, I’m as big a douchebag as those assholes he hangs out with.