Boyfriend Bargain (Hawthorne University #1)(5)

Looking around the room, I see my new roommate Julia at the bar. She waves me over, and I respond with a nod.

Julia isn’t my favorite person in the world, but she did agree to meet me here so I wouldn’t be the Lone Ranger, and I’m doing my best to get to know her.

We met a few weeks ago when I moved into the dorm after Christmas. I originally thought I would be living off campus with Bennett at his apartment, so I didn’t arrange a dorm room, which left me stuck in Ellington Hall, an ancient, creaky place with hissing radiators and dark stairwells.

I make my way over to her and plop down on one of the stools.

There’s a hard glint in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes as she turns and studies me, the movement accentuating her strapless black pleather dress. Delicate heels are on her feet. Obviously, my frat party attire sucks. “Where were you?” she asks.

I can’t tell her I’ve been hunkering down behind a support beam. Plus, the independent streak in me is annoyed. “Why?”

She shoots me side-eye from underneath her smoky eyeshadow. “You disappeared and never came back. I made an entire loop around the place looking for you.”

“I can handle myself fine, Julia. I work at Boobie Bungalow, the finest gentlemen’s club in Sparrow Lake, Minnesota,” I add with a smirk, quoting the slogan on the faded billboard next to the interstate.

Her eyes flare big as saucers. “You strip? Holy cow. You look so…nice, but I guess you’ve got the boobs for it.”

“Uh, thanks, but I don’t strip. I just run errands and tend bar sometimes.”

She nods. “Is that how you’re planning on paying for law school?”

I take another sip of punch. “I’m counting on student loans for law school.” I can’t ask Mara to foot that bill—being a strip club owner doesn’t make you rich, and she isn’t even technically family. She is the only good friend my mama ever had, and if she hadn’t taken me in, child protective services would have.

“I see,” she says, looking bored. She comes to these parties for random hookups, and I know that because she told me so right before we met out in the parking lot and walked in together. I’m here for hot sex. Those were her exact words.

Okay. Good to know, good to know. You have to appreciate her honesty. I mentally filed it away.

A cute girl with pink and white hair cut in a pixie style is in front of me, indicating my Solo cup. “Want more punch?”

I grimace and give Pixie Girl a hopeful look. “Got any top-shelf tequila back there?”

She smirks. “I suppose you’d want fruit with that? This isn’t the Ritz.”

“Vodka? Bourbon? Prosecco?” My gaze is hopeful, but she shakes her head with each question.

“Look, it’s spiked punch or draft beer. You pick.” Her annoyed gaze is calling me a special snowflake, and I sigh. I’m just not quite sure what’s in that punch, and I’m a cautious person.

“I’m good,” I say.

She shrugs and moves on to someone else.

I turn back to face the party, and Julia’s gaze bounces over the crowd of people, stopping on the hockey players.

Praise Jesus. This might be a way in. “Please tell me you know them,” I say.

Her lips tighten as her red nails tap against the wooden bar. “I do, and it’s best to avoid them. If you’re here for an athlete, I suggest the volleyball or tennis players—both have great fingers.” She smirks, giving me a look. “Avoid the wrestlers though. Word is they all have the clap.”

I blink. Indeed, she is knowledgeable. She also thinks I’m here for a one-night stand. Whatever. Let her think what she wants.

“I sense backstory. What happened with the hockey guys? Did you hook up with one?”

I cross my fingers. Please don’t say Zack. It will be super weird if my new, bad-girl roomie has slept with my future fake boyfriend—that is, if I can get the nerve up to ask him.

“No. They’re just all assholes.” She fidgets and tilts her head toward the dance floor, clearly changing the topic. “See anyone you know?”

My shoulders slump against the bar. “I see faces I recognize, but this isn’t really my crowd.”

A group of broad-shouldered men in football jerseys saunter past us, headed toward the dartboard in the back of the room, and one of them gives her an eye waggle.

“Now that’s a tall drink of water.” Straightening up, she tucks a strand of sleek brown hair behind her ear. “And I’ve always wanted to score a tight end or a wide receiver.”

I snort. “You just like saying the names of those positions.”

“Maybe.” She downs her punch. “I should follow them.”

My mouth opens. “How do you even start a conversation with a guy you don’t know?” Please. I need to know.

She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Girl, you’re just out of practice because you were in a relationship for two years. You just bat those eyes and start talking about whatever he likes—and in this case, it’s how spectacularly he handled that ball.”

I snort, watching her check out the football players at the dartboard. Again. “Go on. I’ll be fine. I know how to kick a guy in the nuts if I have to.”

Considering she was worried about where I was before, it doesn’t take much convincing this time. I watch as she fluffs out her hair and sways away from me, her willowy figure drawing its fair share of looks. She makes her way over to the group of players, steering herself right into the center of the action where the guys are.