The Rough Draft (Stadium Lights #2)

1. The Spill

ONE

The Spill

SHANNON

The cheap rental house six blocks from campus was indistinguishable from every other cheap rental house in a six-block radius, just as the thrum of bass from crackling speakers and the lukewarm beer in twenty-year-old Shannon Van Pelt’s hand might have been a scene from any Friday night in a big college town, had she not spotted one exceptional difference.

“There,” she said, pointing across the room. “There’s my forever. Right there.”

Elouise Abrams followed her roommate’s gaze and flinched when she spotted the stranger in the green-and-white check shirt. “I know hookup culture isn’t your thing, but that’s not how it works,” she said drily. “You don’t just point.”

“Did I say hookup? Excuse me. I said forever.”

“Two hours ago, you said you were done with men.”

“I’ve been done with men since New Year’s.”

“It’s February tenth. You still have breakup hair.”

Shannon nearly slammed down her cup to show her seriousness, but she’d only had one sip of the cheap beer and didn’t want to wear it any more than she wanted to drink it. “He’s perfect. He’s everything. He’s?—”

“Whoa, whoa.” Elouise’s hands sliced through the air. “That’s him? The mister-perfect crush from American Literature? The one you’re drooling to get in the writing critique group with?”

“The one with the electric aura and the lightning eyes. Yes. Oh, yes.”

Elouise covered her mouth with her hand to disguise a giggle. “You didn’t tell me his mother dressed him for a Brooks Brothers catalog shoot.”

Shannon glared. “Oh, don’t tell me he’s not hot. He is smoking hot.”

“He’d better be, with his electrical aura.”

“Shush. You talk like there’s something wrong with starched collars and buttoned cuffs,” Shannon said. She gestured to her own clothes: tight jeans tucked into motorcycle boots, a low-cut tank covered by a cropped cardigan. “He’s just classic and tidy. I think we’d look great together.”

“Does all that starch conduct electricity?”

Not starch. His hair. The weirdest attraction Shannon never voiced even to her best friend was the messy knot of auburn hair on the back of the mystery boy’s head. That hair had nothing to do with starched collars and pretty catalogs. She had to touch it. His power originated in those thick, reddish-brown waves that held every joule of chaotic energy that his prissy shirts and perfect posture disguised.

Three times a week since the semester began, she sat one row behind him and two seats over, in a two-hundred person seminar. Their seats were not assigned, but no matter which one of them arrived first, they were drawn to one another. And in every class, at least once, he’d untwist the rubber band, shake his hair into his hands—never letting it down—and tie it back exactly as it had been. Then he’d turn, look at her for two seconds before a red flush crept into his cheeks, two more while he caught his breath, and then he would turn back to his notes.

Her fingers ached to see the expression he’d make when she pulled that thick hair and dragged his lips to hers. No one ever intrigued her more. He blushed like the teenager he was even though he lived in a grown man’s muscular body, and his hazel eyes hungered even as he kept his arms crossed, pushing everyone away. That beautiful contradiction was hiding something.

They’d never spoken.

She didn’t even know his name, but somehow she already knew him —and she didn’t tell Elouise that, either.

Shannon set down her cup and turned to walk away, but Elouise grabbed her shoulder. “Shan, all jokes aside, you don’t need the rebound.” She glanced around the kitchen. “Especially not here. There are football people here. What if Hayden shows up?”

“Too bad for him, I guess,” Shannon said with more confidence than she felt. “It’s not his house, and I have every right to be here. Didn’t you say Nina and Paige are coming soon? I haven’t seen them in ages. I’ll talk to Mystery Boy until then.”

Elouise pushed her dark hair off her shoulders, twisting it tight in exasperation. “I still don’t like that dreamy look on your face. I’ll call Nina and we’ll meet her somewhere else. Talk to the guy after class next week, so you don’t accidentally propose. ”

“Elle, think about it. I wasn’t even going to come out tonight, and here he is. This is fate.”

“It’s not fate that you’re normally too scared to talk to him and tonight you aren’t,” Elouise said. “It’s beer.”

Fate had been a bitch lately, but Shannon made the best of a horrible situation with her ex-boyfriend Hayden Hamilton—the quarterback, the big man on campus, and the worst person she ever had the displeasure to meet. With a little luck, she could hand him over to karma and get on with her life. Karma and fate both owed her a little happiness.

