4
Lexi
Blake Boden is an interesting case of data. Women follow him around in droves, offering fornication in exchange for very little, and it makes me wonder if there’s more to him than a single glance could discern.
He’s muscular and over six feet tall in the way a lot of women prefer in their potential mate, conventionally attractive, talented, athletic, and packs an easy smile I know puts everyone in his vicinity at ease, but what if there’s more to it?
What if there’s a science to the amount of attention he gets—an evidence-based reasoning for why he’s so popular with women and men alike, and why his confidence isn’t deterred by repeated rejection.
Dopamine is chemical and reactionary. Does something about him trigger it? A scent, perhaps?
My stomach has churned at least three times tonight, two-thirds of which occurred before the pizza. There has to be a reason, and I can’t help but wonder what it is.
Normally, I wouldn’t even consider the possibility of dating a football player, but after the haranguing from my family last night, I clearly need to shake things up. Maybe a good old scientific experiment with Blake Boden at the center of it is the answer.
All I’d need is a hypothesis to get started.
If I date Blake Boden, I’ll be chemically happier.
Not exactly testable . I try again.
Prolonged periods of time spent with Blake Boden make a marked difference in happiness.
Again, Lex, what’s the unit of measurement for happiness?
I shake my head to clear it and surreptitiously glance at Blake’s carved cheekbones and freakishly charming floppy ginger-blond hair. I always suspected I’d be attracted to men with dark eyes and dark hair—but something about the combination of Blake’s unsuspecting, innocent look and undeniably fascinating charisma has a way of setting me straight.
As we climb the steps in front of the Beckley Theater to take a seat in the pedestrian court, ice cream procured from Brower Center for dessert after eating our slices of pizza on the walk there, Blake slows his steps and reaches out for my arm, gently forcing me to face him. “So? What’s your conclusion on the pizza? Was it really as bad as you thought?”
“Honestly?” I ask, my normal blunt delivery faltering a little in deference to his feelings.
“Yes. Of course. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Okay,” I agree with a nod, taking a deep breath and visualizing the smell and feel of room 517 of Graham Hall. Dirty gym socks and damp laundry, I’m convinced, hold more appeal. “It was worse.”
“What?” he scoffs, a growing smile settling a small dimple into his cheek. “Worse than a New York Department of Health violation?”
I nod, taking a lick of my ice cream cone before it can melt all over my hand. Blake’s eyes are locked on the motion. I swallow quickly, wincing slightly at the frigid feel in my throat, and explain. “Sanitation was nonexistent, and the ingredients were sitting in bowls on his nightstand next to a pack of cigarettes and two condoms. Overall taste of the pizza was good, but I’m pretty sure we’re both in for a night of violent consequences.”
“Aha.” His smile looks like victory. “So, you admit…it tasted good.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes…it tasted fine.”
“You didn’t say fine before. You said good . And you don’t strike me as the type of girl who isn’t precise with her words.”
“Here’s something precise—smug isn’t a good look on you.”
“Not possible.” He chuckles. “Everything is a good look on me.”
“Oh, wow. Okay. Smug and cocky.”
Blake sits down on the top step in front of the theater and rubs the air atop the spot next to him to entice me to join him, unaffected, at least outwardly, by my analysis of his personality.
I have to suspect his confidence is part of his mysterious, scientific appeal.
“Come on,” he insists at my lack of compliance. “Sit down. Just for a little while. At least long enough to eat the rest of your ice cream.”
I do as he says with a roll of my eyes and a deep, beleaguered sigh that makes him laugh. Surprisingly, though, the real reason I sit down is because I want to.
Under normal circumstances, spending time with a football player— the football player, arguably—from Dickson would be out of the question. But now that I’ve given in, Blake’s mystique raises too many questions to short-cut the evening.
“What made you choose Dickson? Given that you grew up in Southern California, I can’t imagine this was a school on your initial short list.”
I take a lick of ice cream, and he smiles. “Ah, see, I guess you don’t know all my stats. My grandfather went here. Played quarterback on one of the first Dickson teams to make it to the play-offs. In fact, he was a part of the graduating class you mentioned just tonight, at Double C.”
“You’re kidding.”
He laughs. “I’m not.”
“You knew the switched seats?”
Blake winks, and I groan. “Oh my God. Why in the hell didn’t you just find them, then? Win the money?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t want the night to be over too soon. It’s the end of the semester. Who knows when I would have gotten to see you again?”
“And your entry money…what about that?”
“Trust me, this ending is worth the sixty bucks.”
My gaze jerks to his, and my stomach turns over yet again. It’s a foreign feeling—one I didn’t even think I was capable of having, truth be told. My mind races to figure out if this is all just a part of a smooth-talking game or if he really thinks my company is worth a sixty-dollar loss and a very close call with losing his entire scholarship.
