Chapter Fourteen
A List - Wyatt
Iact like I’m reading, but I’m so not reading. We’re still on the terrace, supposedly studying. Grace is reading her screen, and eventually she begins to type.
At least one of us is working today. I’m sitting here thinking of Asher Ryan wanting to put his hands all over Grace.
Something tightens in my chest at the thought of it. Which is weird. I’m not Grace’s real boyfriend. And Asher—from what I’ve seen of him—is a good guy.
Well, he can’t have her now. She’s my fake girlfriend for the next month.
But in October, Asher could totally make his move.
Now I feel something twitch in my jaw. I glance over at Grace. She’s still typing, obviously in the zone with the article she’s working on. Even though I don’t know anything bad about Asher, I come up with a full list of reasons why he’s terrible for her.
Like he doesn’t know how she always wears the same necklace every day and she absently touches it when she’s thinking.
Asher doesn’t know how she’s in endurance training for the next month for the artistic swim team, or how even after she’s showered, there’s the slightest hint of chlorine lingering on her skin along with her perfume in a scent that is unique to her.
Asher has no idea she decapitates muffins or rations out Mini Eggs.
He has no clue how she’s not writing a novel, but excited about writing for a campus maga—
What the hell am I doing? I blink. I’m seriously sitting here making a list of why Asher is terrible for my fake girlfriend.
A damn list.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m making lists and my chest hurts, and it’s all for a girl who only wants to pretend to be my girlfriend.
I mean, not that I want anything more.
I glance at her again. Her pale-pink manicured fingers are now reaching into the bag of Mini Eggs, extracting exactly two of them.
Grace must feel my stare because she turns and looks at me. “Okay, you caught me. I’m eating more than two.” Her soft pink lips curve up into a shy, embarrassed smile.
My gaze lingers on them for a second. She pops the chocolate inside her mouth, and now I know if I were to kiss her, she would taste like sugar and chocolate.
Kiss her?
“Wy? Do you want some?” She holds the bag out to me.
“Um, sure,” I say. I reach for the bag, and my fingertips brush against hers. My dick twitches, and I quickly take the bag and begin thinking about hockey practice to get it back in line.
Why is my dick twitching from touching her fingertips?
Because you’re imagining those pink nails raking down your back, you idiot. Or watching those soft, sweet fingertips clasp around your cock for the first time.
“Idiot” isn’t a strong enough word for what I am.
I’m in this stupid position because I put myself here.
Now I have a month of self-torture before we can do the nice breakup and I can move on back to my old life.
Where hockey was my only focus, and an occasional hookup took care of my need to get off.
I notice Grace is no longer typing. I shift my attention back to her, and she’s reading what she wrote. Her brow is furrowed, and I can tell she’s being critical of her work. Then her lips move downward, and she draws in the bottom left corner of her lip in between her teeth.
See? Asher wouldn’t know this. He wouldn’t notice these things about her.
Grace deserves someone who knows all these little things. Who pays attention.
“What?” she asks, lifting her gaze from the screen to my face. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re being critical of your work,” I say. “I’d be willing to bet you’re being hard on yourself.”
“How would you even know that? I could have written a bunch of shit right here,” she says, gesturing with her hand in front of the screen. “I’m used to writing fiction. Article writing is a completely different kind of skill.”
Her expression changes. Critical analysis has been replaced by doubt.
“Can I read it now?” I ask.
She blinks. “What?”
“Can I read it now?” I repeat. “I can give you immediate feedback on your direction. Not that I’m versed in artistic swimming costumes or building a jewelry wardrobe, but I can tell you if it’s interesting.”
A blush sweeps up her neck. “But … but it’s incomplete! Unedited!”
“Oh my god! How will I fight through the horror of a draft?” I tease.
She begins to laugh.
“Come on, Gracie. Let me see it.”
“Okay. But it’s rough, so please keep that in mind. And I’m not used to writing nonfiction and I—”
“Gracie. Stop. Let me read it. You can trust me.”
Her eyes flick toward mine. Suddenly my heart bangs around in my chest from the look I see reflected back at me.
It’s not what I’m used to seeing when girls look at me. Usually I see acknowledgment—like they know I play hockey. Or attraction. Interest.
But the look Grace is giving me right now?
Trust. She’s going to trust me with something she’s never shared with anyone else. I’m the first person she’s allowing to read this.
I find my breath catching in my throat. Because to my surprise, this matters to me.
“Okay,” she says.
I put my laptop aside. Grace moves hers so it’s in front of me. “This is the one about artistic swimwear,” she explains. “Let me know if it’s dry or too bogged down in the history or if it just sucks.”
