Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(22)

I like that he just called me Chels. No one does. I have no cutesy nicknames and I always wished I had.

“Don’t tell me this is the tutor.” The guy trips into the room, stumbling over his own feet until he’s standing just in front of me. “You are, aren’t you? The tutor? I remember you.” He’s pointing at my chest, his tone a mixture of accusations and laughter.

“Um …” I don’t know if I should be honest or not. I’m not a liar like my dad, so I prefer to stick to the truth. And I remember him, too. He was at the diner with Owen along with Des. “Yes, I am.”

“Well shit, Owen. You got her into your room this quick? Sly motherf*cker.” The guy grins. “I’m Wade. Owen’s oldest, dearest friend.”

“You’re going to be my deadest friend if you don’t shut your mouth and get out of my room,” Owen says, his voice low and rumbly and sexy as can be. What sort of sick perv does that make me, that I like it when he sounds all angry and growly?

I should be mad. He talked about me to his friends—most likely in a lewd and inappropriate way. More than anything, I should be offended. This means he doesn’t take me seriously.

Instead, I’m thrilled. That he actually talked about me beyond the “I have a tutor and I don’t want to see her” realm fills me with hope.

As though maybe I do have a chance with him.

Grinning, Wade stumbles back out much the way he came, sloppy and a little drunk. The minute he’s gone, I turn to Owen.

“How does he know about me?”

“Uh …” He looks vaguely uncomfortable, so I push for more.

“Did you talk about me to him?”

“He’s my roommate. So yeah, I talked to him about having a tutor.” He shrugs, going for nonchalance, but I don’t believe him.

There’s more to this story than what he’s saying.

“So why would he say that you worked quick and that you’re sly? What’s that all about?” I feel like a dog with a bone, but I have to find out what he might have said.

“You don’t want to know,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze averted.

He has it all wrong. “I definitely want to know.”

Anticipation thrums through me as I wait for what feels like forever. He remains quiet. Runs those long fingers through his hair again, rests his other hand on his hip. He looks frustrated. It’s a good look on him.

Everything is a good look on him.

“You’re going to be offended,” he finally says.

“I’ve been offended since the moment I saw your house and your friend started cursing at you,” I say, because it’s true. Their … colorful language is horrible.

You’re such a prude.

Fine. What can I say? People don’t curse around me. They never really have. Kari drops the occasional bomb, but nothing major. The minute I find myself in Owen’s stratosphere, all I hear is foul language.

He smiles at my remark. “I think I like that you find me and my friends offensive. Maybe I can corrupt you.”

My entire body goes liquid at the promise in his voice. I wish he would corrupt me. Toss me on those red, red sheets and pull my clothes off until I lie there naked, pale against the dark, scared and trembling and excited when his hands finally, finally skate across my body …

“You’re avoiding the question,” I say, my voice shaky, and I lick my lips. When I glance up, I find him staring at my mouth.

My lips tingle as if he actually physically touched them.

“They think I’m going to try and …” He huffs out a breath, thrusts his hand in his hair, and tugs. Hard. “Let’s get out of here, Chels. You need to go home.”

I let him drop the subject. Let him steer me out of his room, down the hall, through the crowd in his house and outside to his car. All the while his hand is at the small of my back, his fingers branding me through the lace and the tank top I’m wearing. He doesn’t say much, though everyone calls out to him. Yelling his name, begging him to stay, offering him a drink, a smoke, a cup, a bottle, a bong.

This is not my scene. Owen is not my scene.

It doesn’t matter. Despite it all, I still want him.

And I find that incredibly frustrating.

Owen

The second we get into my car, I breathe a sigh of relief. Fuck, that had been an utter pain in the ass. All the people in my house, all the questions from Des and Wade, and then the finishing touch with the interrogation from Chelsea.

Shit. I barely survived it all.

It’s past one in the morning and I’m f**king exhausted. I have class later in the morning and for the first time in a while, I plan on going. Only to please the girl sitting next to me and to help get my grades up—but if I don’t get some sleep and soon, I’m gonna skip.

And that’s gonna suck.

She gives me directions to her apartment in this subdued voice that makes me nervous. Why, I’m not sure, but she’s scarily quiet, keeping her head bent, her fingers busy as they scrape across the tops of her thighs. Back and forth, back and forth in this rhythm I can f**king hear since she’s dragging her nails along the denim.

I check out her legs when I hit the brakes at a stoplight. She has slender thighs. Thighs I wouldn’t mind grasping hold of and spreading. Just for me. Just for her. I bet no guy has ever stepped between her thighs before. Placed his hands on them and pushed her wide open. I have a feeling I’d be her first.