Out of Love(5)

“Way ahead of you.” Kara lifted her tee, revealing her bikini. “Think Aiden will be there tonight?”

I smirked. “God … I hope so. My favorite OG. He’s fucking brilliant.”

“And old, as are all original gangsters.” Kara hopped down from the counter. “It’s creepy the way you flirt with him.”

“Dude, I don’t flirt with him. He’s older than my dad. It’s called admiration and respect.” I left her with a disapproving scowl then changed into my bikini, grabbed my wet suit, and waited by the door for the rest of the crew.

We surfed until the night extinguished our glorious sunshine. My annoyingly responsible friend fished me from the water to get home for classes the next day. As much as we wanted to slap on a few glow sticks and hang with the twilight crowd, Missy convinced Kara and me to pack it up.

“It’s like you’re totally trippin’, watching them out there.” I gazed at the water and my diehard friends glowing as they rode the night serpent.

“Like UFOs.” Kara laughed.

With our surfboards secured to the top of Missy’s SUV, we cruised home with the windows down and Maren Morris’s “To Hell & Back” blaring from the speakers. I wasn’t a country music girl until I met Kara. Our freshman year, she converted me in a matter of months. Missy took a little longer to convince, but we all eventually got there. Except Aubrey … she didn’t surf—and she despised country music.





Chapter Three





I arrived at class the next morning with two minutes to spare and my mint green tea with a generous amount of honey from my favorite tea and crepe cafe. No time for crepes, but I had a tiny food orgasm while I waited in line at the pickup counter. Oh the torture … as plates of decadent French goodness strode past me on trays for customers who didn’t have an eight o’clock class with a professor who had no issues shaming late arrivals.

Blackberries.

Whipped cream.

Chocolate drizzle.

It wasn’t fair.

Instead, I grabbed a prepackaged energy ball at the checkout counter. Almond butter, spirulina, coconut, and dates didn’t have the same effect as ooey-gooey crepes.

Slade Wylder and his mystery service dog snagged my attention from their spot in the middle section about halfway down the stairs of the theater-style lecture hall. Two seats behind him were available. Any woman with a sense of self-preservation would’ve picked the farthest possible seat from him. Too bad I wasn’t just any woman.

I claimed a seat behind him and one to the left so maybe he’d see me out of the corner of his eye. When he didn’t offer a single glance, I sipped my tea and cleared my throat.

Nothing.

He’s deaf, stupid.

After my invisible face-palm, I crossed my legs and not-so-accidentally kicked the back of his chair. He slowly glanced back at me. I shifted my tea to my left hand and made a fist at my chest with my right hand, circling it clockwise—sign language for “sorry.”

His deep-seated frown didn’t budge. It only intensified, indenting the space between his thick, serious eyebrows.

Pinching my drink between my knees, I used both hands to sign, “I said sorry. No need to break my leg off.” Unavoidable pride bent my mouth into a grin while I waited for him to acknowledge my ability to communicate with him. Tiffany, my best friend from kindergarten until eighth grade, was deaf. She taught me sign language. Well, she taught me some sign language. My dad taught me the most. He also taught me to speak some German and Russian. Before he decided to be a computer engineer, he had considered working with the government as an interpreter.

Slade answered my performance with one slow blink. How could he be so unimpressed? Seriously … how many students did he encounter who could sign?

I didn’t give up. My hands quickly worked my next thoughts. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Livy Knight.” I punctuated my signed words with a smile. My Aunt Jessica said after my mom died, I punctuated everything with a smile. She knew I was trying to show everyone that I was okay. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.

But god … I did. I felt so damn sorry for myself. And my father. He never recovered. I always sensed his love beneath the thick armor of overprotectiveness, but it was like a light went out when she died. Dark and heartbreaking. Every smile held a jolt of his pain. I couldn’t do anything but smile bigger, trying to lift him out of his dark hole. You can’t hold on to her. She’s gone.

Slade blinked a second time. Unimpressed.

“Good morning,” the professor silenced the room.

My gaze shifted to her for one second, and by the time I returned it to Slade, he’d faced forward again. He managed to go the entire lecture without so much as a stolen glance over his shoulder at me. I couldn’t say the same. My stolen glances were to the front of the room. By the end of class, I could have sketched every detail of Slade Wylder’s side profile. Every prickly whisker shadowing his face. The permanent downward turn of his mouth. The soft sweep of his eyelashes on his high cheekbones when he rested his eyes or maybe took a few seconds nap—I couldn’t tell. The rest of his body remained statuesque. No note taking. No body shifting like the rest of the uninterested prisoners of the professor.

Nothing.

He just … didn’t move until five minutes before the end of class. Then in one fluid motion, which startled me out of my heavy inspection, he and Jericho made a stealthy exit from the lecture hall.