Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(29)

“First off, I’m not random—you just spent the night at my house. Secondly, you see the rationale behind that argument sucks balls, right? Taking advice about guys from a girl? Makes no fucking sense. I’m a guy—take advice straight from the source. I’m giving you a gift here.”

“But you’re not into girls.”

Kip laughs. “Not right now, but someday I’m sure I will be…maybe.”

“You need therapy.”

“Actually, I’ve had tons of it. When I dropped out of Notre Dame to come to Iowa, my mother had a coronary and thought I’d gone off the deep end. Boom, therapy.”

Boom, therapy?

He says the line so casually—“When I dropped out of Notre Dame”—like he was asking me to pass the salt.

“You got into Notre Dame?”

He scrunches up his face the way I do when I eat something sour. “Do you have to say it like that?”

He’s avoiding my gaze now, the fingers of his left hand pushing and pulling on the handle of the white, ceramic coffee cup, tapping on it a few times with his fingernail.

“Yeah I have to say it like that.” I’ll admit, my tone does sound kind of duh, which is rude—but still. Notre Dame? You don’t drop a bomb like that, leave it to detonate, and walk away without explaining yourself.

His grades in high school must have been insane. I couldn’t have dared to dream of going to a school as illustrious as that, even if I’d gotten a full-ride scholarship with housing. No way.

And he dropped out.

Then I start to wonder…

“Were you there on scholarship?”

His eyes stay trained on the table. “No.”

Well shit.

Non-scholarship kids aren’t in my wheelhouse. I can’t relate, nor do I have any friends who aren’t receiving some kind of aid. So, having Kip sitting across from me with all that money has all the pieces falling into place.

The house.

The car.

The ivy-covered education.

His parents must be loaded.

I try not to let thoughts of all that money change my facial expression—try to keep the thunderstorm of questions at bay—but damn, it’s difficult. A true test of my self-control because, despite myself, I am a nosy little bugger. My mom always said so.

Swallowing a bite of bread, I ask, “Are you glad you transferred?”

“Exceedingly.”

“Okay Mr. Ivy League, calm down—no need to throw out the fancy words,” I tease.

“Oh, I see how it’s gonna be now.”

“I mean, if I can’t tease you, what fun would that be?”

“Fun for you, not for me. And keep that shit quiet, okay?”

“I will. You can trust me.” If there’s one thing I understand, it’s not wanting the state of my finances—or lack thereof—spread around.

He’s silent for a few heartbeats, staring intently into my eyes, heavy eyebrows still in a straight, serious line—same as his mouth.

“Okay. I’ll trust you.”

My lips creep into a leisurely curve. “Good.”

“You can trust me too, you know.”

“Sure.” More bread gets pushed between my lips and I chew then swallow it down with a gulp of juice.

“I don’t have any friends so I don’t repeat shit.”

“You have friends. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I have teammates—there is a huge difference. I don’t tell those guys shit.”

I consider this. “I used to tell Mariah everything, but…she’s…”

“A loudmouth?”

“Yes.”

“Would never have guessed that about her.” Sarcastic ass.

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” Kip clamps his lips together, the hair around his upper and lower lips concealing his mouth.

“You are so hairy.”

“Thanks!”

I laugh. “I bet when you shave all that off you’ll look twelve. Right now you look forty-five.”

“I’m never shaving this off, so…”

“Does your dad have a beard?”

“God no!” Kip laughs. “Oh my god, no—I can’t even imagine my dad with facial hair. He’s so buttoned up and stuffy he wears cuff links to brunch on Sundays. Plus, my mother—there’s no way she’d let him.”

Brunch on Sundays? Well la-di-da!

“Does the beard drive them nuts?”

“Yup, and that’s the beauty of it.”

“Ahh, now it’s all making sense.”

“What is?”

“You rebel. You’re purposely doing all that to piss off your parents, aren’t you?”

“No I’m not.”

“Do you know how I can tell you’re lying? You can’t even look at me when you deny it.”

“Whatever, Teddy. Can we stick to the subject at hand here?”

“You really must be bored. Fine, let’s say I entertain the idea of letting you help me—you can’t boss me around. That would drive me nuts.”

“I won’t.”

I was right; he can’t look me in the eye right now. “You’re such a damn liar!”