The Deal (Off-Campus, #1)(14)

“Uh. Hey,” I answer.

When he notices my quizzical expression, his smile widens. “I’m Jimmy. We have British Lit together?”

“Oh. Right.” I honestly don’t remember seeing him before, but there are about two hundred students in that class, so all the faces blur into each other after a while.

“You’re Hannah, right?”

I nod, shifting in discomfort, because his gaze has already lowered to my chest a dozen times in the five seconds we’ve been talking.

Jimmy pauses as if he’s trying to think of something else to say. I can’t think of anything either because I suck at small talk. If he was someone I was interested in, I’d ask him about his classes, or if he has a job, or what kind of music he’s into, but the only guy I care about at the moment is Justin—and he still hasn’t shown up.

The fact that I’m searching the crowd for him makes me feel like a total loser. Truth be told, Allie’s not the only one wondering what my deal is. I’m wondering too, because seriously, why am I so obsessed with this guy? He doesn’t know I exist. And he’s a jock, to boot. I may as well be interested in Garratt Graham, for f*ck’s sake. At least he offered to go out with me.

And what do you know—the second I think about Garrett, the devil himself enters the room.

I didn’t expect to see him tonight, and I immediately duck my head so he doesn’t spot me. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll chameleon into the wall behind me and he won’t know I’m here.

Luckily, Garrett is oblivious to my presence. He stops to talk to a couple of guys, then saunters toward the bar on the other side of the room, where he’s immediately swarmed by half a dozen girls who bat their eyelashes and thrust their boobs out to get his attention.

Beside me, Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Jeez. The big man on campus routine gets old, huh?”

I realize he’s looking at Garrett too, and the disgust on his face is unmistakable. “You’re not a fan of Graham’s?” I say dryly.

“You want the truth or the house line?”

“House line?”

“He’s a member of this frat,” Jimmy explains. “So technically that makes us brothers.” He air-quotes the word. “And a Sigma man loves all his brothers.”

I have to grin. “Okay, so that’s the house line. What’s the truth?”

The music swells, so he leans in closer. His lips are centimeters from my ear as he confides, “Can’t stand the guy. His ego’s bigger than this house.”

Look at that—I’ve met a kindred spirit. Another person who’s not a card-carrying member of Team Garrett.

Except the conspiratorial smile I give him is clearly taken the wrong way, because Jimmy’s eyes go heavy-lidded. “So…wanna dance?” he drawls.

I don’t. At all. But just as I open my mouth to say no, I glimpse a flash of black from the corner of my eye. Garrett’s black T-shirt. Crap. He’s spotted me and now he’s heading our way. Judging by his determined stride, he’s ready to do battle with me again.

“Sure,” I blurt out, eagerly grabbing Jimmy’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

A slow smile spreads across his mouth.

Uh-oh. Maybe I sounded a bit too eager there.

But it’s too late to change my mind, because he’s leading me toward the dance floor. And just my luck—the song changes the second we get there. The Ramones have been replaced by a Lady Gaga track. Not a fast one, either, but the slow version of “Poker Face.” Great.

Jimmy plants both his hands on my hips.

After a beat, I reluctantly hold onto his shoulders, and we begin to sway to the music. It’s awkward as hell, but at least I managed to evade Garrett, who is now regarding us with a frown, his hands hooked in the belt loops of his faded blue jeans.

When our gazes meet, I shoot him a half-smile and a what-can-you-do look, and he immediately narrows his eyes as if he knows I’m dancing with Jimmy just so I don’t have to talk to him. Then a pretty blonde touches his arm, and he breaks the eye contact.

Jimmy twists his head to see who I’m looking at. “You know Garrett?” He sounds more than a little wary.

I shrug. “He’s in one of my classes.”

“Are you friends?”

“Nope.”

“Good to hear.”

Garrett and the blonde duck out of the room just then, and I mentally pat myself on the back for my successful evasion tactics.

“Does he live here with you guys?” God, this song is taking forever, but I’m trying to make conversation because I feel like I have to finish out the dance after being so “enthusiastic” about it.

“No, thank f*ck,” Jimmy answers. “He’s got a house off-campus. He’s always bragging about it, but I bet you his father pays his rent.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Why do you say that? Is his family rich or something?”

Jimmy looks surprised. “You don’t know who his dad is?”

“No. Should I?”

“It’s Phil Graham.” When the groove in my forehead deepens, Jimmy elaborates. “Forward for the New York Rangers? Two-time Stanley Cup champ? Hockey legend?”

The one hockey team I know anything about is the Chicago Blackhawks, and that’s only because my dad is a rabid fan and makes me watch the games with him. Ergo, I have zero knowledge of a man who played for the Rangers, what, twenty years ago? But I’m not surprised to hear that Garrett hails from hockey royalty. He’s got that superior sense of entitlement down pat.