Page 19

“Well, well, who do we have here?” he drawls, his eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “Didn’t know we were expecting company.”

Connor steps closer to me, his expression shifting as he cuts in before I can respond. “She’s here to see Thatcher,” he says, his tone clipped. The guys exchange a knowing look, laughter flickering between them.

Connor tenses beside me, his jaw tightening, but before he can intervene, the guy keeps going.

“So, you’re here for Thatcher, huh?” he drawls, giving me an exaggerated once-over.

“You sure you can handle him, sweetheart? Thatcher’s…

well, he’s not for the faint of heart.” He smirks, leaning lazily against the wall with his arms crossed, like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Trust me, I’ve seen girls come and go, thinking they’re up for it, but…

” He lets out a low chuckle, trailing off as if he knows something I don’t.

The rest of the guys with him chortle, shoving themselves as their playful jeers fill the hallway.

I force a polite smile, hoping they’ll take the hint and leave. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say, trying to edge past him, but they don’t budge.

The drunk idiot speaks again. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m just being friendly,” he says with mock innocence. “You know, looking out for Thatcher’s… guests.” He draws out the last word, raising an eyebrow as he sizes me up. “Just curious, what’s your deal, anyway? Not like he lets just anyone up here.”

Connor shifts beside me, clearly trying to hold back, but the guy continues, undeterred.

“Must be something special about you,” he continues, eyes narrowing like he’s putting together a puzzle. “Or maybe you’re just…persistent?” He grins, cocking his head. “He got a nickname for you yet, or is this just one of those quick, nameless encounters?”

Dove…

“Brody,” Connor clears his throat sharply, a clear signal for the guy to back off, but the guy’s grin only widens.

“Easy there, man. Just having a little fun,” Brody says, holding up his hands in surrender but still looking me up and down. “Just trying to get to know Thatcher’s type better, you know? Doesn’t seem like he’d go for someone so…soft.”

I feel my patience thinning, but I paste on a polite smile. “Well, thanks for the concern. I’ll take it from here.”

“Oh, sure thing,” he laughs, glancing at his buddies as if he’s scored some inside joke. “You’re gonna need all the luck you can get.” His friends snicker and shove each other, clearly entertained by his antics.

Connor’s fists clench at his sides, and I can feel the tension radiating off him. “Alright, that’s enough, guys,” he says, his voice low but edged with warning. “She’s not here to play your games.”

Brody raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Relax, Connor. Just making her feel welcome. It’s what we do, isn’t it?” He chuckles, looking back at me with that insufferable smirk. “So, good luck with Thatcher. Just don’t get your heart set on anything too…permanent, alright?”

A muscle in Connor’s jaw twitches. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the stairs, his voice tight. We turn to leave, but not before the guy adds with a parting laugh, “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

I shake my head as we ignore the group, their laughter still ringing in my ears as they move off deeper down the hallway.

Connor leads the way up the staircase, his posture tense, and I can sense the frustration radiating off him.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters as we ascend, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re just…drunk.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I reply, trying to downplay my discomfort.

As we reach the landing, I take a deep breath, the lingering smell of stale beer and sweat adding to the pit in my stomach making me feel queasy. Connor stops in front of a door at the end of the hallway, glancing back at me. “This is it”

I glance up at the door with a tacky sign that reads president’s room in bold, graffiti-like letters across the smooth carved surface. I take a step closer and my heart races, a mix of anticipation and dread coursing through me.

“Are you sure he’s in there?” I ask, my voice basically a whisper.

Connor nods, his expression hardening again. “Yeah, he usually is. Just be prepared for anything. Thatcher can be a real piece of work when he wants to be.” His tone carries an edge of concern, and it makes me hesitate.

“Thanks for the warning,” I say, forcing a lightness into my tone to mask the tension bubbling beneath the surface.

I watch as Connor rolls his shoulders as if trying to work out an ache before raising his hand and rapping on the door.

“Hey! Prez! You in there?” he calls out, his voice cutting through the thick atmosphere.

There’s a moment of silence before he turns to me, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Sometimes he doesn’t hear you over the music. Just wait a second.”

