Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
One Week Since the Life-Altering Kiss
I love to read and am always writing, journaling, sticking quotes all over my room, so it surprised no one in my math-focused family that I decided on an English major before I finished my freshman year, despite the thirty-five other possible majors offered.
And while I absolutely am addicted to the smell of books, the expense for all these theory textbooks and hard-to-find editions with their required forwards sure adds up. Thankfully, Thatcher College’s library has extensive archives and an impressive cross-state lending system.
My latest bulk order arrived today, thus why I’m bogged down carrying a stack of books from my bellybutton right up to under my chin.
One more title would have tipped me over.
The soft skin under my chin is starting to chafe from the load, but luckily, someone is holding the front door to Tasker Hall open for me as I waddle forward.
Unlucky, I correct, when my peripheral vision catches a glimpse of Cal pushing the door wider. “Doing some light reading, or are you opening up a bookstore?” he asks with his perfect smile.
“I wish,” I admit before I can prevent myself.
“You wish to open a bookstore.” He states this not as a question, but as a mere fact that he’s processing. “I can see it. Beauty and the Beast, ladders and all.”
God, yes, my heart practically leaps out of my chest at my ideal future life. I grunt an affirmative because I can’t nod, or my pile will collapse to the floor.
“Let me help you,” Cal offers, but I skirt away from his extended arms. It’s the New Yorker in me, I guess, and these are my precious. And besides, I’m now only a couple of yards away from our rooms. “Alrighty then,” he allows, “but at least let me get your door for you. Where are your keys?”
I don’t refuse his latest offer because, while I consider myself a feminist, I’m not a moron, and I could use someone’s assistance or a rolling suitcase next time.
“In my front pocket,” I answer without moving my jaw too much, but then immediately start to panic, belatedly realizing that he’s going to have to stick his hand in my jeans to fish them out.
I break out in a sweat and regret my earlier decision not to hand over the books in the first place.
I have no idea what I was trying to prove.
We’ve reached my door, and I rest a hip on the wall to balance myself.
Cal’s hand slips into my pocket, but it’s a tight fit between the snug bootie jeans I’m wearing and his large, manly hands.
Seriously? I know women don’t typically keep wallets in their pants, but we can use a little more pocket room than designers give us.
His hand wiggles in deeper, pulling the material tighter against my crotch in the process.
The friction hits my sensitive target and causes a surprised gasp and desire swimming through my veins.
“Got it!” His voice is so deep and sensual that I almost moan. Yeah, you do.
But then Cal adds, “I think we just went to third base.” Grr! And there went the stirrings I was feeling as effectively as if I’d just done the Ice Bucket Challenge. Guys suck!
I hear the jangling of my keys as he puts it into the antique-brass lock on the wooden door.
“Um … hmm,” he mutters, the door still not opening. If he takes any longer, I’m going to throw these books at him and do it myself. “Now don’t be mad …”
Uh-oh! That’s never good. “What?” I ask through gritted teeth, my arms starting to feel like two taut rubber bands about to snap just like my temper. Instead of answering me, his arms are enveloping my book babies as he lifts them out of my aching hands, placing them on the floor next to us.
“The key sort of broke in the lock,” Cal says, holding up my key ring.
My eyes narrow as I see that only the top part of my key is in his hand.
My gaze flies to the lock, and sure enough, I can see the missing teeth wedged inside it.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” he rushes out.
“It was the oddest thing. It felt like cutting into butter.”
“You have to go easy,” I whine.
Cal shoves a hand through his hair and stares at the door handle. “Not to worry, I can fix this.”
“How?”
“We’ll call maintenance and they’ll put in a new lock. No problemo.”
I groan because the few times I’ve had repair issues previously, it took forever to get someone to even come out.
“Here, come inside my room to wait in the meantime,” Cal says, unlocking his own door with ease and I shoot him a petulant glare. He shrugs, looking contrite and uncomfortable. He holds his door open, and I enter his domain for the first time.
I do a double take. It’s clean and orderly, and I grimace, realizing that much like his handwriting, he’s way neater than I am.
