Rory #2
You know what? The universe really does deliver. BFFs forever, girlie. Because while I know I’ll have to go up there and do a scene, it won’t be the one with the kiss . . . on Valentine’s Day. Hallelujah.
Cece keeps glancing back at me as Peter tries to talk to her, making me have to look away because nobody could even write this, it’s so funny.
They’re about to walk up onto the theater stage when the sound of the metal double doors clangs behind us. More than one person looks back, including me, all of us spotting a shadowed figure walking down the aisle.
A tall, broad-shouldered shadow.
The commotion catches the professor’s attention, but he seems less curious than the rest of us. Almost as if he knows who it is. My gaze volleys between the person and the professor until the shadow man finally comes into view.
Oh my god. It’s Hot Guy.
I mean, I’m sure he has a name, but that’s what Cece and I call him because we don’t know his name. He’s just this whole dreamboat who saunters around campus with enough effortless BDE to make you start believing in or wishing for an MRS degree.
He makes feminism run from the building.
My eyes widen, and I immediately whip my face toward Cece, whose mouth is open in a delighted way. She stealthily scurries back to me, sliding into her seat.
“God, he’s so hot,” she whispers in my ear, making me jump even though I know she’s next to me.
Hot Guy and Professor Tate greet each other and begin speaking quietly.
I nod discreetly. “So hot.”
The professor’s nodding before he pats him on the shoulder. Oooh, they look so defined. Is admiring men’s shoulders a kink? Because I think I have that one.
Cece and I both slowly lean forward, inch by inch, hoping to hear whatever they’re saying, but we can’t. We can just see that there’s a lot of smiling, so whatever’s being said isn’t bad.
“How are his teeth so white?” she whispers. “And his eyes so blue . . .”
“Because he’s like a study of what men should look like.”
Hot Guy’s the perfect mix of a dimple and a cocky smile, dark eyelashes, and crystal-blue eyes. He has the blackest hair, like ink, and his skin’s so tan and smooth. He’s delicious.
“I bet he never breaks out.”
I feel her nod. “And he always smells good . . . even when he sweats.”
Who needs celebrity crushes when we have Hot Guy.
“God, look at the way he stands, even that’s sexy,” Cece offers, unknowingly in tune with my thoughts.
I hum an agreement, because his hand’s on top of a chair, making his forearms all veiny. It’s so casual and nonchalant, and yet I’m feral. Cece rests her chin on my shoulder as we both stare. Taking him all in.
That is until the professor looks up, and we jerk away, almost bumping faces like two horny Lucy and Ethels pretending we weren’t ogling.
“Change of plans, players. This is Oliver—”
Cece and I look at each other, eyebrows raised.
Oliver, she mouths like she’s saying something naughty, and I smile.
“I don’t usually agree to this, but I’m allowing him to test early. In fact, I was elated when he asked because that meant I could help him make it to his first audition for the off-Broadway play Perfect Crime.”
There’s pause for applause, and we provide it, but all while my eyes drift over him. God, the way he smiles has the kind of aw-shucks boyish charm that makes you love him even more.
A humble man . . . Who knew such a thing existed on a college campus.
Professor Tate continues congratulating Oliver, singing his praises, as I turn my head ever so slightly, quietly saying, “Now, if Ollie was in our class, I might be more excited for this stupid midterm.”
She snorts. “Yeah right. You’d crumble like a cookie face-to-face with that stunner.”
I scowl, turning more so I face her. “Excuse you . . . I have game . . . You don’t even know what kind of seduction skills I wield. I’m known for my sexual energy . . . I’m a magnet for hot guys.”
She’s nodding with a thumbs-up and a smirk. “Oh yeah, you’re a real hellcat.”
We both giggle. She knows me well enough to know that everything I’m saying is a complete lie.
Offensively hot guy falls for gorgeous quirky nerd only happens in movies or cute young adult books. We may have our good looks in common, but I’m positive that’s it.
Because unless the model-guy dating market has made a swing toward girls who, all too often, have to apologize for saying things out loud that were meant to be kept inside .
. . or girls who wear sneakers because heels cause a danger to themselves and those around them .
. . then the idea of me and a guy like Oliver doesn’t exist.
Plus, I wouldn’t even know what to do with him if I got him.
How often would I have to walk him? What do you feed abs like that?
I reach down to grab some more gum out of my backpack as Professor Tate speaks to the class because the piece I’m chewing is losing its flavor.
It occurs to me that it may be because I’ve been chewing to the beat of my pulse since Oliver walked in.