Instead of saying anything, I bite into my cone and work at the last vestiges of mocha mint chip ice cream from the student dining hall. I expect him to fill the quiet with mindless chatter, but he sits comfortably in the silence, finishing his vanilla peanut butter mixture from his bowl.
It takes a minute, but I finally work up the courage to consider the conversation, ignoring the fact that I’ve pointedly excused a whole section of undeniable compliments directed toward me. “What about your parents?” I ask him. “Where did they go to school?”
“My mom didn’t go to four-year college. She’s a paralegal. And my dad went to USC for both undergrad and law school. They met when my dad started at his first firm.”
I smile, the comfort of having something in common putting me a little more at ease. “My parents met at work too. My mom is the head on-staff physician for the Mavericks.”
“This might be an overly personal question, but we are getting to know each other, so I’m just going to ask it, and if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”
I tense but nod anyway. “Sure.”
“Why is your last name Winslow and not Lancaster?”
“Wes isn’t my biological father,” I answer simply. I know people like to tiptoe around familial intricacies, but after nearly twenty years with Wes in my life, I see our situation as fact. He didn’t create me, but that doesn’t make him any less of a dad. “My mom gave me her last name.”
Blake nods. “And your bio dad…is he in the picture?”
“Oh. Yeah. Nick’s a good dad too, really, save some stupid decisions upon my conception and birth, but he’s in Germany now, heading up a world-renowned neurological research clinic. I see him a couple times a year, but we speak often.”
“Siblings?”
“One. My brother, Wes Jr., is thirteen. I hardly understand anything he says, and yet, I know with an almost certainty that he’s roasting me.”
Blake chuckles. “I hear that’s why younger siblings exist…to humble you.”
“I take it you don’t have any, then?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Only child.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum. “It’s all making sense now. The confidence, the ego, the garish refusal to hear the word no…you’re a walking billboard for too much attention and unconditional love.”
“No such thing,” he refutes easily.
“Oh, please. You can absolutely be spoiled.”
“Can’t spoil people like you can milk.” He smiles. “That’s what my mom always says.”
I guffaw. “Well, there you have it. A complete picture.”
“Now, you know that’s not true,” he contests. “Any given theory has many sets of data. I can’t imagine you don’t know that.”
My eyes widen. He’s right. I do know that. “Okay. What are some of your other data points?”
“I was born with a congenital heart defect. Had five surgeries before I turned one. I shouldn’t be able to play sports the way I do…my parents never thought I would. But when they checked me at age five, all my function was normal. A miracle is what they said, actually.” He laughs. “My mom took that pretty literally. My dad was tough, though. I mean, not in the horrible way you see some dads being, but he pushed me to be what I am in both life and football. He always expected excellence.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
He shrugs. “Pretty good, honestly. Because he expected a lot, but he had loads of patience and a never-ending willingness to provide the tools. He spent all his time on the weekends coaching my youth team and practicing with me. He sacrificed just as much as he demanded. I can’t think of a better person.”
Something about Blake’s fierce defense of his parents is comforting and humanizing. He seems like an enigma most of the time—like a freak star born of luck. The truth is that he and his parents scraped for every opportunity he has. It’s admirable.
I, in contrast, have never had to work that hard at anything. My intelligence and academic pursuits all came naturally. My family, while unconventional, is loving, wealthy, and privileged, my dreams and possibilities endless.
It’s ironic, almost, that relating to other humans—something that should be basic instinct—is where I struggle the most.
“He sounds a lot like my uncle Remy. He’s given so much for our entire family, especially my mom and me, and yet, somehow, managed to make it seem like he actually enjoyed it.”
“Is he your mom’s brother?”
“Yes. Well, one of her four brothers. Though, I guess, technically, Finn and his brothers Reece, Travis, and Jack are my uncles too. Strictly genetically speaking, now that we know my mom’s bio dad is their bio dad too.”
Blake laughs so hard he almost snorts. “Pretty funny picturing ‘Fighting Finn Hayes’ as your uncle.”
I shake my head, but I also find myself laughing a little too. “I don’t think anyone has any plans to treat it that way. Finn and his siblings are my cousins’ and my generation. Not to mention, there’s no way I’m going to call him Uncle Finn when I’m six years older than him.”
The truth of my relation to Finn—and his siblings—came out shortly before his girlfriend Scottie Bardeaux was in a terrible accident during a cheerleading competition. To say it’s been a whirlwind of information over the past four weeks would be an understatement.
