Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(7)

Bigger than the others, his presence parting the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea as we wade through, students evaporating so he can get by.

Who the hell is this guy?

I follow, gaze trained on his broad back. His muscles are unmistakably defined beneath his t-shirt, straining with every step he takes, every fluid movement, the cords of his neck visibly tense.

He has rich brown hair, lightened by the sun at the top, the back recently trimmed, lines precise. Short on the sides, slightly longer at the top, it’s a mop top I could easily imagine a girl running her fingers through.

He glances back at me again when he reaches the front door, yanks the handle, pushes the screen open to the porch.

I come up short. “You said this would only take a few seconds—why are we going outside?”

“It’s loud in here.” He yells to illustrate his point, pointing to his mouth like I can read lips.

I hesitate.

Poise my foot on the threshold, toe of my boot on the step before striding all the way out, cool air hitting me like a welcome force.

I breathe it in then out with a sigh of relief. God it feels so good.

“So…we’re outside.” I take the jacket out of my tote and slide both arms into it, zipping the front with a satisfying whirr. “And doesn’t this feel amazing? I was dying in there.”

He studies me under the porch lights, silently crossing his arms, a beer clutched in one huge hand.

No jacket, short sleeves, and a scowl.

I raise one brow, waiting.

He continues staring me down, wordlessly.

This guy is tall—good and tall—legs spread slightly, bulky arms crossed defensively. What I imagine a powerful baseball player stance to be, except without the uniform or glove.

I can’t take it anymore.

“What’s up? Did you see me across the room and decided I was irresistible? You just had to talk to me?” Haha. “Don’t tell me—you can’t resist a fuzzy brown sweater?” I try for brave and nonchalant, but my nerves betray me and my voice quivers.

His nose dips down, those brawny arms uncrossing, the cords in his forearms stretching. Claps his hands together like two giant cymbals, the noise echoing in the quiet yard.

“So, I’m just going to throw it down, all right? It’s nothing personal.”

Nothing good comes from sentences that begin with, ‘It’s nothing personal’, which is just a generic form of ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

“It’s like this,” he continues. “The guys decided that for the rest of the night, you’re not allowed back in the house.”

“I’m sorry, what?” My voice raises a few octaves above my normal tone. “Why?”

His voice also goes up a few decibels. “The guys decided that for the rest of the night, you’re not allowed—”

I put my hand up so he’ll shut his gorgeous face. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Isn’t it obvious?”

Uh, no. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have been dumb enough to follow you out here, would I?”

“I’m not fucking around, sorry. You can’t go back—you’re being booted for the night.”

“Booted.” I snort. “By who?”

“By the guys. By me.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m their fearless leader—and the unlucky bastard that drew the short straw.”

My nose crinkles like I’ve just swallowed a Sour Patch Kid. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re running interference and it’s driving my friends fucking nuts. They want you gone. Hope you have all your personal shit.” He smiles, eyes catching the tote bag hanging off my shoulder. “Never mind, I see you brought a giant fucking suitcase along with you.”

“Are you for real right now?” Crap, now I sound like that asshole Derek.

“Yeah, I’m—like—for real.” He imitates an airhead, fake twirling an invisible lock of long hair, lobbing his head from side to side rudely.

“I’m not stupid, you don’t have to be a jerk, but what gives them the right to—”

“Cock Blocker.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s what they called you: cock blocker. You should have just left well enough alone—all you did by running interference was piss off Ben and Derek.”

“Running interference? I was making small talk, not that those meatheads would know the difference.”

Without warning, he plucks the red plastic cup from my fingers, sniffing the contents with that great, Greek nose of his.

“What’s in here, vodka?” He inhales inside the cup again, taking a good long whiff—the way I sniffed him earlier—sticking his nose all the way in. “What the hell is this, boring juice?”

My lip twitches because the way his nose twitches is kind of cute, and I try not to smile. “No, it’s water.”

“Huh. Just water?” He looks mildly entertained, thick eyebrows raised into his hairline. “Well now it’s kind of starting to make sense.”

My chin goes up a notch. “Your friends are ridiculous, you know that, right? It’s not my fault they can’t take a joke.”