“It will not suck,” I say, shifting my gaze to the screen and beginning to read.
The words are effortless. With her writing, Grace has taken me back to the early days of her sport, when the costumes were modest, all the way to the suits of today, which are designed with not only fabrics that are better for the performance, but swimwear that is also a part of the performance—making sense with the music and choreography.
She can write. Really write. If Grace can make history interesting to me, she’s got skills.
It stops mid-paragraph. I look over at her. She’s intently staring at her iced coffee.
“Grace?”
She cringes as she turns toward me. “Is it awful? Be truthful.”
“Truthfully? Not that I’ve read your fiction, but I think you’re an excellent magazine writer.”
The happiness that spreads across her face catches me right in the gut, and I feel it sweeping through me, too.
“Yeah? You aren’t just saying that?”
“Nope,” I say, putting her laptop back in front of her. “I’m not. I had no idea that much thought went into your outfits.”
“Oh yes,” she says. “If this article gets selected, I already know what picture I’d like to run with it. There’s a picture from our team competition last year that shows off one of our best suits. Do you want to see it?”
“Of course,” I say.
Grace picks up her phone and taps on a few things. Then she turns it around, showing me a picture of the Ocean Cove artistic swim team. They’re all made up—hair slicked back with gelatin, the heavy makeup, and sparkling in gold-and-black suits with lots of jewel-type things all over them.
I immediately find Grace, and there’s a smile lighting up her whole face. It’s not a forced smile for the picture, but a genuine one that tells me how much she loves this sport.
She’s beautiful in this pic.
I lift my gaze to look at her. And she’s beautiful now.
“It’s perfect,” I say. But I mean more than the photo. She’s perfect.
And she has no idea.
“I’m so relieved you like it,” Grace says. “That was terrifying to know you were reading it. I almost got up and went inside the union so I wouldn’t have to sit here and know you were reading my words.”
I chuckle. “You realize thousands of people could read this once it’s published?”
“But that I can handle,” Grace says. “I don’t care what anonymous people think. I care what you think, Wy.”
As soon as she says it, she looks embarrassed. Like she didn’t mean for that to come out.
“Well, I think it’s really good,” I say. I’m more pleased than I should be that Grace values my opinion on something other than hockey.
Her phone buzzes, and she glances down at it. As soon as she sees the name, she makes a face. “Kaitlyn Crandall,” she says. “I wonder what battle plan she’s working off today.”
I smile at that. “Is she horrible?”
“Between us?”
I nod.
“She’s the worst,” Grace confides. “Phi Mu Phi is her sole reason for existing. And it should be my whole reason for existing, too.”
“Oh, one of those,” I say knowingly.
“You have those in your house?”
I was actually thinking of how my dad is about me and hockey, but I know some guys in the fraternity who will have culture shock when they have to exist beyond college.
“Yeah, we do.”
She taps open the message. I go back to trying to read my stuff, but I don’t think I’m going to get anything done as long as Grace is next to me.
“Oh my God,” she says.
I look over at her.
Grace shifts her attention from her phone to me. “Kaitlyn just messaged me about my football buddy. We’re supposed to go over to Phi Sigma on Thursday night for the reveal, but she wanted me to have mine early.”
Ah, the football buddy. Something I opt out of because of my hockey schedule.
But Grace is about to be paired with a guy from Phi Sigma for this football season.
You go to the house on Saturday before home games and party, and after the game, too, and you spend some of that time hanging out with whoever you’re paired with.
“Who is it? I can run him by Sebastian to make sure he’s solid. He’s in that fraternity. And if he’s not a good dude, I’ll make sure Sebastian looks out for you.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment.
“Did I overstep? I’m sorry if I—”
“No,” she says, reaching out and putting her hand over mine. Her skin is soft and warm, and the second she touches me like this, a new feeling rushes through my body.
Comfort.
“I like how protective you are of me,” Grace says. “You’re such a good guy. Thank you for always looking out for me.”
My heart bounces around my chest again. Because all I want to do is look out for her.
“Who is your buddy?” I ask, noticing how her hand has stayed wrapped over mine.
“Kaitlyn told me in her eloquent way that this person just sent her a text requesting me—which you aren’t supposed to do, but she said she’s granting it and that I’m a lucky bitch, so make the most of the opportunity. She’s eloquent like that.”
Normally I’d chuckle at that, but I’m not liking where this conversation is going. “Who requested you?” I ask.
Grace touches her necklace but doesn’t say anything.
“Who is it?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral as a suspicion runs through me.
“It’s Asher Ryan.”