CHAPTER thirty-five #3
I blink. "Why? You need to change your shirt so I can put it in the dryer."
He stomps past me, toward the desk.
"No. I am not wearing another man's jersey, Caroline."
"It's only for a few minutes. Until your shirt dries."
He spins, eyes blazing, his glare pinning me in place. "Why do you even have Clinton Wright's jersey, anyway?"
And there it is—that edge in his voice. Harsh, hot, jealous like the jersey's existence alone is an insult.
It almost makes me laugh, because wow, jealous Zach? That's a whole new species.
But the urge to roll my eyes hard is just as strong, because really—who does he think he is? He's not my boyfriend. He doesn't get to act like one.
"Ugh, for the love of God, Zach Westbrook—take your shirt off and put this on!"
My voice comes out sharp, commanding, like I'm not entertaining even a whiff of argument.
He stiffens, caught off guard, then lets out a low grumble. "Fine."
His arms fold across his chest, and the movement makes his biceps flex hard enough to test the seams of his shirt. Like that's supposed to intimidate me.
Spoiler: it doesn't.
"But," he presses, eyes narrowing, "why do you even have Clinton Wright's jersey? Did you two date or something?"
"So what if we did?"
The lie tumbles out before my brain can slam on the brakes.
Why the hell did I say that?
We didn't. Clint was my old roommate Cara's brother. Pretty sure it was his jersey—Cara probably borrowed it and left it lying around our dorm, and it must've ended up in my stuff when I was packing.
Total accident. But it's too late to return it now.
Zach just...stares at me. And in that stare is something I almost wish I hadn't seen—his face goes slack, his shoulders dip, and for the briefest moment, he looks like I just ripped the ground out from under him.
The same kind of wounded expression I used to swallow down every time I saw him with someone else.
Then, like a curtain dropping, the look's gone. Replaced with that maddening smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Well," he drawls, tilting his head, "he's lucky New York is far away. Otherwise, I'd march right up to his school and—"
"And what?" I arch a brow, crossing my arms to mirror him.
He squints at me, exhales hard through his nose, then mutters like a sulky kid, "And give his stupid jersey back."
After a beat, Zach sighs like he's surrendering to the inevitable, grabs the hem of his shirt, and peels it off. My eyes betray me instantly.
I spin around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet—because nope. Not today.
My sinful eyes don't get a free show of his deliriously sinful body.
"I'm decent," he calls, voice carrying that lazy edge that makes it sound anything but.
When I turn back, he's tugged the NYU Violets jersey over his head.
And, damn it, it looks good on him. Too good. Still, nothing will ever beat him in Ridgewater Warrior colors. I catch myself smiling anyway, giving him a quick once-over before nodding in mock approval.
He holds out his damp shirt, brows raised. "You know you owe me for this, right?"
"Owe you? How so?"
"Because it's humiliating," he deadpans. "Wearing another team's jersey? That's like...sacrilege."
"Oh, stop. You're lucky I'm kind enough to dry your clothes, mister."
I take the shirt, walk to the bathroom where we have our dryer—it's not a huge one, just a small machine big enough to handle a few light clothes at a time.
By the time I come back out, Zach's parked himself on the floor, back against Sam's bedframe, his long legs stretched out.
I hesitate, then sink onto my bed, tucking my legs under me.
The air feels...different. Heavy.
I don't even have to look up to know his eyes are on me. It makes the fine hairs at the back of my neck stand at attention, like my body hasn't figured out whether to run for cover or lean into it.
I try my best not to look fidgety, but it's impossible.
The silence between us is thick enough to choke on, and neither of us is making the slightest move to break it.
My eyes flick to the bathroom door, practically begging the dryer to hurry the hell up so Zach can grab his shirt and go.
"So, uh... how's Taylor?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
Perfect. Of all the things I could've asked, I just picked Taylor Lewis.
Bravo, Care. Really nailed the self-sabotage today.
When I glance at Zach, his brows are lifted like I just caught him off guard. Guess he didn't expect me to bring up his former fake fuck buddy.
Former, right?
Or are they still doing their little "pretend we're a thing" act?
God, I want to ask, but no—nosy much? That's not my business.
"She's doing okay," he says finally, his voice softer than I expect.
"As okay as she can be. We went to Campus Safety earlier to report what happened.
