Chapter Two
Harper
“How ... why ... I mean...?”
Harper Grant stammered out a nervous greeting as the rest of the incoming freshman class trundled past, high-fiving and chest-bumping and all but physically coupled in a pseudo-sexual frenzy of post pep rally hysteria.
The same kind Harper had thought he’d left behind for good in tiny Piedmont, Georgia, the day he left for college.
And never looked back...
Banks Principle stood in front of him, as lean and sleek and compact and sexy as he’d looked strutting through the high school halls in his letterman’s jacket back in the day, a cheerleader on each arm like some kind of teen movie rock god or something.
“You checked off ‘Undeclared’ when we sent out the senior signup sheet,” Banks decried, looking casually yummy in a rumpled rugby shirt and faded jeans.
Of course Banks had been senior editor of their high school yearbook back home, as well as taking pictures for the school newspaper, saluting as part of the ROTC program, the star running back for their football team and starring as a giant, sexy zebra in the drama production of Doctor Doolittle.
“I was,” Harper hemmed. “Sorta?”
Then he remembered. “So did you, as I recall.”
Banks flushed, hollow cheeks filling with a crimson color that flattered his cheery brown eyes and tousled, dirty blond locks. “Yeah, in case my parents read it.”
Harper cocked his head, the atmosphere growing vaguely intimate as the rest of the freshmen who’d signed up for morning session rapidly filed from the formerly claustrophobic auditorium. “They ... didn’t know you were coming here?”
“Not until it was too late for them to do anything about it,” Banks insisted vaguely, tarnishing the golden boy image Harper had created for the ever elusive, Big Man on Campus. “They would have stepped in and made me change my mind somehow.”
Harper stiffened, almost unaware he was doing so. “At least they would have cared enough to notice where you’d be for the next four years, Banks.”
Banks made an “ouch” face, just before a herd of future sorority sisters jostled him nearly into Harper’s lap. “Sore subject much?”
“Sorry, I ... I just never thought I’d see you again.”
Banks teased, punching him playfully on the arm. “Aw, you do care, after all?”
Harper felt himself blushing, almost grateful when Nate, their super terrific, overly dramatic, bordering on operatic host for freshman orientation, sauntered over with his big, dumb megaphone.
“Thanks for coming, guys,” he bellowed, as if still addressing a full auditorium and not merely an audience of two.
Harper noticed he wasn’t the only one flinching at the obnoxious volume, Banks wincing as if a bug had just crawled in his ear.
“But we’re not done yet, gang. Ice cream social in ten minutes on the quad lawn, don’t be late! ”
He jostled them both, as obnoxiously as he’d run the entire orientation, a living, breathing college catalog in human form. Harper watched him go, turning to find Banks watching him in the process. “What?”
“What, what?” Banks had a vaguely teasing tone, as if he was actually glad to see him. Glad enough, perhaps, to ... want to see more of him?
“Nothing, I just ... are you going?” Suddenly, Harper found himself waiting with bated breath for his former classmate’s reply.
“To an ice cream social? After enduring a six-hour pep rally? With that clown? Uh, no.” Banks hemmed slightly, glancing into Harper’s curious eyes. Harper was surprised to find they were almost the same height. Back in school, he’d assumed Banks was literally ten feet tall. “Why ... are you?”
Harper couldn’t back out fast enough. “Fuck, no!”
Banks gave out a little chuckle, taut body sagging with obvious relief as Harper tried to ignore how plump his lips looked as he gently frowned. “I could use a cup of coffee, though,” Harper blurted before he could stop himself. Or, maybe, just maybe, before he could chicken out.
“Same,” Banks grunted in appreciation. “I haven’t had time to unbox my coffeemaker yet and that instant shit just ain’t cutting it.”
Harper struggled to suppress the irrational sense of all-out glee he felt at being face to face with Banks, here, in this gym, all alone. They’d already said more words to each other in the last two minutes than they had in all four years of high school. “You? Can work a coffeemaker?”
Banks made a crumpled-face kind of snort that looked as adorably surprised as it sounded. “I’m sorry, did ... did Harper Grant just make a joke?”
“I guess I did,” Harper chuckled dryly, a most unfamiliar sound indeed. “Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are.”
Banks gave him another sturdy once over, Harper was feeling seen in a way he hadn’t in years and wondering, suddenly, why.
Why was Banks even talking to him? Why had he not just grunted a quick “hello” and sauntered off after the horde of comely coeds who’d streamed past while they stood there talking awkwardly in the middle of the big, empty gym?
Was it just because they were the only two alumni of Piedmont High standing there at the moment?
Was it just old times’ sake? Or was it something more?
Could Banks, hot, studly, womanizing, beer swilling, touchdown scoring, yearbook editing, camera in hand Banks be something more than all of that combined?
Banks was yammering, a strangely tentative lilt to his normally confident voice. “Anyway, I ... I think I saw a coffee shop in the quad on the way over here this morning?”
“The Campus Café.” Harper nodded in reply, the thought of sitting in a cozy corner of some dimly lit café with Banks Principle, of all people, making him quietly weak in the knees. “You think any of those Stepford Freshman from the pep rally will notice if we skip the ice cream social?”
Banks rumpled his face and inched quietly away, calling over his shoulder, “Do you even give a shit, Harp?”
Harper chuckled, drifting alongside Banks as he quietly led the way toward the auditorium door.
“Not even a little.” Then he paused, long enough for Banks to notice the lack of footsteps behind him.
He turned, casually, beautifully, bathed in the mid-afternoon sun streaming through the open auditorium doors behind him.
“What?” he asked, with that little cock of his pretty little head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Harper chuckled dryly, more flattered than his little goth heart would care to admit. “It’s just ... did you just give me a nickname?”