Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(83)

“You’re not wearing that home, are you?”

He looks down and runs a hand over his chest. “Yeah, why?”

I point to his crotch. “I can see the outline of your peen, which means everyone else can too.”

“Who else is going to see it when I’m in the truck?”

“What if we have to stop for gas, or a bathroom break?”

“We’re like an hour drive from Chicago, and I filled up before I picked you up from the airport. I haven’t driven anywhere since, so I won’t need gas. And I can hold it for an hour, and I’m assuming you can too. Unless you’re planning to drink a liter of water before we hit the road.”

“It’ll be distracting.”

He arches a brow.

I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t want to leave this bubble!” I drop my head so he can’t see how close I am to the edge.

His socked feet appear in my vision, along with the crotch of his gray sweatpants, and the prominent bulge looks even more obvious this close up. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or both.

“Hey.” He wraps his arms around me. “I’m yours whenever you want me.”

“It would be smarter for both of us if we stopped seeing each other.” The words feel like a serrated blade to my heart.

“Is that what you want?”

“No. But you having to sneak around and hide what’s going on isn’t what I want either.”

“We can take it one day at a time, Clover. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. It can be whatever we want it to be, for as long as we want.”

I melt into his embrace. In this moment, it feels like there’s somehow both a million miles and no years separating us.





Returning to school and the start of the semester brings a new set of complications. When we can coordinate our schedules, Maverick resorts to sneaking over to my place after dark and leaving before the sun rises. But I find myself running into him on campus constantly, which creates anxiety I’m not used to.

At the beginning of the third week of the spring semester, I’m on the way to the gym, which I’ve been avoiding since the sauna incident. The need to release some of this nervous energy wins out, though. And so does the desire to swim, despite the chlorinated water.

Just as I reach the door to the building, it flies open, and I’m face-to-face with Maverick. His hair is wet, the ends curling around a beanie, and he has a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, Cl—Professor Sweet.” He glances over his shoulder, maybe checking to see who’s around. When he’s sure it’s the two of us, his gaze moves over me on a slow sweep.

“Hi.” I fight to keep my voice from coming out pitchy and barely win, but I lose the battle not to fidget and tuck my hair behind my ear. Then I try to make it less obvious by adjusting my glasses. I feel like I have a scarlet letter tattooed on my forehead, as though everyone can see through me.

“You know I can come over in a few hours, and we can work out together.” One corner of his mouth tips up in a smirk, but he steps aside, making room for me to pass.

I’m about to make a comment about this being my warmup, but another student comes jogging through the foyer, heading straight for us.

“Hey, Mav. Wait up. Can you give me a ride home?”

He has hair so dark it’s nearly black and eyes so green they appear luminescent. I recognize him from pictures on Maverick’s phone as his best friend, Kody. His piercing gaze lands on me for a second and slides past, like he sees me, but not really.

“Have a good swim, Professor,” Maverick says.

“You too. I mean, have a good evening.” I rush off, not looking back, and push through the door to the women’s changing room. I head straight for the individual stalls, lock myself inside, and sink down on the bench, fighting with myself to stay calm. No one heard him. No one knows.

Once I stop shaking, I spend an hour and a half in the pool, swimming laps, warring with myself and questioning what I’m doing and whether this is fair to Maverick. He’s said he’s okay with the secrecy, but I worry about how long that’s going to last, and how long it reasonably should.

I take a long shower after my swim. After rinsing the chemicals out of my hair, I tuck it up in a beanie and huddle into my winter coat as I rush across the athletic facility’s parking lot. It’s dark already, and fat snowflakes swirl around in the air, the promise of a storm coming. I parked under one of the lights, so it’s easy to find my car in the half-empty lot. It isn’t until I’m behind the wheel that I notice something tucked under my wiper blade.

I glance around the lot. A few students are walking down the sidewalk, heads bowed against the biting winter wind and snow flurries. I open my door and quickly nab it, expecting it to be a flyer or something. I drop back into my seat and hit the lock button on the door, then tap the interior light. It’s not a flyer, though. It’s an origami crane made from the cellophane wrapper on a soda bottle. The number eight hundred seventy-three is written in silver marker on the wing.

It’s like he knows where my head goes before I do.





Two days later, I work late, marking essays in my office. When I finally leave the building, I step out into a blizzard-level storm. The snow has been nearly constant over the past week, and we must have gotten more than eight inches this afternoon.