Zeke grunts, nods. “That’s her.”

Laurel’s eyes catch sight of someone in the distance, fingers giving my arm another little tap. “Oh! There’s my cousin. I’m going to run and catch up to her.” Her hand leaves my sleeve, glossy pink lips curved into a pretty smile. “I have to give her a message from her mom.”

“Sure.”

“Bye Rhett. Talk to you later?”

“Uh yeah, sure.”

“Good.” She turns and takes a few steps, glancing over her shoulder once, probably at Oz and Zeke, her fingers giving a little wave. “Bye Rhett.”

She said that already.

“Thanks for walking me to class.”

I blink in her direction.

The three of us watch her walk off, hips swaying, red hair sweeping back and forth across her back, sashaying all the way over to her cousin.

None of us speak.

Until, “Dude. Who. The. Fuck. Was. That?” Oz asks in fragments. He socks me in the arm, right in the fucking deltoid.

“That was Laurel,” I stupidly reply, rubbing the sting out of my upper arm. Motherfucker hits hard.

“Are you screwing her?” Oz asks. Beside him, Zeke grimaces at his crude question. “Please say yes.”

I laugh bitterly. “Sorry to disappoint y’all.”

“Why the hell not? Fire Crotch is fucking hot.”

Fire Crotch? Jesus, what is wrong with this guy? He’s worse than Gunderson and Eric combined.

“Did you seriously just ask if I’m having sex with her? Look at her.” Then look at me.

We crane our heads to look again. Laurel strides down the sidewalk in the center of campus, bright hair a beacon in the distance, color set off by the hue of her sweater. Links her arm with Alex. Guides her toward the philosophy building, where her English class is held.

“Oh I’m looking at her alright.” If I didn’t know the guy had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t know the guy had a girlfriend. “You sure you’re not dating her?”

Now Zeke is rolling his eyes. “Of course they’re not dating, he just said it twice. Why don’t you ever fucking listen?”

“We hardly know the guy,” Oz argues. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to tell us.”

“Know how we know?” Zeke smacks him in the stomach. “Because Rabideaux doesn’t have the balls to date a chick like that. He wouldn’t have a clue what to do with her.”

They study me for a few awkward beats, both of them nodding slowly like they have the goddamn answers to everything. Much as I hate to admit it, they’re right; I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a girl like Laurel.

Osborne narrows his eyes in my direction. “Please tell me he’s wrong. Please tell me you’re at least hooking up.”

I sigh, hefting my backpack. “I’m not dating her.”

“Hooking up?”

“No.”

Oz throws his hands up, frustrated. “Dude, why not? Did you see the way she was checking you out?”

“She wasn’t checkin’ me out; she was looking at you idiots.”

Whack. “Are you fucking blind? That chick is into you, trust me.”

But he’s wrong, so wrong.

He must be.

Laurel

My knuckles rise to knock, rap on the wooden front door twice before releasing the screen and drawing back.

I take a step back, smoothing back long red hair with the palm of my free hand, smile plastered on my face, butterflies multiplying one by one in the pit of my stomach.

It takes three long minutes for the door to swing open and Rhett’s face to appear, shrouded in the darkness of the house.

Shoot, why is it dark inside the house? Was he already sleeping?

It’s only eight thirty.

“Laurel?” Rhett presses his hand to the screen, pushing it open a few feet. “Is everything okay?”

He’s wearing a cutoff t-shirt.

I stare, dumbfounded, brain processing the visuals hitting me hard, one at a time: Rhett wearing a cutoff shirt…the bulge of his sunless arms. My eyes do a quick scan along his smooth clavicle, visible from the scoop neckline of the shirt, a smattering of light hair in the center of his chest.

I stare some more, the plate of cookies in my hands forgotten. My gaze drops to his biceps, rakes along his deltoids and triceps, solid and lean. I want to skim my palms over it all.

“Is everything okay?” he repeats, pushing the door open farther. “Laurel?”

“Everything is fine,” I murmur, reluctantly dragging my gaze off his upper torso.

“Then why…” Are you here?

The unfinished question hangs between us.

“Why am I here?” The weight of the plate in my hands is a gentle reminder. “Oh jeez! Duh! Here.” I thrust the cookies in his direction. “I hope you like chocolate chip.”

Because they were all I could afford to make after running to the grocery store for the ingredients I didn’t have, which was most of them: flour, butter, and chocolate chips. Fortunately, it was a simple recipe—easy to make in a short amount of time.

They’re still warm, fresh from the oven.

Rhett stares down at the paper plate. “You brought us cookies?”

Us? Like him and his roommates?

“No, I brought you cookies.” I nibble my bottom lip, worried he’s going to think I’m clingy, but his crooked smile is warm. It gets me warm, too. “Are you allowed to eat these?”

His smile gets wider. “Yeah, I can eat your cookies.”

I can eat your cookies.

I search his face for traces of sexual innuendo, find none.

Bummer.

“They’re for the bus ride tomorrow.”

“You brought me cookies for the bus ride.” He stares hard at the plate. At the cookies. Up at my face, confused.

Please don’t ask me why, I silently beg, because I don’t even know the answer to that myself. If I said I had just wanted to do something nice for him, I’d be lying. Cookies are the last thing on my mind as I stand on this stoop.

We stand awkwardly at the threshold of his house, me on the tiny front porch, him in the entryway holding the screen door ajar. The wind picks up, sending a cold breeze across the steps.

It lifts the hair off my shoulders and sends a tingle down my spine.

“Wanna come inside for a minute?”

Uh, do basic white girls drink pumpkin spice lattes? Yes I want to go inside! I school my expression so I don’t come off as over-enthused or desperate. That might freak him out.

“Sure.”

Still holding my plate of baked goods, I step up into the house when Rhett pushes the door all the way open, offering entry. I purposely brush against his hard, athletic body like a cat—it can’t be helped! He barely left me any room to enter; obviously I had to touch him.

Giving him my most innocent smile, I enter the living room, eyes scanning the perimeter. Brown couch. Brown love seat. Tan coffee table. Giant TV. Cords everywhere.

Typical bachelor pad.

It’s too quiet and too dark.

“Are your roommates home?”

Rhett closes the door behind us. “No. They’re both at the field house. Rex is the team manager, so he has to make sure everything gets put on the bus. He’s probably counting equipment. Eric is with the trainer getting his ankle checked out.”

“Want me to set these on the counter?”

“Sure. Wait, no. Maybe I should put them in a baggie and shove them in my duffle so the guys don’t eat them all.”

I preen, standing a little taller—he doesn’t want to share my cookies.

“Good idea.”

Rhett finds a plastic baggie after opening four drawers in the kitchen and we put the cookies inside, two at a time, him stealing one before I slide the baggie closed. He pops it in his mouth, biting down, his straight, white teeth pulling it apart.

Chewing.

The tendons in his neck work and I watch him swallow, eyes drawn to his throat.

“Now I want milk.” His lips tease.

“Want me to get you a glass?”

“Nah, I got this water.” He picks up the glass from the counter, washing down his chocolate chip cookie with a few gulps. “That was awesome. Thank you.”