5. Lenni
FIVE
lenni
I’m on my way to class and I’m nervous as hell.
It’s not the sweet butterflies-in-the-stomach nervous either, it’s the Reeve-Dalton-is-too-much-for-me-to-handle nervous. Last night when I should have been working on edits I got swept up in a text exchange with him that left me wondering if I’m in over my head. I know getting asked for nudes is just another Wednesday for some girls, but not for me. And when I coyly said no, he rolled with it and said he prefers the real thing anyway. Like us getting naked together is inevitable. I keep telling myself to just see where this flirtation might go because maybe the star quarterback is exactly the kind of guy to teach me how to loosen up and leave the past behind. Dive into the deep end. Go big or go home.
But the closer I get to the possibility of actually being alone with him, the more my nervousness feels like fear. What if Reeve isn’t the guy you experiment on when you’re just learning how to have a crush again? There’s no way I could live up to his expectations, sexually and otherwise. And I know better than to trust him.
When I get to class, Reeve’s not there, but his friend is. As I take my usual seat, Cam looks over at me and flashes a brief, liquid smile that jolts me back to the look he gave me the other day. Suddenly he deigns to acknowledge me? Must be Reeve’s doing. I stumble through a greeting and quickly turn away to pull out my laptop. No wonder he smiles so rarely, that thing is like a loaded weapon.
When I glance over again a minute later, he’s reading a book I recognize from my other class.
“Are you in Writing for the Digital Age?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the page.
“I’ve never seen you there.” It’s not that I’m calling him a liar. But that class is well-known as one of the toughest upper-level electives, so yeah...maybe I am.
“I’m in the Thursday section.”
I wait a beat before answering, trying to make my voice neutral. “That’s the honors section.”
He looks over at me. “I know.” The little smile he gives before turning back to his book is triumphant and oh, so arrogant, but can I blame him? I had him pegged as a meathead.
I shrug like I’m not overly impressed by this revelation, then, when it’s safe, sneak a sidelong glance at him as he reads. Jet-black lashes line his eyes, the kind any girl would kill for. In profile, his lips curve into a subtle pout, pillowy and tantalizing, like surely he has to be an amazing kisser because how could those lips not feel as perfect as they look? The back of my neck prickles, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of every inch of space that separates his body from mine. Without Reeve there to suck up all the oxygen, I realize Cam might be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
And ice freaking cold, I remind myself.
I force myself to look away, but his image still lingers. How are these guys even more attractive in person than on those cheesy football posters plastered all over the student union? Not that I have a problem with the posters; the guys look ripped to hell, biceps bulging as they run down the field in those shiny, tight football pants. Something about that silhouette really does it for me. Skintight pants, thick shoulder pads, and those big, strong hands football players always have? Uh-huh. I wouldn’t complain if Darren asked me to give women’s volleyball a rest and cover a football game or two. I’d fail spectacularly, sure, but I wouldn’t complain.
Up front, Professor Richards clears his throat and shuffles a few papers, and I’m brought back to earth. It’s ten o’clock on the dot.
I look over at Cam. “Think I should take notes for Reeve until he gets here?”
If I thought his earlier smile was a sign of something warming between us, I stand corrected by the chilly look he gives me. “Reeve’s not coming,” he tells me, his voice laced with annoyance. “And no.”
Jeez. Cameron Forrester may be hot, but he also doesn’t let anyone forget what an elitist asshole he is.
As Professor Richards greets the class, a little wave of relief washes through me knowing I won’t have to face Reeve and my indecision today. I push aside my lingering thoughts about him and concentrate on the sound of Richards’s voice.
Only once during class do I get sidetracked, and that’s when I notice Cam looking at me. Not my boobs, which account for half of what scant attention I get. And not my class notes, which account for the other half. He’s looking at me.
If I was as experienced as Jade in being stared at, I’d know what to make of the look on Cam’s face. It’s not the stunned-by-your-beauty expression I undoubtedly wore when I was sneaking looks at him earlier, but it makes my cheeks burn hot all the same. Cam, though, is cool as ever, totally unfazed at being caught staring. I snap my gaze back to the front of the room and vow not to let my eyes stray again.
A normal person would give a casual goodbye, but when class ends, I’m still flustered by Cam’s hot-and-cold demeanor, so I quickly pack up and leave. I’m just outside the door when I hear him call my name. Not Lenni but Lenore. No one here calls me that.
I turn around, a deer in headlights watching him approach. His expression isn’t friendly, so I let my eyes drop to his body, taking in his impressive height and the sharp cut of muscles under his clothes. But just as he comes out into the hallway, someone says his name.
She’s blond, whip thin, and I have never, and I mean never, seen her smile. I don’t remember her name, but I know she’s Cam’s girlfriend.
He says something to her and looks back at me, taking another step in my direction. But she reaches for him, and I watch his resolve disappear. He gives me a final look and I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. The image of the two of them together in all their genetic-lottery glory is just so...I don’t know...vomit-inducing. Something about it snaps me right out of my fawning over him and back to what I already know: He’s just another dickhead football player at Shafer—all style, no substance and zero regard for any of us little people.
I walk out of the building, but I still see Cam and his girlfriend in my head. Their combined beauty is infuriating. I’ve heard her mother was a famous Russian model in the ’90s and her father is some European bajillionaire, but you don’t need to know any of that to guess that she—and therefore Cam and anyone else she associates with—is of the highest echelon of the social order. Her hair, her clothes, her rail-thin body just scream European wealth. I don’t know why she’s at Shafer University, unless it’s to bag a rich American athlete like Cam and merge dynasties.
And that’s fine; to each her own. But I fail to see any love between her and Cam. Theirs is probably a bond built on him buying her diamond-encrusted vials of cocaine and her reciting his football stats while giving him blow jobs that leave not the slightest smear of her perfect nude lipstick.
It takes the entire walk to my next class spent analyzing Cam and his girlfriend—neither of whom I’ve ever had a full conversation with—before I remember it’s Reeve I’m supposed to be obsessing over.