The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(27)

Sabrina lets out a sigh that leaves a white puff in the cold night air. “I don’t feel like walking. It’s cold out and my feet hurt from being on them all night. And my car is way too small for you. You’d be uncomfortable in five seconds.”

“Do you want to go back to your place?”

She tenses up. “Not really.” Another breath slides out. “I don’t want you to…”

“To what?”

“I don’t want you to see where I live.” She sounds defensive. “It’s shitty, okay?”

My heart squeezes a little. I don’t respond, because I’m not sure what to say.

“Well, not my bedroom,” she relents. “That’s not shitty.”

Sabrina goes silent, as if she’s fighting some internal battle.

“I meant what I said before,” I tell her in a soft voice. “No pressure. But if you’re worried that I’m going to judge where you live, stop right now. I don’t care if you live in a mansion or a shack. I just want to spend time with you, wherever and whenever.”

When I rub her lips with my thumb, the tension seeps out of her shoulders. “Okay,” she finally whispers. “Let’s go to my house.”

I search her face. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’d rather be somewhere warm and cozy right now. Not that my house is warm and cozy, but it’s definitely warmer in there than it is out here.”

Having made her decision, she unlocks the driver’s door and slides behind the wheel. I get into the passenger side. And she’s not wrong—my legs are not digging this vehicle. Even when I push the chair back as far as it can go, there’s still no room to stretch out.

She starts the car and pulls out of the lot. “I don’t live too far from here.”

After that, she doesn’t say much for the rest of the drive. I don’t know if she’s nervous or if she regrets agreeing to hang with me, but I hope to hell it’s not the latter.

I don’t push her to talk, because I know how skittish she can be. Patience is the name of the game here, and patience with Sabrina James comes with a reward. She’s got so much passion that it’s simply a matter of helping her reach a level of comfort that allows her to let go.

When we turn onto her street, I pretend it’s the first time that I’ve ever been here. That I don’t recognize the narrow, ramshackle row houses. That I hadn’t slept in my car right over by that uneven curb the night I followed her home to make sure she got there safe.

Sabrina turns into a driveway at the side of the house, steering toward the small carport in the rear. She kills the engine and exits the car in silence.

“This way,” she murmurs when I round the vehicle.

She doesn’t take my hand, but she does check to make sure I’m following as she climbs the three low steps of the back stoop. Her keys jingle softly in the quiet night as she unlocks the door.

A moment later, we step into a tiny kitchen. It has ugly yellow-and-pink-patterned wallpaper, and in the center sits a square wood table surrounded by four chairs. The appliances look old, but they’re clearly in working order because dirty pots and pans are strewn atop the stove burners.

Sabrina blanches at the mess. “My grandmother always forgets to clean up after herself,” she says without meeting my gaze.

I glance around the cramped space. “It’s just the two of you here?”

“No. My stepfather lives here too.” She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask for details. “Don’t worry, though. Friday is poker night—he usually stays out and then stumbles home sometime around noon the next day. And Nana takes an Ambien every night before bed. She sleeps like the dead.”

I wasn’t worried, but I get the feeling she’s not trying to reassure me, but herself.

“My room’s this way.” She ducks into the corridor before I can say a word.

I trail after her, noting how narrow the hall is, how dirty the carpet is, how there aren’t any family photos hanging on the walls. My heart starts to ache, because the droop of Sabrina’s shoulders tells me that she’s ashamed of this place.

Fuck. I hate seeing her look so defeated. I want to tell her about the peeling paint in our place down in Texas, about how for the entirety of high school I slept in the tiniest room in the house so Mom could use the larger bedroom for her in-home hair salon that supplements the income from her hairdresser job in town.

I keep quiet, though. I’m following her lead here.

Her room is small, tidy, and clearly her source of refuge. The double bed is perfectly made with a pale blue comforter. Her desk is immaculate, overloaded with neatly stacked textbooks. It smells clean and fresh in here, like pine, lemon and something addictively feminine.

Sabrina unbuttons her coat, shrugs it off, and drapes it over the desk chair.

My mouth waters. She’d thrown a T-shirt over the skimpy bra that constitutes a work “uniform,” but she’s still in those little shorts. And the heels. Jesus fuck, those heels.

“So,” she starts.

I unzip my jacket. “So,” I echo.

Her dark eyes track the movement of my hands as I toss the jacket aside. Then she shakes her head abruptly, as if trying to snap herself out of…checking me out, I guess? I hide a grin.