The campus cops pulled the hallway footage from yesterday—caught her ex coming at her clear as day.
Having that on record made it easier to back up her statement. "
His mouth curves into a small, relieved smile.
"This time, they actually took her seriously, not like before when she tried reporting him. They helped her file for a restraining order, and the paperwork's already moving. They said he'll probably get served within three to five business days."
"That's... really good," I say, relief sneaking into my tone. "Hopefully once it's official, he'll back off and actually leave her alone."
"Yeah." Zach runs a hand over his damp hair. "The cops said if he tries anything after he's served, it's an automatic arrest. That seemed to calm her down a little."
"Well, that's something," I say, hugging my knees to my chest. "She deserves to live like a normal college student, not constantly watching her back."
"Exactly," he mutters, jaw tight. "Taylor's tough, but even she's been looking over her shoulder nonstop. At least this gives her some control back."
"I'm glad," I admit.
For a second, Zach just studies me, like he's not sure what to make of the fact that I even asked.
Another awkward silence stretches before Zach finally says, "So... uh, Taylor and I ended the whole arrangement thing we had." His eyes flick toward me, like he's trying to read the fine print on my face.
Lucky for me, my poker face is working overtime, even if my chest is begging him to keep talking.
When I don't say anything, he lets out a slow breath and tips his head back against Sam's bedframe.
"We talked earlier, when I drove her back to her apartment.
I told her that ever since I saw you again, it feels like I've been handed this crazy, impossible second chance—like the kind of shot you don't waste twice.
And I knew right then I couldn't continue our arrangement.
Not if I wanted you to even consider letting me back in. "
He pauses, like he's choosing his words.
"Since that night I saw you again, I haven't been able to shut you out of my head. Not that the last three years were any different—I've been missing you every single day."
He drags a hand down his face.
"I told her that I want to pursue a serious relationship with you and I need to show you exactly where I stand, no second-guessing, no bullshit. Because you deserve better than that. Hell, if I'm being real, you deserve better than me—but I still want to try."
His head tips back against the frame, eyes closing for a beat before he finds me again.
"And now that the whole mess with her ex is getting handled—the restraining order's gonna keep him off her back—there's no point in us pretending to be a thing anymore.
But even if it wasn't? Even if all that hadn't been resolved, I still would've ended it.
Because it wouldn't be fair—to you, or to what I'm trying to build with you. "
He takes a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "She understood. More than I thought she would, honestly. Told me she got it. Told me to go for it. Even wished me luck—wished us luck."
Well, there it is.
The answer to the question I'd been chewing on earlier but didn't have the guts to ask—whether he and Taylor were still fake-fuck-buddies or not. Guess not.
And honestly? I don't know what the hell to do with that information.
Part of me wants to clap like he just gave a TED Talk on Commitment 101. Another part of me wants to curl into a ball because—God help me—it actually sounds like he means it. I think he does.
I appreciate it, though. More than I can even say.
He keeps offering me these little reassurances, like he knows I need them.
And it matters. A lot. Even if it's still too soon to trust him again.
"You didn't need to do that... for me."
"Yes, I do." His mouth curves into a half-grin. "I don't wanna make this harder for you than it already is or give you more reason to doubt me..."
He shifts, eyes never leaving mine. "I really want to make this right by you. And I don't want anything that could jeopardize having a future with you... of you being mine."
And there goes my traitorous, foolish heart—eating his words like they're gourmet chocolate, while my brain's waving a giant neon sign that says girl, calm down, that's literally just the bare minimum. Like, congratulations Zach, you discovered honesty. Want a cookie?
I clear my throat, forcing my lips into something between a smirk and a shield. "That's a little presumptuous of you—assuming I even want to be yours."
His grin stretches wider, smug and slow, the kind that makes heat crawl up my neck. A low chuckle rumbles out of him, rich and unhurried.
"Oh, you want to be mine," he drawls, leaning back just enough to look maddeningly sure of himself. "You're just not ready to admit it yet."
I roll my eyes at him.
Figures he'd say that. Always pressing the exact button that makes my stomach flip and sends all the butterflies in there throwing a rave with glow sticks.
The sharp ding-ding-ding of the dryer cuts through the room, "Oh—dryer's done!" I blurt, way too quickly.