CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
"Mm, fuck, baby... you know me well." His hand slides higher, fingers already under her skirt.
Chanel gasps, body jolting against him, eyes locking on his like they're straight-up eye-fucking across inches of air.
The bastard's hand is definitely cupping her pussy, right there at the table, and she melts into him like she's been waiting for it all night.
I just shake my head, drag my attention back to my beer, and take a long pull.
Classic Luke.
"Why don't you show me how you'd cheer for me... later. In my bed." Luke's mouth curves into that slow, filthy smirk. "You know... so I can hear just how good you really are at screaming my name every time I make a hit. Every time I score."
I drag my bottle to my mouth again, taking a long pull, anything to tune out Luke's dirty play-by-play.
That's when I hear it — the opening chords spilling from the beat-up karaoke machine in the corner. Forever and Always. Taylor Swift.
My head snaps that way before I even think about it.
Don't know why, don't know what I'm expecting to see. Just... that's what happens every time a Taylor Swift's song comes on. Been like that for years now.
My chest knots up, and I blow out a breath, slumping like a fool who just got sucker-punched by a damn song.
Cody's elbow digs into my side, snapping me back. He jerks his chin toward the entrance. "Your girl's here."
Like an idiot, my eyes shoot to the doorway, stretching my neck, scanning every damn face. In my head, I'm looking for Caroline. Which is so fucking stupid. She's not my girl. Not anymore. She's in New York, miles away. Hell, no one here even knows her except Elijah.
And yet... here I am, looking. Like a jackass.
My chest dips when all I see is strangers. My head drops, lips twisting in a humorless chuckle.
"I'm losing it. Really losing it," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. Must be the booze. Has to be. 'Cause otherwise I'm just the dumbass who can't go five minutes without Caroline clawing her way back into my head.
Cody jabs me again. I glance at him, and he squints. "You good, bro? Or you drunk already?"
"Guess so..." I mutter, following his gaze — and that's when I see her.
Taylor Lewis. Standing right in front of me like she owns the room. Ridgewater's hottest mess and hottest girl rolled into one.
The Tease. The Party Queen. The Hookup Barbie. Around campus, she's got a dozen nicknames, but the one that sticks the most? The Campus Slut.
And right now, she's also the girl everyone thinks I'm hooking up with.
"Hey, gorgeous."
"Hey, handsome..."
Her voice is low and dirty, the kind that hits first and makes you think of exactly one thing — sex. Then she's swinging a leg over, sliding onto my lap like she's done it a thousand times. Her arms loop around my neck, pulling me in.
The kiss hits fast, hard. Her mouth claims mine with zero hesitation, lips moving like she's got something to prove. She tastes like vodka and vanilla gloss, tongue slick and insistent, teeth tugging at my bottom lip before she finally lets go.
She leans back, lips curving into a slow, wicked smirk. She drags her thumb across my mouth, smearing her lipstick like she's marking me up on purpose.
I don't even need to look to know every single set of eyes at the table is locked on us. Some jealous, some just watching like I'm living out their fantasy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CAROLINE
My last class ended before noon today—bless Wednesdays for being light—and I'd already powered through my homework back in the dorm. Everything's done and submitted early (look at me, being all responsible and Type A). Which left me with exactly two hours to kill here, my happy place.
The Ridgewater U fitness center.
Basically a palace for sweaty people. Two full floors, polished until they sparkle, and more machines than I even know how to use.
Seriously, it's like walking into a Transformers convention—treadmills lined up in perfect rows, shiny ellipticals, stair masters, weight racks that stretch forever, squat racks, yoga mats, kettlebells, battle ropes, even one of those sleek Peloton bikes that look like they're plotting to judge you if you don't pedal hard enough.
And the best part?
The view.
I sigh in delight, catching myself in the giant wall mirror—though, let's be real, I'm not admiring me right now.
Subtlety? Don't know her. Because try looking away when there's a guy on the chest fly machine straight-up flexing like he's auditioning for a Marvel movie.
Pecs straining against his shirt, veins popping, face all concentrated like moving weight plates is saving the planet.
Then my eyes slide left—oops—and land on another guy cranking out pull-ups.
Shirtless. Eight-pack on full display. Not six.
Eight! The kind of stomach that looks carved, like someone Photoshopped it in real life.
His lats flare wide, arms bulging with each rep, and for a hot second I wonder if his biceps have their own zip code.