And while it might already seem pretty crazy, the reality of it all when it comes to Finn and my mother’s bio dad is even wilder. The man, Jeff Hayes, is now sitting behind bars for a murder he committed in the eighties.
Honestly, it sounds more like the plot of Ace’s dad Thatch’s favorite soap opera, General Hospital , than real life. Ever since they started streaming GH on Hulu, Thatcher Kelly—billionaire and financial whiz extraordinaire—has been driving my stepdad Wes nuts with phone calls and text messages about every storyline and plot twist.
Funny thing is, if you know Ace’s dad personally, his obsession with a soap opera isn’t a shock. The man is a proud lover of all things romance and drama. I honestly think that’s one of the reasons Ace’s mom Cassie ended up finding her way to writing romance books in her free time when she’s not busy on location for photography shoots.
“So, calling Fighting Finn Hayes your uncle is a no-go, then?” Blake asks, a teasing tone in his voice.
“Definitely a no-go…” I pause, scrunching up my nose. “And do people really call him that? Fighting Finn Hayes?”
“Not yet, really. So far, it’s just me. Hasn’t really caught on yet.”
“I bet he hopes it doesn’t.”
“You have no idea.” Blake grins. “Threatened me with lots of pain.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me briefly before I realize what it is. Sitting in the cloak of darkness with Blake, eating ice cream, I almost forgot the outside world existed.
I pull it out and swipe up on the screen to read the text message.
Ace Kelly: I know you can normally fend for yourself, but Jules and I have been worrying for two hours. Did you make it out of the stadium unscathed, or do I need to be contacting Wes’s lawyer?
I glance up at Blake, who’s sitting quietly and patiently. He’s not demanding I tell him about the sender, which somehow makes me feel even more like I should.
“It’s Ace. Just checking to make sure I’m not locked up.”
Blake laughs, nodding. “He texted me an hour ago. While you were picking out your ice cream. Wanted to make sure I’d still be eligible to play next year so I didn’t wreck his entire sports betting scheme.”
“You didn’t…tell him we’re together, did you?”
He cocks his head, and my throat feels thick. The last thing I need is Ace Kelly running all over campus telling people I’m dating a twenty-one-year-old quarterback or something.
“I didn’t,” Blake says slowly and softly, pausing briefly before continuing. “Can’t say I’m loving how big of a deal-breaker it seems it would be if I had.”
I shake my head. “It’s just…complicated. I’m four years older than you. And it’s not like there’s something to actually tell. We’re just celebrating our narrow escape from authority, right?”
“Right.”
I suck my lips into my mouth, and Blake stands abruptly, holding out a hand to help me up. “Come on, Lex. I’ll walk you home.”
I’m surprised he’s the one ending things, given how hard he’s been pursuing me, but I have to admit I’m tired. My adrenaline crashed over an hour ago, and I’ve been relying on the sugar from the ice cream ever since.
“Okay.”
As I stand up, Blake jogs over to the trash can at the side of the entrance to the theater and throws out his ice cream bowl, and then he comes back to me to walk down the stairs together.
I use the solo time to text Ace back with just enough to keep him from sending the police to find me and then tuck my phone away again.
Me: I’m fine.
Blake and I are mostly silent on the way down the steps, but despite my normal introverted tendencies, I find it somewhere inside myself to break the monotony.
“Thanks. For…stepping in tonight. I would have come up with something, but I do appreciate that I didn’t have to.”
Blake’s laugh is soft and comforting, wielding a weird power over my stomach once again. “You’re welcome. I know how painful it had to be for you to accept help, especially from me, the perpetual thorn in your side.”
“Double C nights are busy. You always linger a little too much.”
He guffaws. “Oh man, so I’m right? I am a thorn in your side?” I shrug, wincing slightly as he continues. “I half expected you’d coddle me a little, you know? Tell me I’m just imagining things. Instead, I’ve just got really poor timing.”
“One thing about me you should know right off the bat is that I don’t tend to coddle. I… Well, to be honest, I’m not sure I’m capable of it.”
Blake’s face is a mask of nothingness in the dark of night, and I wish more than anything I could see it a little better so I could attempt to read it. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but for some reason, I find myself curious what he thinks of me.
Quite frankly, I hate it. It’s much easier to function when you aren’t worried about what other people are doing, thinking, or feeling. Much, much easier.
I lead the way toward my apartment, and Blake stays in step beside me. We don’t speak for nearly two blocks, through the entire journey past Beckley Theater, across Amsterdam Avenue, and all the way to the back of Dickson’s parking garage.
“How’d you end up running Double C?” Blake asks, seemingly out of nowhere. It’s a question I’m duty-bound not to answer, and for that, I’m thankful.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Because you’d have to kill me? Or just because you don’t want to?”