The room even smells like fresh linens or some sort of soap.
Where is the pile of stinky socks and open food containers littered about?
Isn’t that how jocks are supposed to live?
I gape, taking in the motivational business posters on his walls with quotes from Steve Jobs to Jeff Bezos.
Cal doesn’t seem to notice my shock. Instead, he’s on the phone, speaking with the help desk and explaining what happened.
I assume it’s a female operator because he’s all Cal charm, and when he makes a lame joke about how he’d hate to have to sleep out in the mean streets of our seaport town, I hear lyrical laughter come through from the other end of the line.
“She says someone will be over right away,” Cal says after he hangs up. While that hasn’t been my experience with past help desk tickets, I believe him as I’ve seen what charming Cal can accomplish.
“Music?” he asks, moving toward his opened laptop. “What can I play for you?”
From what he blares, I know his music tastes are eclectic, so I can easily ask for something girly and he’ll be game, but I mentally filter through the ones he tends to play on repeat. “You turned me on to that classic rock song, ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane.’”
Cal shoots me a wink over his shoulder and clicks on the Scorpions song. “Glad to hear I turned you on,” he says, deliberately misinterpreting.
I elbow him. “Ouch,” he complains, rubbing his ribs. “Those … uh … ABBA hits you play have grown on me, too.”
That has me perking up. “Oh really? Any in particular?”
“I don’t know the names, but the one where they sing, ‘The gods may throw a dice, their minds as cold as ice, and someone way down here loses someone dear.’ That line is pretty powerful, and so is your elbow, by the way.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling guilty. He sort of sang the lyrics when he was reciting them, and wouldn’t you know his singing voice isn’t half bad?
“Would you like to sit down?” he asks, picking up the one thing idly misplaced on his made bed. It’s a textbook, so it doesn’t even count as something messy. And when I say his bed is made, it’s like hospital corners made. I only sweep my comforter back up in the morning and call it good.
I hop up on top of his navy-colored down comforter, flip off my shoes, bring my feet up, and cross my legs.
Cal sits next to me, and his weight on the mattress has me tipping slightly toward him.
His door is open, we are fully clothed, and yet it feels strangely intimate.
I have guy friends, but there isn’t this heavy “feeling” in the air when I’m in their rooms or vice versa.
We sit here silently for a minute, and I’m so tuned in to his body that I can feel his breathing and am timing my shallow exhales with his.
“Sooo …” he says, sounding as unsure and tension-filled as I feel.
Don’t say ‘about that kiss.’ Don’t say ‘about that kiss.’
“About—”
I point toward his double-paned window, interrupting the topic I’m almost 100 percent sure he’s about to bring up. “I love our view of the Thatcher Hall statue,” I rush out and point toward the window. “Over there is my favorite bench on campus. It’s one of the reasons I chose my room.”
“I figured,” he says with a slight chuckle.
I swivel my head to study his chiseled, handsome face. “Huh?”
“I’ve noticed you reading there on more than one occasion.”
“You have?”
He smirks and nods. “You’re hard not to notice.” He states this as if he didn’t just cause my insides to melt. “The world could be falling apart around you, and you’d be there nibbling on your bottom lip, turning to the next page, oblivious to anything else but the words you’re reading.”
It is an accurate enough description, and I’m touched he’s paid me enough attention to make such a thoughtful observation.
“It’s like you with your running,” I point out.
“I would think you’d be bored or resent traversing the same paths every day, but I’ve seen you in action and you’re in a zone. You look almost Zen.”
He nods. “So, you’ve noticed me, too?” he asks with a devilish grin, but instead of irritating me like it usually would, it has my breath quickening.
When did we get so close to each other? My knee is brushing his thigh, and I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that I’m sitting with Cal Chase on his bed.
And now I’m wishing we were lying down, reenacting last week’s meteor make out.
The ever-present tension between us is now thicker than a bowl of oatmeal.
I have an urge to tug on Cal’s clothes. My hand lifts of its own accord.
“Somebody call in a work order?” asks a booming voice from the hallway, followed by a wrap of knuckles on the ajar door. We jump apart, even though nothing was going down. Was it?
