Boyfriend Material (Hawthorne University, #2)(14)

“No,” I say. “The man refuses to listen. I’ll deal with it.”

“Rough night at the club?”

“Nah, it was fine.” I ease past her and paste on a smile, hoping she doesn’t notice the scrapes on my knees. Sure, I could have asked Poppy for the money this month, and I did a few months back. She gave me what she could spare, but her family keeps most of her funds in a trust.

I don’t want to be that friend, the one who begs for money. I hate putting them in that position. I want to do this on my own without involving people I care about. I need to. It’s my problem, and yes, it’s humiliating to admit the situation that is my mother.

I open the beveled-glass doors that lead to the foyer. It used to be a greeting room for visitors to the house to leave their calling cards. The only furniture in the room is a lime green buffet table that Taylor redid with chalk paint. On top is a pretty blue vase with boho-style beige plumes inside.

Eric’s large frame and rugged handsomeness takes the air from my lungs. His hair is pulled back in a man-bun, my fav look on him.

No. I do not have a favorite look for him, but it does show off his ridiculous cheekbones and aristocratic, slightly bent nose.

He’s wearing jeans, gold Converse, and a HU shirt. The lion on the front seems to glare at me—much like he is now.

I lean against the doorjamb. Be cool, be cool. “Howdy, partner.”

He doesn’t smile. “That guy at the laundromat is scary. Stay away from him. I mean it.”

I huff. The nerve of him to tell me what to do.

“That’s what I told you. I repeat, you could have been hurt. Let me handle Connor.”

His arms cross. “How did you get involved with him? Are you on drugs?”

I tuck my hands in my pockets and dip my head so he can’t see how much his words hurt. I know I strip, no one has to remind me, but in prep school, I was the goody-two shoes who never wavered. I had to keep my grades up to keep my scholarship—not that I was ever invited to parties. I wrote poetry. I drew. I daydreamed about him. “Do I look like an addict?”

His golden eyes roam over me. Assessing. “Maybe.”

My throat tingles with words I want to say but know I shouldn’t.

The less he knows, the better.

His nose flares. “I’m trying to help you and you’re giving me the cold shoulder. What’s wrong with you?”

I swallow thickly as I gaze at him. “Eric. Please. Being around me will only smear your good name—”

“Stop,” he calls out, then rubs his face, his anger seeming to deflate like a popped tire. “Don’t put yourself down like that. You’re a person, Julia. One that people care about.”

And I want to protect those people.

I chew on my bottom lip. “You shouldn’t have interfered.”

He lets out a long sigh, gives me a searching look, goes to leave, then stops. He reaches into his pocket and holds something up. “This is yours, I assume.”

I stare at the ring, my lips parting. “How did you . . .?”

But he’s already out the door.

I turn to find Poppy and Taylor with their faces pressed against the glass, clearly eavesdropping. Taylor has his robe on, a flowy orange and pink kimono silk with cherry blossoms on it. He’s tall with silky dark hair, brown skin, and a lilting British accent. Lash extensions adorn his warm eyes.

“What was that about?” he asks as I come back into the den. “You’ve been keeping secrets?”

I grunt.

“I didn’t realize you guys were hanging out.” He follows me in the kitchen.

“We’re not.”

I think back to freshman year at HU, the first time I’d seen him since prep school.

It was about a month in and I got the nerve up to attend a frat party. Just as promised, the brothers at Kappa were hot. I dressed up, wore tons of makeup, and made my way to Frat Row.

I thought it would be hard to mingle. It wasn’t after a few drinks. I was approached on all sides, guys asking me questions in rapid succession. And who do we have here? What are you studying? Where are you from? Are you in a sorority?

Then I saw Eric and all my happiness crashed.

I knew he was playing hockey at Hawthorne, but I wasn’t prepared to run into him.

That night, the first thing I noticed was that he was under a light bulb, and he was so tall that it cast a supernatural aura over the hard lines of his face. The only thing on him that didn’t scream man was his lips, full and lush with an indentation line that went down the center of the lower one. Back then, he only had a field of stubble, a shade darker than the hair on his head.

My breath hitched, those old insecurities rising up as he brought harsh reality back into focus.

I’ll never be able to escape the girl from prep school who wanted the unattainable hockey star.

Then, I realized there was something different about him.

The Golden Boy looked . . . troubled. Was that even possible?

I nudged off the other guys, craning my neck to see him as he stared at a blank wall.

He looked almost sad.

And with liquid courage coursing through my veins, I decided I’d let bygones be bygones. This was the new me; it might be the new him. We could start fresh.

I stalked up to him, formulating some line in my head, but another Kappa guy stepped between us and asked if I wanted a beer but I shook my head, craning to look over his shoulder.