Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(15)

“The landlord takes great care of the place,” I joke, because I’m the landlord—but she doesn’t need to know that.

She scoffs. “Who the heck are you renting from? No one who owns anything around campus, that’s for sure. None of those guys give a shit—those houses are complete dumps.”

She’s correct; most of the houses are total shitholes, which is why I don’t rent. I own this place—well, my parents do, but that’s always been their thing: buying whatever house my sister and I happen to be living in at the time so we don’t have to deal with rent and landlords.

“Who do you rent from? It can’t be DuRand—his places might be nice, but they’re not this nice, and not in this neighborhood. What’d you do, rob a bank?”

“Yeah, it’s not DuRand.”

I feel her staring at my back—my bare back because I still haven’t put a clean shirt on—the wheels in her brain turning.

“You don’t own this place, do you?” She pauses, eyes getting a bit narrower. “It’s not a crime if you do, stranger person, I’m just curious. I’m not judging you for having a nice place to live in.”

Stranger person? Is she talking about me?

I finally turn to look at her. “Stranger person?”

She plucks a grape out of the bowl sitting on my sleek center island. “I have no idea what your name is.”

“It’s Sasquatch.”

“Stop it.” She snorts. “I’m not calling you that—it’s the dumbest name ever. What’s your real name?”

God, I hate when people ask that.

She rolls those pretty eyes at me. “Just tell me. Stop being a baby about it.”

“Kip.” I push the word out grudgingly, squeezing it through the thin line of my lips.

“What!”

“Yup.”

“Kip?”

“Yes,” I grind out, nostrils flaring.

“Stop it,” she repeats, wide eyed. “You’re making that up. That is not your name.”

“If I was going to give you a fake name, trust me, that wouldn’t be it.”

“Wow. Kip. Not at all what I pictured. I’ve been calling you Paul Bunyan in my head, sometimes Roy—you know, super redneck names.”

What the fuck? “I do not look like a redneck.”

“Yes you do.” She tinkles out a laugh.

“No I don’t.” Do I? “Paul Bunyan has black hair, and his hair and beard are short.”

“How would you know?”

“Haven’t you ever been to Paul Bunyan’s? The restaurant? There’s a giant picture of him on the sign out front. It’s like two stories high.” Duh.

One of her brown eyebrows rises. “Can’t say that I have.”

“He has short hair.” Why the hell am I repeating myself? Defending myself?

Christ.

She’s eyeing me up and down—she’s done it a few times tonight, always covertly, thinking I don’t notice.

I do.

“No man bun.”

I jerk my head and tug at my hair. “Nope.”

“Well then. Kip.” Her pert little mouth pulls into a smirk. “How very preppy of you.”

“Shut up.”

“Come on, it’s super Vacationing on Nantucket—admit it.” She’s thinking again. “What is it short for?”

“Are you ready for it? Because your next laugh is on me.” I sigh, long and loud. Rip off the proverbial bandage and wince. “It’s short for Kipling.”

She’s holding back a smile, biting down on her bottom lip—so fucking cute—crossing her arms over her beer-soaked dress when my eyes roam down the front. Over her high, round breasts and slim waist.

“Kipling. That’s a pretty fancy name, you know.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t sure that you did, Kipling.”

“Stop.”

“It’s also the name of a poet, Kipling,” she informs me, as if I didn’t already fucking know. “Rudyard Kipling—yikes, that’s a mouthful.”

“Can you not keep using it in sentences?”

Her brows go up, animated. “But it’s so, so good.”

“It’s really not though.”

“If you were wearing a polo shirt and khakis right now, it would make so much more sense to me, and maybe I’d lay off, but you’re not—you were in construction boots tonight, and you’re wearing a torn up T-shirt.” Her eyes roam across my chest. “And brown cargo shorts.”

When she averts her gaze, I’m surprisingly disappointed.

“I’m comfortable.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” She snickers, looking me up and down, pops another grape into her mouth and chews. Swallows. “You don’t mind that I’m stealing these, do you?”

I gesture widely. “By all means…” In goes another one, and I lean a hip against the counter, studying her. “Since we’re sharing, what’s your name?”

“Teddy.”

“Like—the bear?” I can’t help goading.

Teddy lets out a soft, lilting laugh. “Yeah, I guess. It’s short for Theodora, my grandmother’s name.”