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I want to ask why. The question burns in my throat. We’re not dating, so what does this mean? Why are we standing so close I can smell his body wash, his hands on my hips like they belong there?
His phone vibrates against my leg—just once. A text. My heart stutters, thinking of Inez. Maybe she’s telling him good job, maybe asking to meet up. Whatever it is, he doesn’t move to check it. Instead, his hands tighten on my hips, pulling me closer.
“Do you need to get that?”
“Nope,” he says quickly. “The only one I want to talk to is right here.”
Okay, he’s on another level tonight. Goddamn.
I grin like a fool falling for him all over again. “Oh yeah?”
“Yep. Come back to my dorm with me,” he says, and though it’s structured like a question, it’s not. It’s a statement, heavy with promise.
I hesitate, not wanting to appear too eager. “Mmm, I was just there.”
“I know.” His lips brush the shell of my ear, his words sending goosebumps down my body. “I need more.”
Uh, hold up. He said that, right?
Silly me could read into that line, could let myself believe it means something more than what it is. But I won’t let myself. I can’t. I won’t.
But fuck, do I want to. He’s saying all the right things today, and I want to believe him. Part of me does. The other is holding on strong. I’m not going to tell you the percentage, though, because you’d probably be disappointed in me.
No, lock in, girl. Get those feelings in check.
We walk across campus in the dark, the paths lit by old-fashioned lampposts, pools of yellow light every few feet. The late spring air is cool enough that I should be cold, but I’m not. Not with the way Jaxon keeps bumping against me as we walk, our shoulders brushing, like he can’t help but touch me.
The campus is weirdly quiet for a Friday night after a big win. Maybe everyone’s still out celebrating somewhere else. Or maybe it feels quiet because all I can hear is my own damn heartbeat.
“You still got that ball?” he asks, his voice low.
I hold it up, letting it catch the lamplight. “Thinking about stealing it back?”
“Nah.” He bumps our shoulders together. “Just making sure you’re keeping it safe.”
“Please. Like I’d lose your grand slam ball.” I try to sound casual, but we both know I’ll probably sleep with this thing on my nightstand. Just like I did with that high school home run ball. Which I still have. “I could sell it on eBay, though.”
He laughs. “Wait a few years. You’ll get more for it when I’m in the majors.”
“True.”
We cut across the grass, taking the shortcut behind the library. The sprinklers must have just shut off because the grass is damp, soaking through the toes of my tennis shoes.
His dorm comes into view—one of those tall brick buildings that look like they’ve been here since the stone age. The security guard barely glances at us as we scan in. She’s used to seeing me here by now.
The elevator ride is torture. Four floors of standing close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, close enough to smell his soap and that particular Jaxon scent that always makes me want to bury my face in his neck. The same scent that’s been driving me crazy all game, wrapped up in his hoodie. I swear he stands closer than necessary, his arm brushing mine with every breath.
Jameson isn’t here, but Jaxon still closes the door carefully behind us, probably because of the cat taking up residence here now.
“Where’s that damn cat?”
“On your pillow.” Where else would a cat be? They’re like heat-seeking missiles for the exact spot you don’t want them. Plus, I’m pretty sure cats can smell when someone doesn’t want them somewhere, and that just makes them want it more.
Jaxon frowns. “Ya little shit. Move.” He picks Mookie up and sets him on the floor. I thought he was an all-black cat when Isaw him earlier, but now I notice he’s got tabby spots of gold and yellow on his sides, and his little nose is the cutest shade of pink. Like someone took a paintbrush and dotted his face with color. His eyes are this intense blue that seems to judge your entire existence. “How is he getting up there?”
Jaxon and I look around the dorm, now scattered with cat toys—a testament to how quickly this tiny demon has taken over their lives. We watch as Mookie slingshots himself off the floor, to the blankets, and claws his way up the bed. The little athlete. Who knew cats could parkour? Then again, they named him Mookie after Mookie Betts, so maybe he’s living up to his name.
“He’s persistent,” I say, watching as Mookie settles right back into his spot, giving Jaxon a look that clearly says, “try moving me again, I dare you.”