But neither of us moved to separate.
In the background someone got up to the microphone to read a poem, bringing us back.
We sat down as the waitress approached our table. Her name was Cyndi, and she’d been flirting with me unabashedly since the moment she’d shown us our seats and taken our order. I also noticed she’d undone a few of the buttons on her white shirt since the last time she’d made a pass by us. “How was the food?” She directed her attention to me.
“Great,” I replied, indicating our empty plates. I glanced back at Sunny. “You want anything else?”
She shook her head.
“We’ll just take the check,” I murmured to Cyndi.
Her red lips slid into a knowing smile. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?” She giggled.
Okay. This was weird. I focused back on Sunny. “Dessert?”
“No,” she said, her face tight as she took in the waitress.
Cyndi sashayed off.
“You’ve slept with her, haven’t you?” she muttered as soon as Cyndi was out of earshot.
My brows knitted. Where was the sweet girl I’d kissed? “It’s not like I’ve screwed every girl on campus.”
“But she was one of them. There’s probably more than just her in here that you’ve slept with . . .”
My lips flattened. “I did fuck her. Once. But I was single and so was she. Not every guy is like Bart. When I care about someone, it’s all about them—because there’s only a handful of people I’ve ever cared about to begin with. I don’t throw away and squander relationships. My mom taught me to treat women with respect because she never got that from my dad. I don’t lie. If it’s just to get off, they understand what I want. Got it?”
She rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry. I—I overreacted. It doesn’t matter if you slept with her.” She paused. “You never said what happened to your mom.”
My heart dropped at the memory. “She died of a brain aneurysm the summer before I started college. We were on vacation—in North Carolina actually.”
Her face paled. “You must have been devastated.”
Yeah. It had been a wonder I’d been able to throw a complete pass my freshman year, but somehow I’d channeled all that emotion and feeling into football.
She reached across the table and grasped my hand. My thumb brushed hers, lingering.
Cyndi chose that moment to return with our check, giving me a clear view of her cleavage as she leaned down to give it to me. I ignored her, but Sunny still pulled back. I noticed Cyndi had slipped a piece of paper under the check with her phone number on it, but I pretended like I didn’t see it when I placed cash on top and handed it back. Her eyes darted to Sunny, a spiteful look there.
We gathered our things and headed out the door into the fall evening. We started walking to the parking lot a couple of blocks over, and without even knowing how it happened, we were holding hands again.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Her face split into a grin. “Pulling down swan wallpaper in my bedroom. The former owners of the house had a thing for birds.”
“Nice,” I said. “I’m coming over to help you.”
“Don’t you have practice?”
“I’ll come after and bring dinner. You like sushi?”
“I love it,” she murmured, “but that sounds like too much trouble for you. You don’t get finished until late, and you’ll be exhausted. I can cook something if you want. Everyone says my lasagna—”
“No. Don’t go to any trouble for me. You have enough going on with work. I’m bringing dinner. It’s a date.”
She blinked up at me. “Okay.”
Wait.
Was I dating my fake girlfriend?
Nah. I pushed that thought away. We were just friends.
Sunny
“HE HAS MORE MUSCLES IN his back than I have in my whole body,” I told Isabella as we had lunch Wednesday at the hotdog place in the Student Center.
“Let me get this straight: you had Max Kent half-naked in your bedroom and didn’t try to nail him?”
“He was helping me pull down wallpaper. It wasn’t exactly romantic.”
She waved her hands around. “He’s the hottest quarterback in the history of Georgia. It’s imperative you go to pound town. You can tell your grandchildren someday . . . you can write your memoirs. More importantly, you can tell me about it.” She dunked a French fry in her ketchup and popped it in her mouth. Tall with long raven hair, a snub nose, and sparkling blue eyes, she was a striking combination of pretty and sass. “I don’t get it. You’re fake-dating the hottest guy on campus, and you’re not having sex. You are crazy.”
“We’re friends. It’s nice.”
“What’s nice is the way he fills out his uniform.”
“Can’t disagree with you, but there’s more to him than just being a jock.”
“What?” she sputtered. “Are you actually admitting that you might like him?”
Before I could answer, a tall guy with a slightly graduated Mohawk sauntered to our booth and looked pointedly at Isabella. “Hey,” he said with one of those male chin nods.
She started. “Why, hey . . . there . . . you. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” She sent me a pleading glance. “Um, this is the guy I was telling you about. From the frat party.”