But before I can laugh about it, Cece taps my back a hundred times in a row.
“What?” I hiss, straining my neck to try to look at her.
Her eyes are as wide as saucers, and somehow, internally, I know why, but the words that were just said in the background take a minute to reach my brain.
“Rory?” Tate says again.
Oh, that’s my name . . . Why did he call my name . . .
Oh god. My head shoots up, all my hair falling around my face like I’m the girl from The Grudge. I blow before brushing it away with my hand as my words fall out. The wrong words.
“What? Why? Uh . . . no. Huh?”
Cece laughs, her face immediately turned down to her lap. I can feel my cheeks reddening.
“Sorry . . .” I point to myself. “Did you call me?”
Professor Tate nods his head while crossing his arms. “Yes, Rory, I called on you. Please come up and pair with Oliver for this scene . . .”
I’ve heard of people leaving their body in times of stress. But I’m so present that all I can do is wish to experience it.
Cece poke-pushes her fingers into my side, making my body cave and twist awkwardly. But still I don’t get up, I just keep staring at Professor Tate, blinking too fast while trying to swallow because my mouth is suddenly dry.
Oliver’s smiling at me, a look of confusion on his face.
He looks to Tate, then back to me. “If she doesn’t want to, I could do a monologue . . .”
This time a hard jab of Cece’s finger makes me jump to my feet and yelp, “Okay . . .”
It’s in reference to the pain inflicted by my former best friend, not my agreement, but either way I’m embarrassed as Oliver raises his brows with a chuckle.
This couldn’t get any worse. There’s nothing that would make the humiliation I am feeling better, because after the way I’ve been acting, I think I’m what this class of guys is to me, to Oliver. As I think it, I lower my head, realizing I’m wearing pajama pants, but not just any pj pants.
“Oh god . . .” I whisper to myself while scratching my forehead.
I’m wearing oversize black plaid pants that say Happy Valentine’s Day . . . except all the letters are worn off, so they just say Happy V D.
Why is this happening to me? I thought we were friends, universe . . . This isn’t being a girl’s girl. I’ve already been betrayed by Cece, but et tu, Brute?
“Go wield your sex,” Cece snarks, so I kick backward, fairly indiscreetly, hoping to connect with her shin before I start toward the professor and Oliver . . . dreamy Oliver.
Each step feels like one closer to the edge of a cliff, so I keep my eyes on anything other than him . . . until Tate says, “Oh, and go ahead and grab Cece’s script . . . I’ll choose another for them.”
Oh god. What? What! Whatttttt.
I don’t turn around. I just stand there shaking my head as Cece shoves her paper into my hand. Truth is, I don’t think I can feel my fingers.
Yeah, no. I think my body’s shutting down. Good job, internal organs. You guys know that the only way out of this situation is death.
I respect it.
As if I’ve lost my mind, I close my eyes for just a second, hoping to pass out, but nothing happens.
“After you?” Oliver offers, making me smile and kind of squint my eyes because, Jesus, I can’t even look at him. It’s like staring directly into the sun.
I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman and I feel thirteen right now—so out of my depth and awkward as hell.
“Also . . . hi, it’s nice to meet you,” he says quietly, but his voice is so decadent, it makes me giggle before I immediately recover with a tiny head shake.
“Hey? Hi?” Why did I put a question mark at the end . . . What is wrong with me?
Oliver motions like a gentleman for me to take the stairs as I whisper, “Oh my god,” under my breath.
I’m an idiot. This is so embarrassing. But being this close to him is making my head spin. He smells so good. And I want to cry over the way he fills out his crewneck.
I’m staring at the ground, fully aware of the fact that I have about ten seconds before I need to face him again, as I make my way up to the stage.
This is the only time I have to get it together. I cannot become a story he tells about some weirdo girl he was forced to kiss.
Come on, Rory, it’s not like you’ve never been around a hot guy. Lock in.
Although, technically he is the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
Still, I’m not exactly a troll. I’m hot. I can do this. I can use this moment . . . make him remember the kiss of a lifetime.
We may not be soulmates, but I could still have a mention in the credits.
Yeah, I’m going to set the bar for kisses and make it hard for every other future bombshell who enters his villa.
That will be my drama class legacy.
Also, I really need to stop watching reality dating shows, the lingo’s infiltrating my vocabulary.
My face lifts from the ground, my gaze immediately taking in the romantic twinkle lights as I swallow hard, trying to gather all my confidence. So that when I turn around, I’m ready to be a sex kitten. A goddess.