The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football, #1)(53)

I huff out a laugh. “Touché.”

“You didn’t think I’d remember you being at my apartment, but I do. I can’t believe I thought you were a mirage projected by my brain.” A blush steals up her face. “I really can’t believe I danced—”

“You went low, low, low…” I grin. Oh, I recall it very well. Her heart-shaped, perfect ass, the bare skin of her waist, the press of her full breasts against her shirt, the way her hair fell around her face, the teasing glint in her eyes when she begged me to dance— Pause that thought. Shit. Right. No flirting. Was I flirting? Nah, I was being nice. Just nice. That’s it. I swear.

We all stare at each other in silence. No one seems to know what to say.

“This isn’t weird at all,” Hollis murmurs under his breath with a smirk as he passes me to head into the kitchen to grab a drink.

She fidgets as she toys with the strap on her backpack. “Um, what now? I brought my notes and the book. Where do you want to do this?”

“Hollis and Crew usually watch Sunday night football, so I thought we’d go to my room. It’s down the hall on the left.”

She says bye to the guys and follows me to my room.

I shut the bedroom door behind me. “Um, I only have one chair, so if you want to sit on the bed, I’ll take the desk.”

She nods, slips off her Chucks, and sits cross-legged on my navy comforter. Her eyes sweep my room, snagging on a framed picture of me, Mom, Rae, and Callie. Snow-capped hills are behind us as we pose outside our house last Christmas. My throat tightens. Mom probably had cancer in that picture, but we wouldn’t know it for months.

Beautiful, tall, and statuesque, she met my dad his first year in the NFL. Her story is, I took one look at that fine piece of ass and said, I’m going to make him mine. Since he died, she’s never dated. Real love, true and beautiful, comes only one time, River. And someday, we’ll be together. The universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny me another chance to see him. Heaven or hell, I don’t care.

Anastasia fluffs up a pillow and props her laptop on it, then opens it. Her eyes drift over the queen-sized bed and she waves her arms around. “So, this is where the magic happens.”

“Magic?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No girls come back here.”

“Oh. You just get your freak on at the Kappa house, huh?”

I drop my gaze from her face and take the seat at my desk. Not touching that. “We can use the library next go-round. Sorry my room is a wreck. Don’t open the closet or look under the bed. Health hazard. It’s mostly clothes and shoes. I have a slight addiction to showers and things pile up like crazy. I’m up to three a day…” I stop, realizing I’m rambling.

She dips her head and smiles. “So, how much do you have written? I can take a look—”

I stiffen as I open my laptop. “I’ve got some notes down, but no paper.” I pause. “I used speech-to-text dictation, and it’s accurate about seventy percent of the time, so it’s kind of messy.” Understatement!

“Interesting. Never used that. Our paper is due Friday. It’s going to be tight, River.”

Tell me about it. “I’ve been procrastinating. I’m not a book lover,” I say stiffly.

“Why did you take this class?”

I ignore that.

“Here. What do you think?” I hand over the notes, and she takes the paper, her forehead furrowing. Based on previous experiences, it’s a jumbled mess. Usually I spend hours going over papers I have to write, which aren’t many. Hello, easy classes.

She’s quiet for way too long, and dread grows, beating at me. My head races with a hundred thoughts at once: how many words are misspelled, is the punctuation screwy, how wonky is the layout, does any of it make sense?

What’s she thinking?

Why doesn’t she say something?

“I listened to the book,” I say warily. “Twice. Audio is better for me. Otherwise, it’s hard to focus and…” the vocabulary in those books is ridiculous.

Her eyes come up. “This is a start.” She taps her chin. “Let’s talk about the theme and narrow down the points you want to make.”

“Restorative sex. I totally stole that from you.”

“Well, it’s the most common theme, so we’re good. Whitman is a jerk, so ignore him. He knows we’ll all focus on the sex.” She huffs out a laugh. “What did you think about the intercourse in the book, you know, how it develops the characters?”

My chest rises. This I can do. I can talk.

“It was wordy, flowery. Sure, they fuck a lot. Outside, inside, everywhere, but it’s not a happy story. I prefer suspense like American Psycho, but that book spent chapters describing every character’s clothing and accessories. It was insane. Lolita? Creeped me out and was downright bizarre, even though he tried to write it beautifully, I guess? The main character abused a teenage girl and called it love.”

She pales, and I realize what I’ve said and lean forward. “Wait. Don’t let your head go there, please, Anastasia, I’m sorry I even brought that book up to you—”

“No, it’s fine. I want to address it.” She bites her lip. “The connotation of the term Lolita means a sexually precocious young girl who seduces, and I know Donovan said that about me, but I didn’t seduce Bryson.”