Boyfriend Bargain (Hawthorne University #1)(15)

I shake myself and look back down at the letter.

My heart is yours and always will be. I love you. Forever, Z

I fold the paper into a square and set it inside the rectangular gold-painted wooden container I’ve had since I was a kid. Just a trinket from my childhood, it’s the size of a shoebox and battered from use. A picture of us is at the bottom of the pile and I pull it up, running my hands over it. Willow’s beautiful in a sundress standing between Reece and myself, her mouth curved up in a secret smile, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. Veronica’s in a tiny yellow bikini with her bright red hair shining in the background as she lounges by the pool; she probably got pissed later when she realized she missed out on a photo opportunity. Flowers bloom around us, reminding me of the pool party hosted by my parents. I had just gotten my driver’s license and spent the day rubbing it in because they all had a year to go before they turned sixteen. This was a singular moment that summer, when everything was green—when everything was golden.

Life was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

I study Reece’s face, taking in the minute distance between his hand and Willow’s, and I can see how he yearned to reach out and take hers.

I shove it all back inside the nightstand drawer and slam it shut.

I’ve done all the reminiscing I can handle right now.

Pulling open my chest of drawers, I dig around and pull out what I need to go running: black compression tights and an Under Armour long-sleeved shirt. I grab my Hawthorne black and gold windproof jacket and zip it up. Once my running gloves and shoes are on, I bolt out of the room.

The den and kitchen are dead silent, Eric and Reece still asleep. Good.

I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and suck it down. Long John Silver pops an eye open and spies me from her perch on the back of the couch.

“You catch any mice?”

She stretches.

“Lazy cat.”

She gives me a glare and trots to the kitchen, looking over her shoulder and yelling at me.

“Give me a minute.”

I grab her cat food from the pantry, fill up her bowl, and get her fresh water.

Solid white except for a black patch over her right eye—which is shut and scarred from a fight—she showed up at our back door about a year ago, skinny, full of fleas, and limping. One ear was torn off and the eye was swollen shut. Hell, she could barely move except to lie on our back deck and give me a half-assed hiss when I brought her a can of tuna. I didn’t know anything about cats—my family has spaniels—but one look at her and I knew I had to take her to the vet.

Two hundred and fifty dollars later, he gave me the address of the local animal shelter, but when I took her inside, got one look at the rows and rows of cats and kittens in cages that lined the walls, I walked right back out.

Reece and I own the three-bedroom house we live in, a gift from my dad my freshman year, and figured the place was plenty big enough for the four of us.

“Going for a long run. Hold down the fort while I’m out.”

She gives me side-eye from the food bowl.

“Ah, I know you love me, baby girl.”

Grabbing the duffle bag I put together last night, I walk out the door and stand on the stoop, breathing in the cold early morning air of Sparrow Lake, a suburb outside the Twin Cities where I grew up. The sun hasn’t peeked over the horizon yet, and since it’s still dark, I slip on a reflective vest.

Running—it clears my head, keeps me sane, and gives me fucking clarity, especially since nothing else seems to settle the demons in my mind.

I used to run a few times a week, but since the panic attack, I make it happen every single morning, sometimes just for twenty minutes and sometimes longer, depending on how much shit I need to work out in my head.

I inhale several deep breaths and punch into the air, centering myself and focusing on my body. The rhythm of my feet, the movement of my arms wipes out everything, much like being on the ice does, except with running, I don’t have to think about game strategy or how I’m going to get the puck in the net.

Most of all, I don’t have to worry about fucking up and revealing my secrets to the whole world.

I breathe in a lungful of cold air and take off for the street.





8





Sugar





Happy Monday, I mutter as my alarm goes off at five o’clock. Time to get the donuts—literally. It’s my job on Mondays to bring in breakfast for the crew who’s cleaning the club from top to bottom from the weekend, plus run a few errands for Mara. Blowing out a breath, I get up and grab a towel for the shower. My movements are a bit sluggish since I tossed and turned all night with weird dreams. There was one in particular where I sat in my poetry classroom with a very naked and very sexy Zack Morgan as my professor.

I come out of the bathroom, not bothering to be quiet since Julia never came home. I imagine she’s tucked up tight in a football player’s dorm room right now.

I look around for my clothes from last night. Everything is littered on the floor where I tossed it as I came in and crashed. My eyes flare. There’s only one thing missing: my coat. I let out a cry of frustration and tears well when I picture it on the floor at the Kappa house getting trampled by stilettos and sneakers, or even worse, picked up and put on by someone. That coat cost me over a hundred dollars on sale. I blow out a breath and plop on my bed, staring up at the yellow-stained ceiling and the chipped paint on the walls. Not only did I lose my coat, I’m living in dormitory hell while Bennett is basking in an apartment with a fresh coat of paint—that I helped with—and a nice, toasty heating system. There’s probably a groupie curled up next to him right now.