She shook off Elouise’s last feeble protests and crossed the room, waiting for when her Mystery Boy glanced at the person seated next to him. Maybe she could approach without making eye contact. The black faux-leather sofa’s deep cushions invited slouching and cuddling, but classroom posture followed him to parties and he sat up straight. When she scooted onto the arm of the sofa, she positioned her hips close to his elbows. She wriggled just enough before she thought she could bump him with her thigh, pretend to catch herself from falling, and start a conversation about her adorable clumsiness.

Instead, she fell—blindly and backward—into his full cup of beer.

Lukewarm lager drenched his button-down shirt and her sweater, cascading onto his jeans just before she landed on her back, smashing the red plastic cup in his lap.

He met her eyes and froze.

She flailed for a moment and didn’t notice he’d thrown his arms around her to catch her from crashing to the floor until he tightened them when she tried to get up. A tiny rivulet of beer crept along the edge of his collar, formed a single drop at the point, and splashed onto her cheek.

He cleared his throat twice and said nothing.

“I guess this is a good time to take our clothes off,” she said.

His jaw dropped as he squeezed her tighter, then realized what he was doing and let go. Shannon’s hand slipped as she tried to support herself on the pleather cushion, and she grabbed for his shirt as she fell, pulling his face close to hers. He obviously hadn’t been drinking whatever cheap booze covered both their shirts and his pants, and the cool spearmint on his breath set her mouth watering to taste his lips. She clutched at the damp fabric as he scooted them both upright.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hey.” She didn’t want to apologize. She wasn’t sorry in the slightest, but someone who wore a starched shirt to a kegger might appreciate manners. “I’m such a klutz. I’m really sorry I spilled this all over you.”

He shook his head and acted as though he hadn’t heard her. “I know you. I mean, I recognize you from our American Lit class.”

Shannon felt him tighten his hand in her hair where he cradled her head in a tender embrace. “A lot of people recognize the blue streaks,” she said, suddenly conscious that the new highlights in her pale blonde hair didn’t look like anything from a Brooks Brothers catalog.

“No.” He smiled, something she’d rarely seen. The familiar crimson flush rose in his cheeks, and she liked how it looked with a little uncharacteristic shadow on his jawline.

Her unbuttoned cardigan had fallen back over her shoulders and left a black bra strap peeking out above what she decided was pretty impressive cleavage—for her anyway—pressed between his chest and his muscular forearm. “It’s my tits, right?” she joked.

The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come and his eyes darted in panic between her face, her breasts, and the ceiling until he gave in and laughed. “I’m not blind,” was all he managed in response when she curled closer and pressed her cheek against him, toying with a button to busy her fingers when all she wanted to do was rip off that damp shirt.

“But that’s not how I recognize you,” he said finally.

She lay back on his arm so she could see his face, waiting.

“I saw you the first day of class and thought your eyes are the color of Lake Michigan right before a storm,” he said. “It’s where I grew up. My favorite place on earth.”

Shannon bit the inside of her lower lip to keep her jaw from falling open as she flailed for a clever response beyond ‘that’s sweet’ or ‘marry me.’

“We should really get out of these clothes.”

Fate couldn’t give her anything to say that didn’t involve undressing him?

“I meant?—”

“I know.”

He helped her to her feet, and the pressure of his hands on her body—her thighs, her back, her shoulders—weakened her and forced total concentration as she wobbled to her feet against every inclination to sink against him. When she offered her hands, he held them for a second, and reached instead for her waist and spread his fingers wide as he stood.

“I didn’t want to pull you over,” he said, a nervous quaver in his voice as he pulled away and blushed again, back to the shy boy in class. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“I know.”

He took her hand and twined his fingers with hers, leading her to an unfamiliar hall. Shannon thought they must be looking for a bathroom to assess the damage to their damp, uncomfortable clothes, and fought for her composure at the idea of sharing his air in a small, private space.

The second they were out of sight of the living room, she wasn’t sure if she jumped into his arms or he pulled her there, but their lips collided and opened without pretense as he held her against the cheap paneling in the dark hall. Shannon dove into the spearmint on his tongue, her hands on his cheeks, his shoulders, and his neck as he slid his hands over her arms and down to her waist, squeezing her hips to lift her against him.

“Do you like storms?” she gasped when she drew back. Tangling her hands in his hair, she pulled him close again, his forehead to hers. “Those storms on your lake?”

“So much,” he breathed, pressing his lips back to hers for a quick kiss. “When we were little, my brothers and I?—”

“Want to make one with me?”

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “God, yes. Whatever that means.”