Five
One silver lining of the overwhelming, all-encompassing threat to the place Charlie loves most is that she forgets about her little white lie and Wesley Quinn.
For approximately two days.
Too consumed by thoughts about how to save her clinic, she doesn’t even notice when he slides into line next to her while she waits for coffee at the student union café.
“Rogers, hey.”
She stumbles into the person in front of her and mutters a hasty apology before whirling around to face him.
She glares. “What?”
He’s wearing a green-and-white Archwood LAX T-shirt that brings out the color in his eyes, an irritating observation that she quickly strikes from her mind.
“Is that how you greet your lover?” He draws out the last word, and she might actually die from the blaze it sets off on her skin.
“For fuck’s sake, go away, Quinn,” she hisses, facing forward once more.
“Let me buy you coffee,” he says.
Gripping the strap of her bag, she resists the shiver his voice ignites.
“Absolutely not,” she returns.
He sighs, and his warm breath flutters the loose curls at the nape of her neck. “I need to talk to you.”
Instead of responding, Charlie spins on her heel and retreats from the café. She’d rather forego her afternoon coffee than stand in line with him for one more minute and questioning all her life choices.
The day she met Wesley Quinn, he was wearing only a pair of gray basketball shorts.
She’d been at college for about half a second, hadn’t yet broken out of her sheltered, shy, girl-from-Indiana box, and had already managed to get lost in the enormous ten-floor dorm, confusing the west side for the east side.
When he opened his door and she was met with a very naked, muscular chest, she squeaked out an apology and promptly fled, hoping never to see the boy with the vivid green eyes again.
Unfortunately for her, the boy—Wesley Quinn, she later learned—was in half her classes that first semester, and on the second day of Psych 101, he plopped down in the chair next to her without so much as an “Is this seat taken?” and immediately struck up a conversation about the best dining hall on campus.
By the end of class, she’d agreed to grab dinner with him—“Whitmer Hall has the best breakfast for dinner”—and by the end of the week, they were sharing the same table in the library, walking together back to their dorm each night.
Is it any wonder she fell for him? In hindsight, she couldn’t have prevented it even if she’d tried.
A surprising warmth sparked inside her at his casual use of her surname, at the way he gave her his full attention when she spoke, at the unexpected ease she felt with him almost from day one.
He brought her coffee just the way she liked it, forced her to eat and take breaks when she became too focused on her studies and her essential needs fell by the wayside.
She liked spending time with him, liked the way he made her feel. Somehow, he saw all of her. He didn’t judge her for being a small-town girl from Indiana who’d never been in a relationship, sexual or otherwise.
He, on the other hand, was a shameless flirt, surrounding himself with pretty girls every weekend at blowout off-campus parties, and by the time she discovered his true nature, it was too late to protect her pitiful, na?ve heart.
After her heartbreak, she discovered who his parents were, and she finally understood why everyone on campus wanted to know him, be friends with him, sleep with him.
Why there was never any chance he’d be interested in someone like her.
“Rogers.”
Two days after the run-in at the café, she’s sitting in her favorite spot on the library’s fourth floor where she assumed no one would find her when Wes’s all-too-familiar voice penetrates the silence of her noise-canceling headphones.
Her traitorous heart riots in her chest, but she doesn’t look up from her laptop, hoping if she ignores him, he’ll take the hint and leave.
But this is Wesley Quinn, and he is undeterred.
Pens and sticky notes lie scattered across the table, an open notebook on her right, her Experiment Journal on her left. The cursor on her Word document blinks, mocking her attempts to craft a step-by-step plan to save The Wild Rue.
So far, her list is broken into three categories: achievable, commendable, and fantastical.
“Achievable” consists of launching a marketing campaign with local media outlets, highlighting the benefits of the clinic as well as requesting donations from local businesses.
“Commendable” consists of contacting state representatives to help create an initiative preventing the crisis pregnancy center from opening in the first place, and offering free STI testing to other colleges and universities sponsored by the clinic.
“Fantastical” makes her want to laugh and cry at the same time; her ideas are absurd and improbable.
National media coverage. A social media campaign. Congressional support. Brand sponsorships. Celebrity endorsements. Some kind of viral publicity stunt.