“Closer to the first.”
“Wow. Okay. So, this really is some mob-style, family-secret type shit.”
I roll my eyes. “This isn’t The Sopranos .”
“It feels like it.”
I laugh and shrug. “It’s not that complicated. But it is secretive. That’s kind of the point, you know?”
“All right, then.” Blake’s mouth tilts into that easy, cocky smile of his. “I guess I’ll just have to be okay with never knowing. But at least I’ll know where you live.”
I stop dead in my tracks, narrowing my eyes at him.
Blake chuckles, holding up his hands like I might call the cops. “Come on, I’m kidding. I swear I’ll never show up uninvited.”
“Maybe we should just say goodbye here.”
“Lex,” he says softly, stopping just ahead of me. “Let me walk you home. Make sure you get there safe. After that, you’ll never see me in the vicinity again. Unless… ”
I arch a brow. “Unless what?”
His gaze locks with mine, steady and warm. “Unless you invite me.”
I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. Why is he so good at this? “Okay,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend, as we start walking again. Every rational brain cell I have is screaming to let him go, but something deeper—something curious —is pulling me toward him.
I can’t explain it, but I have to know why women react to Blake Boden like this. Why I’m reacting like this.
Hypotheses swirl in my head like a storm, and my brain spins through the kind of evidence-based research I could conduct to figure it out. I’d need a baseline spreadsheet—physical traits, football stats, maybe some genetic history—paired with his upbringing and social conditioning. From there, I’d track reactions, mine and others’, and utilize an AI-assisted app to create a data flowchart to help correlate trends. I’d need updates…which would require future observations—otherwise known as seeing Blake more.
This is all hypothetically speaking, of course.
By the time I resurface from my internal monologue, we’re standing in front of my apartment. I blink, disoriented, and realize Blake is staring at me. Not impatiently, not smugly—just staring, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I was…thinking.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He gives me that lopsided grin that shouldn’t affect me but does . “I feel privileged to see your mind at work.”
I start to roll my eyes, but Blake stops me with a light touch on my elbow. His hand is warm, and my skin heats, completely betraying me.
“Don’t do that,” he says softly. “I’m serious. You’ve got big things going on up here.”
My cheeks flush, and all I can think is, If you only knew the calculations I’ve been running about you.
“Thanks,” I say, clearing my throat. “For…you know. The save, the horrifying pizza experience, the ice cream, walking me home. And your patience.”
His smile widens, and it’s both charming and infuriating. “You make me sound pretty good, Lex. Are you sure you don’t want to date me?”
I laugh, though my response lacks conviction. “Pretty sure.”
Eighty percent sure. Maybe seventy. Fine. Sixty, at least.
“Okay, then.” Blake’s voice is light, but his eyes gleam with something teasing and unrelenting. “But if you change your mind…you know where to find me.”
“Statistically speaking,” I retort, forcing my brain to recover, “Dragon Stadium or your apartment.”
He grins. “Sounds about right.”
“Goodnight, Blake.”
“Goodnight, Lex.”
Warm air crackles between us as Blake leans in. I expect a quick, harmless kiss on the cheek, but at the last moment—probably because of some glitch in my brain-to-neck function—my head jerks.
And his lips land directly on mine.
Tingles erupt across my skin like a live wire, and before I can process what’s happening, Blake wraps his arm around my back, pulling me closer. My hands press against his chest reflexively, and though my brain is spinning in panic, my body betrays me completely because—well, damn.
I push back abruptly, breaking the kiss and sucking in a sharp breath. Blake’s eyes are wide and intense, like I’ve just hit him with a lightning bolt.
“What was that, Lex?” he asks, his voice low and slightly rough.
“It wasn’t anything,” I lie, shaking my head too quickly.
“Bullshit.” He grabs my hand, holding it firmly but gently. “That was something. ”
“Fine,” I admit. “It was something. It was research.”
The first step in convincing someone of something is convincing yourself. I’m not sure I’ve achieved that here, but he’s so caught off guard by my assertion, he goes with it anyway.
It was research. It was research. It was research.
Right? Right.
“Research?” He lifts his brow in disbelief.
“Yes. A data input, if you will.”
He stares at me for a beat, then grins. “Let’s input some more data, then.”
“No,” I say firmly, yanking my hand free. “This ends here.”
He shrugs, turning on his heel and laughing as he jogs down the stairs. But before he disappears into the night, he glances back, winks, and says, “We’ll see about that.”
It’s both a threat and a promise. Blake Boden isn’t going away without a fight.
His charisma is undeniable, and once again, hypotheses swirl in my mind. If subjected to this level of swoon for a prolonged period of time, how long does it take to fall in love?