Boyfriend Bargain (Hawthorne University #1)(16)

I’m still muttering to myself when I put my hair up in a high ponytail a few minutes later. I pull on a bright pink knitted cap with a hole at the top that lets my hair hang out. After my tortoiseshell glasses are on, I throw on leggings and a Dunder Mifflin sweatshirt. On my way out the door, I walk past my desk, see the waitlist letter from Vanderbilt Law, and grimace.

I replay an old childhood fantasy where I’m driving down to Davenport, Alabama, in my super expensive white Mercedes, dressed in a slick business lady pantsuit with a huge I told you so smile on my face. I pull up the mossy tree-lined drive, get out of my beautiful car, and approach the big plantation-style house.

I knock, and someone comes to the door.

Maybe it’s one of my half-siblings. Maybe it’s his wife. Maybe it’s him, my father.

Regardless, the person is blown away by my stylish self and invites me in.

But I don’t take one step into that big shiny house with the Southern Living front porch.

No sir.

I just smile and tell them how great my life is. I show them my fancy law degree and tell them how wonderful I turned out despite the gutter I dragged myself out of.

My hands clench.

“You are enough just the way you are,” I mutter, repeating my mama’s words, but today it rings untrue and I exhale.

Torturing myself, I pick up the letter to put it away, but before I tuck it between my textbooks on the bookshelf, I unfold the paper and skim over it.

After careful consideration, the selection committee is unable to offer you admission at this time, but we would like to offer you a spot on our waitlist. We realize this is a disappointment, but there were many students with promise who we were unable to admit. It is important you know we do not rank students on our waitlist, and we strongly encourage you to apply to other institutions…

Warmest Regards, William R. Fitzgerald, Dean of Admissions

“Blah, blah, blah,” I say bitterly to no one, and instead of putting the letter away, I wad it up in a tight ball and throw it in the trash. I have a copy of it in an email anyway. Ugh.

I take another look in the mirror and blanch at my paleness. I need more sleep. With a groan, I pilfer through my makeup bag and swipe on my favorite lipstick, Cabernet Crisis. Seems fitting.

I did have crazy sex with a hockey player last night…

“That was a complete lapse in judgment, and I’m going to pretend it never happened,” I say to my reflection. I blot my lips. “And you really need to stop talking to yourself. People are going to think you’re crazy.”

There’s a small bruise on the right side of my neck, and my heart pounds, going back to last night and how…spectacular it was.

“Forget him. Trouble all day long, Sugar. His nickname is the Heartbreaker—don’t forget that.” I dab concealer on the hickey and brush powder on top.

Slinging my crossbody on, I open the dorm room door, and a Hawthorne duffle bag that was hanging on the outside of the doorknob falls to the floor.

My first thought is Julia somehow left some clothes out and forgot to bring them in, but then I remember it wasn’t here last night and she isn’t home yet.

Squatting down, I unzip the bag and gasp when I see my black North Face. I hold it up like a dance partner and do a twirl. “Coat, who brought you home?”

Digging a little more, I find a folded note.

It’s too cold in this town for you to go without this. If you want to say thank you, come see me. I’m sure you can figure out where I live.

Z

PS Here’s my phone number in case you don’t have it yet: 555-284-6433

I smirk at his cheekiness. He must have found my coat and seen the address I scrawled on the tag just a couple of weeks ago in case I left it somewhere.

I look down the hallway but the place is empty.

When did he bring it? And how did he get inside a locked-down dorm that doesn’t even open its doors until eight in the morning?

I didn’t hear anyone outside the door last night and I was up for another half-hour when I got home, so it must have been this morning, which means he was up early.

With a sigh, I slip it on over my sweatshirt and head for the exit.

A bit later, most of my surly mood has vanished, and I feel like a kid in a candy store with my nose literally pressed against the glass case. I’m in the donut shop. “I’ll take two dozen chocolate, two dozen plain, and two of those churros. Mara loves those,” I tell Joaquin Rios, the owner, as I straighten up.

He grins, eyes dancing. “That’s it?”

I groan. “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“Ah.” He shakes his finger at me. “But I have something special. Made it last night—for you.” A small, wiry man with beautiful light brown skin and a lilting Mexican accent, he’s a friend of Mara’s, and I worked here in high school to earn extra cash, which I socked away for college. He bustles off to the back then comes out of the kitchen holding a tray of chocolate donuts with dark sprinkles on top. He’s written Sugar in white icing on one of them. “I made these to celebrate you going to law school and to show our appreciation for your help with the paperwork for the zoning regulations for our food truck.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t get in.

“Oh, that’s so kind.” I fiddle with the zipper on my coat. “You didn’t have to do that. I liked helping you.”