Carolyn responded to her email saying she’d look through her media contacts, but even in writing, her tone sounded doubtful.
This isn’t an easy solution like the time Charlie’s elementary school hosted a bake sale to raise money for a field trip to Chicago.
How is she supposed to get people to care about keeping The Wild Rue open and impress upon them the dangers of allowing a crisis pregnancy center to take its place?
What she needs is something viral that can spread across social media, but she doesn’t know the first thing about how to make that happen.
The screen blurs more and more the longer she stares at it, her pulse racing. Something catches in her chest, and she can’t take a full breath.
Why did she agree to this? How could she possibly have thought she could save the clinic?
“Rogers,” Wes repeats. “I know you can hear me.”
The room snaps back into focus. She inhales.
Knowing she will get nothing done until he vanishes from her sight, Charlie shuts her laptop, pulls off her headphones, and, adopting the most impassive expression she can muster, meets his eyes.
“Yes?”
Dropping his bag to the floor, he folds himself into the chair across from her and laces his hands behind his head, his long-sleeved black sweater rolled to his elbows, his hair artfully mussed.
“Oh, so you can see me.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “I was afraid I’d become invisible.”
“One can always hope.” She remains calm, knowing he’s trying to rile her up. “You see, I suffer from this condition called selective hearing. It occurs specifically when annoying pests keep badgering me. Eventually, they evaporate into thin air, thus sheltering my brain from their stupidity.”
His low laugh feels like fingers dancing down her spine. He’s watching her in a way that unnerves her, like he sees right through her, like he knows she’s using indifference as armor.
He picks up a stack of sticky notes. “Can we talk?”
She grabs them back, shoving them in her bag. “No.”
He picks up a pen and twirls it around his fingers in an astounding feat of dexterity. “What did you score on the LSAT?”
She snatches the pen out of his hand and scoops up the other sticky notes and pens before he can grab those, too. “None of your business.”
He grins when she smacks his hand away from the last pen on the table. “Was it that bad?”
“No, but I’m not telling you.”
“It’s okay, Rogers.” He winks, sliding her notebook from under her elbow. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
She yanks it back and thrusts it into her bag. “Go away, Quinn.”
Wes snatches up her Experiment Journal before she can blink, the glittery pink cover sparkling under the glare of the library’s fluorescent lights.
Springing to her feet, Charlie half launches herself over the table. “Quinn! Give that back!”
“Why did you tell Nash we slept together?” Holding the journal above his head, his long arm keeping it well out of her reach, he leans back in his chair.
“It just slipped out!” Her heart pounds, and panic coats her tongue. He cannot read that journal. It contains her private thoughts, her private observations about her pleasure and desires and—
He can’t.
Crawling onto the table, she kneels in front of him. His smile widens, egging her on, and her anger boils. Stretching her body above his, she grabs his wrists and tries to yank down his arms. He laughs, and she hates the way it completely transforms him, making him even more handsome.
Completely unaffected by her attempts to retrieve her journal, he leans in close. “Oh, it slipped out, did it? I always knew Hudson was lying about his size—”
“Stop being a child!” Chest heaving, Charlie freezes, her breath stuttering at the proximity of his face.
His eyes flicker with something she can’t parse before it vanishes. When his gaze slides to her lips, a thrill zips through her.
“Easy there, Rogers.” Slowly, he lowers his arms, her fingers still wrapped around his wrists like handcuffs. “Didn’t know you liked it rough.”
When he winks, she growls—actually growls—because that’s what he does to her. Turns her into a snarling, furious mess.
Dropping her hands like he burned her, she snatches the journal from his grasp. Cheeks flushed, she scrambles off the table, avoiding his eyes. “How did you even find me here?”
“You haven’t changed.” He gestures to the quiet floor. “Your study location is still very predictable.”
An ache shoots through her at his words, at the reminder of their past and how well he used to know her.
He arches a brow. “You want to tell me why you’re even more of a spitfire than usual today?”
She huffs out a breath, not even bothering to deny it. “I take it you won’t leave me alone otherwise?”
He grins. “Nope.” He pops the p with obvious relish.
Pressing her palms to her eyes, she inhales through her nose and exhales through her mouth before clasping her hands on the table.