Boyfriend Bargain (Hawthorne University #1)(19)

“Hey, yourself,” I say, sitting up straighter and adjusting my coat over my bosom.

He watches me, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The classroom door opens, and one of the TAs rushes in and heads to Professor Goldberg with a stack of papers. They stand and talk among themselves, giving us a little time—which Zack takes full advantage of.

He glances down at the empty seat with my backpack in it. Without asking, he picks it up, sets it at my feet, and takes the chair. We’re in even closer proximity now that he’s sitting, not to mention his leg is pressed against mine.

Here’s the thing about lecture hall seats at Hawthorne: they were probably built in the 60s and were made for normal-sized people without any extra room. Zack’s body is definitely not your average man’s build. I watch—with a bit of amusement—as he wedges his six-foot, six-inch frame in the small seat, his knees pressed against the back of the one in front of him, no doubt the pressure being felt by the girl sitting there.

She looks over her shoulder in annoyance, sees who it is, and immediately smiles. With shoulder-length golden brown hair and a pretty face, she’s wearing a Delta sorority shirt. “Oh, Zack, hey. I didn’t know that was you. Glad you could join us back here.” She invites him to their next party, some shindig they’re having next week.

A second later, she scribbles on a piece of paper and passes back her number. Her eyes rove over his shoulders. “You know, in case you want to come. Call me.”

“Right,” he says with a smile as he takes the note. She turns back around and he tucks it in an outside pocket of his backpack.

I lean over and whisper, “Will she be the one next?”

“Maybe. I wonder if she likes Kappa parties.”

“Or bathrooms.”

“Or anywhere,” he says.

I arch a brow. “You like having sex in public places?”

“I’m up for it—with the right person.” His gaze grows hot, his grey eyes darkening, and I feel my chest expanding.

Shit.

I clear my throat and tap my pen on the desk. “Word to the wise: phone numbers can be tricky, expectations and all that.”

“How so?”

I clear my throat. “I guess it really doesn’t apply to you, but if you had a girlfriend and you took that number and slipped it in your pocket, it’s cheating, even if nothing ever comes of it, because the intent was there. You thought about it and consciously tucked it away.”

An eyebrow shoots up. “You’ve experienced this type of behavior?”

I nod. “An ex who put numbers in his jacket all night long and lied every time I called him on it.”

“Ah.”

I give him side-eye. “Are you going to call her?”

“No.”

“Then why take the number?”

He leans in, the smell of his woodsy cologne intoxicating. “I tell you what—I’ll give her number back if you give me yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

His eyes glitter. “Oh, you’ll answer. You and I…we have unfinished business.”

Before I can whip out a retort, he leans forward and hands the paper back to Sorority Girl. “Hey, I’m never gonna call. Sorry, babe. Here’s your digits back.”

She huffs and snatches it out of his hand then sends me a glare over her shoulder.

I bite back a laugh.

He leans back and shifts those grey eyes back to me. “And your number?”

“I never said I’d give it to you.”

He bites that bottom lip—on purpose, I bet—and runs his gaze over me. “You will.”

“You wish.” Ugh, I like sparring with him.

“Miss Ryan, if you’re finished conversing with Mr. Morgan, perhaps you’d like to comment on the current question?” Professor Goldberg’s voice booms across the room, and I jerk up, suddenly at attention. Apparently the TA has slipped out and he was lecturing.

And that’s what sitting next to Zack Morgan does to a person.

“Um…?” I look up and straighten my glasses.

Professor Goldberg points to the poetry book in his hand. “We’re discussing the poem you were supposed to have read.”

My brain has completely melted.

“You did read the poem?” the professor asks, arching a brow.

My voice is high. “Yes, quite fascinating this one, actually…”

Zack nudges me and I look down at his notebook where he’s scribbled something.

“Yes! ‘Acquainted with the Night’ by Robert Frost, sir. It’s a sonnet, written in strict iambic pentameter. Very lovely.”

“Continue. I’m sure you have thoughts. I hope you do for your participation points. Who’s the speaker?”

There’s a rumble of laughter in the room and I grimace. I did read the damn thing. “The speaker is a lonely man who only walks at night,” I say.

“Why does he do that?” the professor asks, casting his eyes across the room. “Any takers?”

Zack’s leg brushes against mine as he straightens and speaks. “He doesn’t think anyone will understand him. Darkness is his home, where he belongs.”

He points at Zack with a long finger. “Elaborate.”