Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
jade
It’s the night of my first Spanish tutoring session, and I don’t have a thing to wear.
No, scratch that. I have a closetful of kick-ass outfits that make me feel like I have my shit together. Problem is, does a tutoring session at the library call for a kick-ass outfit? I’m not usually the type to fret over what to wear, but I don’t know what to expect tonight.
Reeve is sexy as hell, but he’s off-limits.
We shared a kiss that we’ve both acknowledged was pure fire, but it can’t happen again.
And more importantly, I find myself a teeny bit intrigued to find that Reeve is more than just a shallow stereotype; he’s perceptive enough to see something in me that I hadn’t even fully acknowledged to myself .
. . and nice enough not to use it against me.
But the fact remains, he’s a player and he’s committed to the lifestyle.
Oh, yeah, and I promised myself I’d stay far, far away from boys this semester. So on paper, it was probably a mistake to ask him to be my tutor—the little flush of jitters I feel is proof—but I like putting my self-control to the test. And it’s been too long since I was tested like this.
In the end I settle for tight jeans, high-tops, and a V-neck tee, the same thing I’d wear to the library if I weren’t meeting the star quarterback and his dazzling blue eyes. But this time I don’t skip the eyeliner and hot-pink lipstick.
The library is as empty as I’ve ever seen it—not surprising considering I’ve never been here on a Friday night before.
When I reach our meeting spot—second floor, back tables, the section reserved for quiet conversation—Reeve is already there.
He looks me up and down, then stands, a lollipop stick pressed between his lips.
I know that look on his face, and I feel a little glow in anticipation, because I already know he’s going to tell me I look good.
Maybe I’ll even return the favor and let him know I’m not hating the way his gray zip-up hoodie shows off a subtle but tantalizing hint of chest hair.
“Way to be on time,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down.
“I was about to duck into the bathroom and jerk off just to pass a few minutes.” Just like that, the glow disappears.
From the neighboring tables, people turn to stare, but of course when they see it’s everyone’s favorite football star who’s being a rude, disgusting jerk, they only turn back to their work.
“I am on time. We said six forty-five.”
“Six thirty, babe. Hope you’re better at Spanish than you are at telling time.”
“I can assure you I’m not. I’m fully fluent in telling time, which is why I showed up at six forty-five, the precise time we agreed on.”
“Uh-huh.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Want to check our texts?”
He smiles arrogantly, revealing the shiny red lollipop set between perfect white teeth. “I bet all that boyfriend of yours had to do to get you wet was whisper ‘Yes, dear.’ Am I right?”
“Okay, let’s check the texts,” I say, pulling out my phone.
Reeve’s quick to wave me off. “Don’t waste my time. Get out your Spanish stuff so I can see what you’re working on.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I mutter as I get out my laptop, textbook, and a crumpled Spanish quiz showcasing my most recent display of mediocrity.
“By the way, what’s with the name tag?” I narrow my eyes at the sticker stuck to his broad chest, his name printed under a fuzzy black-and-white headshot.
“I wouldn’t have thought there was a single person on campus who doesn’t know the famous Reeve Dalton. ”
He looks down at the sticker like he’s just remembered it. “You’re correct.” He peels it off his hoodie. “It’s a hospital visitor pass.”
“Everything okay?”
“Uh-huh. Me and some of the guys try to get over to the hospital once or twice a month to visit the kids.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “That’s what you choose for your phony ‘good guy’ act to try and get laid? God, that’s cliché.”
Reeve looks at me, letting my words sit in the air between us.
“Okay, sorry . . . that was pretty bitchy,” I say as guilt creeps up.
“Don’t need to tell me.”
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s just very—”
“Cliché. So you said. But, honey, do I look like someone who needs to put on an act to get laid?”
I roll my eyes, but when he turns to pick up my Spanish quiz, I can’t help letting my gaze wander over his sculpted shoulders and his picture-perfect profile. This is definitely not a man who needs to do anything to get laid except exist.
Reeve looks over the Spanish quiz and scowls. “You’re worse than I thought.”
“I’m not paying you to insult me.”
“You’re not paying me at all.” He glances at my chest. “At least not in dollars.”
Reflexively, I pull my shirt higher. “What’s that mean?”
“Take it easy. I was just thinking about that kiss.”