Cal seems to recover first, rising to his feet to greet the maintenance man whose name is “Roland,” according to the Thatcher College ID badge pinned to his shirt pocket.
Cal is walking Roland through what has happened, and I do my best to keep quiet and let him handle it.
Too many cooks in the kitchen won’t solve my problem any faster.
“It happens a lot in this dormitory,” Roland says, bobbing his head, and I’m starting to feel relieved. Maybe this is a quick solve after all. “I just need to order a replacement lock.”
Then again, maybe not. “If this happens often, don’t you have spare locks stored somewhere?” I ask, unable to stop myself from butting in. Who was I kidding? It’s just not in my nature.
Roland turns to look at me for the first time, but then goes back to addressing the unruffled and chill Cal.
“This is an historic building, and they like to keep it looking that way. It’s not like we can just pick up these fancy knobs and antique sockets at Home Depot.
And I used the last one up on the second floor the other month. ”
“Understandable,” Cal says soothingly. “How soon do you think you can get us a replacement?”
“Shouldn’t take longer than a week.”
“A week?” I ask agog, butting in again.
Roland shrugs. “The girl upstairs wasn’t as freaked out about it. I removed her lock altogether so she could go in and get her stuff. But without the latch, the door can’t stay closed, so we couldn’t allow her to live there like that. School policy.”
“So, what did she do?” Cal asks before I can bite Roland’s head off for the second time.
“We put her in an empty single while some student was away on one of those foreign exchange programs for the semester.”
Just great. I’ll have to move temporarily? What a pain. Jax and Emerson both have roommates, so I can’t stay with them. Maybe at Amerie’s place, although Brady is probably over. Shit!
“Lucky for you, missy,” Roland says, finally looking at me again, “I can simply release the lock on the door between your connecting rooms, so you can come and go that way for now. If that’s all right with this guy.” He turns to check with Cal.
My breath lodges in my throat. Our connecting door will be unlocked?
I will have to go in and out through Cal’s room?
While better than uprooting myself for a week, I’m not so sure about this solution.
Cal is agreeing, though, and is already shoving aside his IKEA-looking filing cabinet from where it blocks the door on his side.
There’s nothing on my side of the door except some Fae fan art drawings.
I feel uneasy about him seeing them and knowing I’m a fantasy fan girl. Oh well, so what?
Roland takes out a master key and unlocks the tamper-proof lock, and I’m suddenly looking at my unmade bed. And of course, wouldn’t you know it? I didn’t even makeshift make it today, nope it’s just a crumpled mess of covers and sheets. My bad.
“Hmm,” Cal comments, crowding over me to peer into my messy room. I elbow him again, enjoying his resulting “oomph.”
“Say, I can still get you temporary housing if needed,” Roland comments after witnessing our little interaction.
Resigned, I shake my head and call for inner peace. “No, thank you, we’ll make it work.”
“Great,” Roland says. “Just keep this low-key as I’m not supposed to unlock doors between co-ed rooms.”
Cal slaps the man on his back. “You got it, my guy, it’s on the DL.”
Roland smiles as he leaves. Apparently, the effects of Cal’s charm aren’t limited to women.
I push past Cal and enter my room, but when I close the door, it slowly creeps open of its own accord.
Not all the way, but there is a slight, one-inch gap, which feels like the Grand Canyon.
If I thought I could hear Cal before, it’s triple so now.
His laughter is as clear as day as he shuffles away, whistling to the ABBA song he put on for me.
I’m just about to shove him from my mind altogether when a knock on our connecting door has me jumping like a startled cat.
“Yes?” I ask, hating the note of anxiety in my tone.
“Your books, madam,” comes Cal’s voice, which currently sounds as if he’s imitating the staff from Downton Abbey.
I clear my throat. “Come in,” I manage to deliver in an equally refined voice in return.
A grinning Cal appears and my foolish heart races. Without another word, he places the stack of books on my desk, bows dramatically, and leaves.
I’m grinning now, too. Dammit! This is going to be a long week.