I nod, my heart racing as the seconds stretch. I can feel the tension radiating from Connor, like he’s preparing for something volatile. His hand drops to his side, and he shifts his weight, glancing back at me.

“So, uh…” he starts, clearly searching for something to say. “How’s working with Jennings? You’re his TA right?”

I try to muster a casual smile. “Yeah” I shrug. “It’s fine. He gives me a lot of work, grading papers, research for readings…but it’s helping. I’m learning a lot.”

“That’s great, Maybe you can tutor me later. I need it,” he replies, a small smile on his face but his gaze flickers back to the door, impatience creeping into his tone. “You really should have just called him. I can’t believe you came all the way over here for—”

Before he can finish, the door swings open, and a familiar face peers out. I know him.

It is kind of difficult to recognize him without the hockey jersey and him zipping across the ice, but I think I know his name.

Ezra.

He grins at us, his unruly dark hair falling into his eyes.

“What’s up, Connor? And who’s this?” A mischievous glint in his eye as he studies me.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, the door swings open wider and Thatcher appears, shirtless, his brown hair drenched in sweat. The sight is jarring—his toned body glistening under the dim light, and the playful smirk he wears only adds to the confusion.

I try my hardest not to stare at his chiseled torso, the dark band of foreign words around his bicep and rather keep my gaze on his smug face but it was hard.

I swallow, momentarily speechless as I take in his appearance. The memories of the last time we were together—intense and charged—flood back, making it hard to focus.

His smirk widens and I get the feeling that he knows the effect his current state has on me.

His gaze shifts from me to Connor, who stands silent beside me.

Thatcher’s brow furrows for a split second as if he’s trying to decipher something before he makes a shooing motion with his hand.

“Thanks for escorting my guest. You can fuck off now.”

“Hey!” I snap at him. “Don’t talk to him like that! Have some fucking manners.” I feel my face heat up at his attitude.

Thatcher raises an eyebrow, the cockiness in his smirk rising. “Oh, look at you, standing up for your knight in shining armor. How sweet.”

His condescending tone just adds more fuel to the fire, and I feel my heart pounding against my ribs.

This motherfucking asshole…

“It’s fine, Rhea,” I hear Connor say, the resignation in his voice like a douse of freezing water. “I’ll see you in class.” He steps away and disappears down the hallway.

Peeved, I turn back to Thatcher and find him looking at me, his smirk intact, his eyes glinting with something I can’t pin down. Satisfaction, maybe?

“Well, that was fun,” Ezra comments, still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a playful grin on his face.

I ignore him and glare at the brunette shirtless asshole, now grinning at me.

Ezra chuckles, clearly amused by the tension. “I think feisty might be Thatcher’s kink.” He shoots a teasing look at Thatcher, who merely rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off, dude,” Thatcher snaps, his voice tinged with annoyance but lacking the usual bite.

Ezra lifts his hands in surrender, “I get it, private conversation.” He moves away from the door and starts down the hallway, in the direction of the stairs. “Fucking off now. Have fun.” He calls over his shoulder as he walks.

I turn my attention back to Thatcher, who’s now leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and that infuriating smirk still plastered across his face. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.

Finally, I say, summoning all the civility I can muster. “We need to talk.”

His smirk grows into a grin, and he steps away from the door, gesturing for me to come in. I can’t shake the feeling as I cross over the threshold, into his den, that my life will never be the same again.

The door slams shut behind me, and I try to brace myself for the painful conversation I know is coming. I can feel his presence so acutely as he moves around me, but I try not to focus on that, instead I try to distract myself by taking in the room.

The walls are bare, save for a few nailed up banners of the frat’s motto, as well as pictures of past presidents.

Despite that, the room was oddly clean. The wooden floors are polished and buffed and the leather couches that surrounded a coffee table look new.

Even the massive king size bed at the far edge of the room was meticulously laid.

The stark contrast between the messiness of the floor below and the almost pristine setup here catches me off guard.

This isn’t at all what I’d imagined. Thatcher’s space feels almost curated, like everything has been purposefully arranged to reflect a certain image.

Even the faint scent in the room—woodsy and sharp, like sandalwood and spice—seems deliberate.