Excuse me while I dab the drool with my towel.
And did I mention this is my happy place? I did, didn't I? But just for emphasis—this is my happy place. I love it here.
Except—oh crap.
Mr. Topless Eight-Pack Glory? Yeah. He catches me.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and instead of pretending he didn't just see me eye-banging him, the guy smirks. Full-on, cocky-as-hell smirk. Then he winks.
Winks.
Do you know what that does to a girl? It's like getting zapped by a defibrillator straight to the ovaries. My heart skips, my stomach swoops, and for one horrifying second, I nearly trip on the treadmill like an idiot.
See? Subtlety. I should really get to know her someday.
My cheeks go beet red, but do I shrink into a puddle of embarrassment? Hell no. I roll with it. Pretend it's nothing. Like I wasn't just ogling his V-line like it was the Mona Lisa.
I plaster on a casual little smile, flick my ponytail over my shoulder like I meant to do it, then let it fall and tighten my grip on the treadmill rails.
Focus, Caroline. Eyes forward. Speed's still cranked to 6.5 and now I'm running like I'm training for the freaking Olympics.
Nothing to see here, Mr. Topless. Nothing at all.
But then—my eyes slip again. Just a quick glance. Just to check.
And... he's gone.
The pull-up bar's empty. The space where his abs-of-steel were just glistening in the light? Nada.
Oh. Well, too bad. Guess he wrapped up his workout. Shame, really. I was kinda in the mood to flirt back.
Wow... listen to me. Who even am I?
Thinking about flirting back at a random guy like it's nothing. Confidence really does hit different. Three years ago, I would've melted straight into the treadmill belt and prayed for invisibility.
Now? I'm not running from it. I'm running with it.
And then—oh God—he's back.
Not over by the weights this time. Nope. Mr. Eight-Pack Glory is walking straight toward me, slow and easy. His eyes lock on mine. And that smile—God help me—that smile curls at one corner first, lazy and knowing, before tugging wider like he's already in on a joke I don't even know the setup to.
My palms go clammy on the treadmill rails. My heartbeat kicks faster than the speed setting. Suddenly every drop of sweat on me feels like it has a spotlight.
What do I do? What the hell do I do?
Where's all that confidence now? My inner sass monster snarks.
Shut up, I hiss back.
I'm two seconds from face-planting off this treadmill when—salvation. My phone lights up. The ringtone blares through my earbuds.
Lucy.
Shit. My stomach nosedives as I glance at the screen. Lucy. Calling.
And then I see the time flashing at the top. 6:31 p.m.
"Oh, crap, crap, crap."
La Playa. The bar. I was supposed to meet Lucy and the girls there at six-thirty.
Yeah. I'm officially late.
I fumble to swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Care, where are you?" Lucy's voice blasts over the line. "We're at La Playa already. Drinks are sweating, girl. You coming or what?"
"Oh, crap—yeah! I'm on my way. Be there soon, promise." I hit the treadmill stop so hard it squeals, hop off, and sling my towel around my neck in one motion. "I just...uh, lost track of time. Got a little too absorbed in my workout."
Hah! my inner sass monster scoffs. Translation: you were too busy ogling Mr. Eight-Pack Glory to notice the time.
"Okay, just checking," Lucy says, a laugh in her voice now. "I was starting to worry—you're never late."
"Yeah, well, first time for everything," I mutter, juggling my water bottle, gym bag, and phone all at once as I hustle for the exit. "I'll be there, uh, fifteen minutes, tops."
I'm so focused on assuring Lucy, I don't even register that I've already walked right past Mr. Eight-Pack Glory. Didn't even glance at him. Zero eye contact.
Which, let's be honest, is probably for the best.
Twenty minutes later—give or take a record-breaking shower and the fastest cab ride of my life—I push through the doors of La Playa.
The place is alive. Neon lights splash color across the walls, bodies pack every corner, and there's this loud hollering somewhere to my left that could only belong to a table of guys who think volume equals charm. Figures.
I weave my way deeper inside, scanning the crowd. There—near the karaoke machine. Lucy, Tammy and Katie, waving like they're trying to land a plane. Taylor Swift's Forever & Always is blaring from the speakers.
Ooh, bless. Tay Tay sets my mood instantly.
I start threading my way through the crowd when—bam.
I collide with something solid. Not solid. Brick wall solid. My head jerks up, and wow. The wall has a face. A ridiculously handsome one.