Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(25)

A barking ball of white fur comes leaping off the recliner at us, his nose sniffing and tail wagging at about a hundred miles per hour.

“Snoopy!” I gasp. “Oh my God . . . is this Snoopy?”

I reach down and pet his sweet little head, his familiar floppy ears. He whines excitedly and fidgets and twists like he can’t get close enough.

There’s a smile in Garrett’s voice—joy.

“Damn straight he’s Snoopy. Still going strong.”

Snoopy pees on the floor a little—the highest compliment an excited dog can give.

“The last time I saw you, you were a puppy,” I coo. “And look at you now, you handsome silver fox.” I look up at Garrett, as Snoopy’s happy whining serenade reaches a crescendo. “I think he remembers me.”

“Of course he remembers you,” Garrett says roughly. “You named him.”

I remember that day, how it looked, smelled . . . what it felt like. Garrett, showing up at my house with a ball of fluff wrapped in his T-shirt. Taking him to the walk-in pet clinic, buying supplies at the pet store, bathing him together, and then, that night, cuddling him between us in the middle of Garrett’s bed like he was our baby.

I continue rubbing my hands all over his soft fur. My smile stretches so wide, it brings tears to my eyes and Snoopy licks them away.

“I’ve missed you, good boy.”

And for the first time I can remember, I realize with a deep stab of longing . . . that there are many things around here that I’ve missed.



~



“Do you want wine?” Garrett asks from the island in his kitchen where he’s seasoning two T-bone steaks. I’m trimming the asparagus that will be wrapped in foil with a little butter and parmesan cheese, then put on the grill.

“Sure.”

Garrett goes to the small wine rack beside the fridge, his movements smooth and graceful. “Red or white?”

“White, please.”

When he sets the half-filled wineglass next to me, I snort out a laugh—can’t help it.

“What?” Garrett asks.

“Nothing, it’s just . . . funny. It feels like yesterday you were bringing me beer in a plastic cup and the most romantic thing I thought you could do was cook me a bowl of ramen. And then, boom, here we are.” I hold my glass up to the light. “You have actual wineglasses and you’re all . . . Rico Suave. How did we get here?”

Garrett lifts one broad shoulder. “We grew up.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Although”—Garrett opens a cabinet door, the second shelf stacked with the familiar orange and white packages—“I still make a kick-ass bowl of ramen.”

I laugh.

“It’s all about adding the extra spices.”

He moves back to the counter, picking up the tray and giving me the dirtiest of smiles.

“But that’s nothing compared to my steaks. Once you taste my meat, baby, it’s the only thing you’ll want in your mouth.”



~



“So . . . why history? Teaching? How did that happen, exactly?”

We eat in the backyard, at a small table with a dim lantern between us and strings of bare-bulb lights hanging above the fence, framing the yard. The lake is stunning at night, still as glass, shining like a pool of moonlight.

“That’s an interesting story.”

Garrett bites a piece of steak off his fork, sliding it from between his lips. And I’m struck by the way he chews—it’s hot. I don’t think his chewing turned me on before, but now, the way his lips move and his jaw tightens, just rubs me in all the right ways.

Or, it’s possible I’m really weird.

How Garrett cuts his food is sexy too. The way his sculpted forearms contract with that muscular vein on display, just asking to be licked. And he has great hands—long, thick fingers—the way they wrap around his utensils makes me imagine how they would look wrapped around his cock. How he would grip himself, if we were making love, and move between my legs, hungry to push inside me. I would lift my hips to meet him—both of us all frenzied, urgent, sweaty need.

“Are you hot?” Garrett asks.

Because I’m flushed and fanning myself.

I take a long sip of wine. “No, I’m fine. So . . . teaching?”

He nods, wiping his mouth with his napkin. That’s hot too.

Holy shit, I’m in trouble.

“I went into college undecided, you know that. I figured I’d be majoring in football,” he jokes. “And then it was . . . spring of my sophomore year, just after my second knee surgery . . .”

Garrett was named Player of Year and received the National Quarterback Award his first year at Rutgers. But then, early in his second season, he took a hit that shattered his knee and ended his career. I watched the replay on television only once, and then I threw up in the bathroom.

“. . . I was taking US history. The first day of class, the professor—Malcom Forrester—walked in all serious and dignified, wearing a suit. He nodded to a few of us but didn’t say a word, not until he stepped up to the podium to give his lecture. And when he did, it wasn’t just a lecture, it was a speech—and it was mesmerizing. Like Abraham Lincoln was right there, talking to us. He made it so vivid, Cal, the battles, the politics, he made it so . . . interesting.”