Page 13 of Price of Victory (The Saints of Westmont U #5)
TEN
AIDEN
He glared at me like a disgruntled kitten.
That was my first thought as I watched Rhett emerge from the shower stalls, towel wrapped around his waist and his hair still damp from the hot water.
His face was flushed from the steam, and there was something in his expression that suggested he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.
I got dressed slowly, taking my time with each article of clothing while keeping one eye on him.
Not because I was trying to be provocative, but because watching Rhett Morrison get dressed was turning out to be unexpectedly entertaining.
He moved with the kind of efficient precision that came from years of locker room changes, but there was a self-consciousness to it now that hadn’t been there before.
He kept glancing in my direction when he thought I wasn’t looking, quick little flicks of his eyes that he probably thought were subtle. They weren’t. Every time our gazes met, that flush in his cheeks deepened, and he’d focus on whatever he was doing with unnecessary intensity.
When he pulled his shirt over his head, I caught a glimpse of the lean muscle of his torso, the way his jeans sat low on his hips as he worked the button closed.
There was something oddly intimate about watching him dress, about being in this space together after everything that had just happened between us.
“You planning to stand there all night, or are you actually leaving?” Rhett asked without looking at me, shouldering his backpack with more force than necessary.
“Just enjoying the show,” I replied, pulling on my jacket and grabbing my duffel bag. “You’re very thorough with your post-workout routine.”
“Shut up.”
But there was no real heat in it, just the kind of automatic response that had become habit between us. He was already heading toward the exit, and I followed, because the alternative was standing alone in an empty locker room like some kind of creep.
The building’s front door revealed exactly what I’d expected: a wall of rain that looked like it had been falling for hours and planned to continue well into tomorrow.
The campus was nearly deserted, just the occasional student hurrying between buildings with backpacks held over their heads or jackets pulled up as makeshift protection.
Rhett stopped just inside the doorway and cursed under his breath, a creative litany of profanity that would have made a sailor proud.
He was wearing nothing but a T-shirt, jeans, and that backpack.
No jacket, no umbrella, no preparation whatsoever for Chicago weather in late September, as if he hadn’t lived here his whole life.
I pulled my umbrella from my duffel bag and opened it with a satisfying snap, testing the mechanism to make sure it was sturdy enough for the downpour outside.
“Sucks to be you,” I said, because the opportunity was too perfect to pass up.
Rhett shot me a look that could have curdled milk. “I won’t melt.”
“No, but you’ll be wearing soaked underwear in about thirty seconds, and then you’ll spend the rest of the night shivering in your dorm room like a drowned rat.” I stepped closer to the door, umbrella ready. “Unless, of course, you want to accept a little help.”
He looked like he was about to say something cutting, probably along the lines of preferring to be soaked rather than owing me any favors. But then his shoulders sagged slightly, some of the tension going out of them, and he glanced at the rain with obvious reluctance.
I chuckled and opened the umbrella fully, stepping out into the downpour. “Come on, sugar cube. I’ll walk you safely home.”
For a moment, I thought he was going to refuse out of pure stubbornness. But then he sighed and moved to stand next to me under the umbrella’s protection, close enough that our shoulders were almost touching.
“Don’t call me sugar cube,” he muttered, but he stayed pressed against my side as we started walking across campus.
The umbrella was large enough for two people, but it required us to stay close together to avoid getting wet.
I could feel the warmth radiating off him, could smell the clean scent of his soap mixed with something that was uniquely Rhett.
Every few steps, his arm would brush against mine, and I found myself paying more attention to those points of contact than to where we were walking.
The campus looked different in the rain.
Sheets of water blurred the harsh edges of buildings, and the streetlights created pools of golden gloss that reflected off the wet pavement.
It was the kind of scene that belonged in a romantic comedy, two people sharing an umbrella in the rain, except this was real life, and the person next to me had spent the better part of his life avoiding me at all costs.
“God, I’m hungry,” I said as we passed the campus diner, its windows dark and a Closed sign hanging in the door. “Should have grabbed something before the gym.”
