Page 52 of Something to Prove

And he’d asked me on a date. The butterflies in my stomach had butterflies.

Ahem. Puh-leaze.I was a realist through and through. I wouldn’t let my heart lead me astray. We were the definition of a casual collegiate fling. A secret one, no less. I wasn’t about to lose perspective and create a magical romantic fairy tale with an unattainable jock. I was too smart for that nonsense.

But I liked that he’d chosen me tonight. And I liked that he’d stayed.

He’d wanted to say good night to Mabel, who was curled up asleep on my pillow in my room. Next thing I knew we were naked and Ty was on top of me, gazing into my eyes, whispering, “I’m addicted to you.”

Was it terrible that I loved it? That I wanted—no, needed—confirmation that for once in my life, I wasn’t completely alone?

If only for a little while.

CHAPTER 16

TY

This was not a real date.I repeat…not a real date.

First of all, Vincento’s wasn’t the type of place you took someone you hoped to impress. It was ordinary and unpretentious, and it had zero aspirations of grandeur. The family-owned pizzeria knew their clientele, and let’s be real…college students were all about a good deal on a budget.

So if the red vinyl booth was a little sticky, and the bulb in the ancient stained-glass pendent over the corner table was on the fritz…so what? The pizza was amazing, the garlic balls were served warm and coated with olive oil and a fine layer of parmesan, and refills were on the house.

It was perfect for postgame celebrations or commiserations, perfect for pre-party meals, or study-break chow sessions, but not dates. Which was usually fine because I didn’t date. Or not often. And I’d never ever, ever gone on a date with a guy.

Ever.

Yet here I was, sitting across from Walker Woodrow, wondering why I’d thought this might be a good idea. And yes, it had been my idea. I wouldn’t have used the word “date,” but I’d gone along with it. Casually.

Problem: I was really fuckin’ nervous.

Christ, just look at him. Walker was hot. Geeky hot, yes, but still hot. His crisp blue oxford shirt complemented his tawny eyes and his gorgeous hair. I stared at the laminated menu I hadn’t bothered reading in years to avoid staring at him. Then I swiped my clammy palms on my jeans under the table and internally chided myself for being a coward.

In spite of the fact that I was sweating through my T-shirt and actively hoping my deodorant didn’t let me down, I had no regrets. Especially when Walker flashed a bashful half grin while perusing Vincento’s pizza selections as if the choice between the meat lover’s and the Sicilian with prosciutto was the equivalent of ordering the lobster or the filet mignon at an actual fancy restaurant with linen tablecloths and sturdy silverware I couldn’t easily twist into a knot with one hand.

If he was nervous, he was better at playing it cool.

A glass of Vincento’s weak-as-hell beer later, I removed my head from my ass and remembered that Walker was an actor. Well…sort of, anyway. He played a role in front of a camera that required a friendly demeanor and a congenial show of interest in topics he didn’t always care about.

Walker could fake his way through a pizza dinner with anyone like a fucking champ, but I didn’t want that. I wanted his genuine smile and his unrehearsed, easy conversation. It was up to me to coax it from him, because the real Walker had admitted that he didn’t know how to do this.

And I did? Yeah, fuckin’ right.

“The quattro formaggi looks good,” he commented, idly swirling his glass of house Chardonnay.

“Meh. It’s just cheese pizza.”

“Fourcheese pizza. That makes it extra special.”

I rolled my eyes. “It makes it extra cheesy.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, but the meat lover’s is better.” I pushed the menu to the middle of the table, where the red-and-white plastic tablecloth was at its most faded, and froze. “Wait. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

Walker snickered. “You brought me moo shu pork and I ate every last bit of it, so I’m pretty sure you know I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I tried to go vegan once,” he continued, ignoring my awkwardness. “Unsuccessfully. The sausage substitute made me queasy and when I couldn’t pass a McDonald’s without drooling like Pavlov’s dog, I realized I didn’t have it in me.”