Boyfriend Bargain (Hawthorne University #1)(27)

“Poor you.” I shake my head.

He laughs, and I take him in, enjoying how he looks with a smile curling his lips, the way his hand rakes through his hair. “I want a championship.” He glances down at the pile of textbooks, and I see our poetry book. “And I could use some help in our class.”

“That class is easy!”

“I’ll be missing it for hockey reasons and I may not be back.” He shrugs. “The TA is helping out, but you can keep me updated.”

Oh. Disappointment hits at the news that he won’t be there.

“No fringe benefits?” Geeze. Does part of me want him to ask for “extras”?

Another grin. “I wouldn’t throw you out. Whatever happens between us will have nothing to do with our agreement.”

“Fair.” My heart flies at the prospect of him being inside me again, his hands in my hair, his lips on mine— Stop the madness. I clear my throat.

“So, let’s proceed, then?” His lids have lowered, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

I nod, feeling a little dizzy with excitement, the idea growing. This…this can work.

“Want me to write it?” I ask, leaning over to watch him scribble. “Contracts are exciting to me.”

“I’m in charge,” he murmurs, his head bent over his paper. I hear a little bit of command in his tone, a wisp of authority—and it makes me hot.

What is wrong with me?

He looks up. “I want you to kiss me in public at least a couple times a week—just so everyone knows.”

“What?” I feel flushed. “That’s like eight times.”

His pen stops. “May I write that down?”

I inhale. “Yes.”

“I’ll also need you to attend parties with me. You didn’t seem thrilled about the Kappa house.”

“How about one party?”

He drops his pen. “I want all the parties.”

I hold my hands up. “No! Wait—okay, yes, but I have to study too. Just remember that.”

He gets this triumphant look on his face and scribbles away.

I clear my throat.

He glances back up at me. “Is there something you wanted to add?”

I tap on the paper. “There’s no falling in love.”

He pauses, his lips parting as he gives me a fascinated look. “Do you think that’s even a remote possibility? You, a pre-law student, falling for me, the douchebag hockey player?”

“I never called you a douchebag to your face, and yes, I’d like to have it down. It’s the number one rule.” My voice is firm. “And write down no more baby or babe or sweetheart. Never again. It makes me crazy.”

He chews on the pen. “Boy, you’re really racking up the rules, but I have to have a cute nickname for you.” He gives me a look. “I reserve the right to come up with a nickname later.” I hesitate, and he guffaws. “Seriously, you’re second-guessing this over a nickname? What are you afraid of?”

“Fine. And this girl-of-the-month thing stops at the end of four weeks—strict, no extensions.”

“Girls beg for extensions.”

I narrow my eyes. “Not this one, bud.”

“Y’all working out a sex agreement thing in there?” Eric calls out, his gaze on the TV. “My safe word is coconuts. Use it if you want.”

“No,” we both say at the same time, and then we look at each other and laugh.

A few minutes later, he wraps up his writing and pushes the notebook over to me. I’m reading it when I raise my finger as a brilliant idea hits. “I’ll take Miss Ryan as my nickname.”

He grins broadly. “You like that? It’s very lawyery sounding.”

“It’s better than babe.”

“Oh, Miss Ryan, I’m so going to enjoy this,” he says softly, drawing out my name, and my body sizzles.

“Or Sugar. Whatever. Nicknames aren’t important.”

“I love nicknames. If fact, I’m going to write down that you have to call me Z. We have to maintain a facade, especially when we’re supposed to be fucking our brains out.” His eyes drift over me. “Right?”

“You’re infuriating.” But there’s no heat in my voice. I like him. Shit, shit, shit.

He just smiles and pushes the paper over to me once again. I run my eyes over his quickly scrawled handwriting, noticing it matches the writing on the note he left at my door.

Our little contract doesn’t look official at all, but I sign it with a flourish, and he does as well. He asks for my number and I give it to him just as one of the doors in the back of the house opens, perhaps a bedroom, and another guy stalks into the kitchen shirtless and wearing a pair of unzipped jeans and nothing else. “Z, I found another pile of cat throw-up in my closet—”

His voice comes to an abrupt halt as our gazes meet, his a soft grey with dark brows slashing over them. Of course, he’s Z’s brother, but I see the differences between them. His features are missing that classical, hot Greek god thing Z has going on. He isn’t as tall or as broad as Z either, but he’s handsome in his own way, built with solid shoulders, a trim waist, and an obvious six-pack.

Their gene pool is amazing.

A cat comes out of nowhere, darts at the Z lookalike, hisses, and then dashes off to a back room.