The Score (Off-Campus #3)(82)
I grin and say, “It takes two to tango” and then we’re happily hugging again, until I notice the shadow looming over us.
Dillon disentangles herself from the embrace and introduces us to her boyfriend. “This is Roy.”
Last time we spoke on the phone, she mentioned she was dating a football player. I would’ve guessed it even if she hadn’t told me, because Roy is a monster of a man. At least six-seven, with arms as thick as tree trunks and thighs that are bigger than my torso. And either I’m imagining it, or he looks exactly like—
“Dude, anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Samuel L. Jackson?” Dean demands, stealing the words right out of my mouth.
Roy’s massive shoulders set in a rigid line. “Ahhh, I get it, ’cause all us brothas look the same to you, right?”
My alarmed gaze flies to Dillon, because the menacing glare twisting Roy’s features is downright terrifying. And his voice is deeper than the bass line thudding through the club.
“What next?” Roy growls. “You gonna say there’s somethin’ wrong with me going out with this fine white girl? Is that what you’re saying?”
Dean is unfazed. “Yeah, you got me, man. I’m a huge racist.” He shakes his head incredulously as he continues to stare at Roy. “It’s frickin’ uncanny. You look exactly like him.”
I’m seconds away from clapping my hand over Dean’s mouth before this behemoth snaps him like a twig, but to my astonishment, Roy’s ominous expression dissolves.
“I’m just playing with you, bro. I get it all the time.” Roy breaks out in a huge grin. “I won ten grand last summer at a celebrity impersonation contest—first place for my Sam Jackson. I did the speech from Deep Blue Sea, right before the shark gets ’im.”
“Nice.” Dean flashes a mischievous smile. “PS, some more racism coming your way—you sound like James Earl Jones.”
Roy throws his head back and releases a big, booming laugh. Then he slaps Dean on the arm and says, “You’re all right, white boy.”
Just like that, they’re best friends, talking animatedly as they charge ahead.
Dillon sighs and links her arm through mine. “Roy likes to scare people,” she apologizes.
I snicker. “Don’t worry, Dean doesn’t scare easily.”
“Dean, huh?” Her eyes light up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a new boyfriend?”
“Because I don’t. We’re just having some fun. Nothing serious.”
“Ha! Yeah right, AJ. With you, it’s always serious.”
Not this time, I want to say, but we’ve reached the table and the guys’ voices drown out our conversation. Beau and Roy are already talking football, and because the latter is so damn enormous, he takes up at least three people’s worth of space on the bench-style seat. Dillon slides in beside him, which leaves zero room for me.
Grinning, Dean tugs me into his lap and winds one strong arm around my waist. “You can sit right here, baby doll.”
“Aw, thanks, honey-pie.”
The six of us make such an unlikely group that I suddenly have scenes from The Breakfast Club flashing in my mind. Beau the East Coast quarterback. Dean the hockey player. Roy the linebacker from Louisiana. Joanna the Broadway actress. Dillon the finance major. And me, the future star of rom coms.
Despite that, there’s no shortage of conversation. Dillon and I fill each other in on what we’ve been up to the past few months. Since I started college, I’ve lost touch with most of my high school friends, but Dillon’s friendship is one I was determined to preserve.
As I chat with her, I’m very aware of the fact that Dean is touching me. Constantly. Stroking my shoulder. Grazing my thigh. Nuzzling my neck. At one point he even brushes his lips over my cheek, which summons a loud hoot from Beau.
“Jesus, Bella,” he marvels. He’s highly amused as he meets my eyes. “What kind of spell did you cast on my man Dean? I’ve never seen him like this with a chick before.”
“My name’s Allie,” I correct.
That makes him laugh harder.
Dean sighs, then leans in close and murmurs, “Wanna dance?”
“Depends… Are you a good dancer?”
“Every man is a good dancer.”
I snort. “The broken toe I got in high school begs to differ.”
“Sorry, what I should’ve said is—every man is capable of being a good dancer.” His hands lock around my waist as he lifts me to my feet. “There’s just one move a man needs to know in order to rock it on the dance floor.”
“Yeah? What’s the move?” I ask curiously.
Dean twines his fingers through mine as we descend the staircase. “STAG.” He has to shout his answer, because the music is louder down here.
I stand on my tiptoes so my mouth is close to his ear. “What’s stag?”
“The only one of Logan’s crazy acronyms I live my life by—STAG.” His mouth stretches in a broad smile. “Stand there and grind.”
Laughter bubbles out of my throat, turning into a shriek of delight when Dean hauls me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on tight as he carries me to the dance floor. Then he sets me on my feet, presses his delectable body against mine, and proves that STAG really is the only move that matters.