I swear to god he must have some internal switch he can flip to take his eyes from beautiful to fucking hypnotizing, because right then he sets his gaze on me, and suddenly the heat of that kiss is all I can feel, taste, or think about.
I force myself to blink, but it takes a few seconds to get free of his invisible grip.
“Well, don’t,” I say weakly. “Teach me how to conjugate irregular verbs in the preterit.” Behind us, someone shushes me, and I turn around to glare.
“This isn’t the quiet section,” I tell everyone in view, since the shusher is too chickenshit to reveal themselves.
When I turn back to Reeve, he’s watching me and smirking. “Anyway . . . what grade do you have in Spanish?”
“C.”
“So you’ll pass.”
“It’s not the class I’m worried about passing; it’s the proficiency test I need to get into these programs.”
“Right, so put the stupid textbook away. I started high school in AP Spanish, and believe me, I’d never touched a textbook.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Now, now, don’t be modest.”
“I’m not bragging, I’m saying all you need to know you can learn with conversation. Let’s just talk.”
So we do.
Well, he talks. I struggle to grab a thread of conversation when a Spanish word rings a bell, then stumble my way through a response that I hope reflects even a loose connection to the topic at hand.
It should be a humiliating exercise, but he doesn’t make it one.
Just like at the restaurant, he’s a good teacher and he’s patient with my mistakes—at least until I start trying to roll my r’s as smoothly as he does.
“Keep it simple,” he says after cringing his way through my attempts at perro, torre, and zorro. “Try arroz.”
I try but my tongue seems to get stuck against the roof of my mouth halfway through.
“Okay, you’re not even close,” he says, clearly attempting to hold back a smile. “But keep trying.”
“Let me hear it again,” I say.
“Arroz.”
I can’t help but stare at his mouth and the way his full lips come together in a half pout. “Once more.”
He pauses, and I wonder whether he knows my real motivation for asking. I mean, his eyes have watched my lips all through this last hour, but does his mind wander as far from Spanish as mine does? “Arroz,” he says for me. Why are foreign languages so damn sexy?
“How are you so good at that?”
“Lots of practice.”
“You have lots of practice at rolling your tongue?” I can’t help but smile as heat blooms at the back of my neck.
A wicked look flashes across his face. “Hey, if you want to talk about sex, we can do that, but I’m trying to focus on Spanish here.”
I laugh. “Right. Have you ever in your life put school before sex? Even once?”
“I’m doing it right now.”
“What, some jersey chaser was trying to make plans in your bedroom this evening?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
To my shock, he looks almost shy for a fleeting second. “Forget it.”
I don’t want to forget it. I want him to keep talking. But before I can ask the questions I really want to ask, Reeve pushes his chair back.
“We’re done here, right?” He stands and slides his phone into his back pocket. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
I follow him up the carpeted stairs to the fourth floor, which contains only offices and a heavy steel door with a red sign that reads Warning!
Alarm Will Sound. But when he pushes it open and holds it for me, there’s only the sound of me stepping into a cold metal stairway.
He glances at me but says nothing, his eyes lit up like he’s about to reveal some delicious secret.
At the top of the stairs is another door and, on the other side, I find myself on the flat, expansive roof of the library with a sweeping view of campus.
I glance around, expecting, I don’t know, something interesting, but it’s empty except for two battered old metal chairs. “So this is what you wanted to show me? A roof, huh? Wow. I’ve heard of these things but never had the privilege to glimpse one in real life.”
Reeve acts like he doesn’t hear me.
I take a slow lap around the roof. From up here, boring Shafer University is surprisingly pretty in the dark, its brick buildings, white columns, and trees in shades of red and gold carved out in warm lights.
When I circle back to Reeve, he’s standing in the corner, looking southward to the football stadium.
From here we can see directly onto the field.
“Ah, is this where you come to fantasize about past and future football glories?”
“Those aren’t fantasies,” he boasts, but I can see his heart’s not in it.
I follow his unmoving gaze to the stadium, but I can’t see anything special there, just the empty field, green and perfectly manicured with Shafer spelled out in red and white at each end zone.
Still, there’s a seriousness in his eyes that makes me feel guilty for giving him a hard time about a place that clearly has some kind of meaning for him.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “It is kinda pretty up here.”