“It’s past midnight,” Rhett pointed out. “Most normal people eat dinner before ten.”
“Are you calling me abnormal?”
“If the shoe fits.”
But there was something almost fond in his tone, like we were friends having a casual conversation instead of two people who’d been circling each other like predators for weeks. It was strange, this sudden shift in dynamic, but not entirely unwelcome.
We walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, both of us focused on staying dry and navigating the puddles that had formed in the uneven sections of sidewalk. When we reached his dormitory, I expected him to thank me for the umbrella ride and disappear inside without looking back.
Instead, he paused with his hand on the door handle, key already in the lock. He stood there for a long moment, and I could see the internal debate playing out across his features.
“Do you want to eat something?” he asked finally, like the words were being dragged out of him against his will.
I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Are you inviting me up to your dorm room, Morrison?”
“I’m offering you food because you complained about being hungry for the past ten minutes.” But his cheeks were flushed again, and he wasn’t quite meeting my eyes. “Take it or leave it.”
“Well, when you put it so charmingly, how could I refuse?”
He opened the door, and I followed him inside, shaking off my umbrella and propping it against the wall near the entrance.
The building had that particular dorm smell that existed in college buildings everywhere, a mixture of cleaning supplies, industrial carpet, and the lingering scent of whatever the cafeteria had served for dinner.
We climbed two flights of stairs, and I found myself studying the way Rhett moved, the easy confidence in his stride even when he was obviously nervous about whatever this was. When he unlocked his room and gestured for me to come in, I was curious to see what his living space looked like.
“Are you going to cook for me, Morrison?” I asked, stepping into the room and looking around with genuine interest.
“Keep dreaming, Whitmore.”
But there was no venom in the words, just automatic banter that felt almost comfortable. If only he wore fewer pieces of clothing, I’d be snacking all night long.
The room was smaller than my apartment, obviously, but there was something undeniably cozy about it.
Two beds, two desks, two dressers, all the standard dormitory furniture that had probably been there since the building opened.
But Rhett had made it his own in small ways.
There were hockey trophies lined up on his desk, photographs tacked to the wall above his bed, and textbooks stacked in neat piles that suggested someone who actually cared about his grades.
“You alone?” I asked, noting the empty bed on the other side of the room.
“Lennox is mostly at Oliver’s place these days,” Rhett explained, opening a cabinet above his desk and pulling out several bags of snacks. He tossed them onto his bed with the kind of casual efficiency that suggested this was a regular routine.
I picked up one of the bags and examined it skeptically. “Seriously? This is what you eat?”
They were some kind of cheese puffs, the artificial orange kind that left powder on your fingers and probably contained more chemicals than actual food. The other bags weren’t much better: crackers, granola bars, and what looked like trail mix that was mostly chocolate chips and nuts.
“Unlike you, I had my healthy rations today,” Rhett shot back, settling onto his bed and opening one of the bags. “These are emergency snacks.”
“Emergency snacks,” I repeated, taking the bag he offered me and settling into the desk chair across from him. “Right. Because God forbid you should actually starve between meals.”
“Fine,” he said, popping a cheese puff into his mouth. “I’m happy to eat them all myself if you’re going to be picky about it.”
I opened the bag and tried one of whatever he’d given me. It was exactly as processed and artificial as I’d expected, but I was hungry enough that it tasted better than it had any right to. “Not bad for emergency food.”
We sat there eating junk food in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I took the opportunity to study his living space more closely.
There were details I hadn’t noticed at first glance: a photograph of his family at some kind of formal event, all of them dressed in expensive clothing and smiling for the camera.
A small pile of books on his nightstand that weren’t textbooks, actual novels that he was reading for pleasure.
A hockey stick propped in the corner that was clearly well-used, the blade worn smooth from countless hours of practice, probably his first, or the first he truly loved.
“This is strange,” I said finally.
“What is?”
“This.” I gestured around the room. “Your family’s worth half a billion dollars, and you live like a scholarship kid.”