Tutoring the Player (Campus Wallflowers #1)(24)

“No, not really.”

“Thirsty?”

“I’m okay.”

“A walk then?”

“If it will help.”

“It couldn’t hurt. There’s a gas station up the street.” He starts toward the door, leaving his backpack. He glances back when I don’t follow. “Are you coming?”

Violet and Dahlia are nowhere to be found downstairs, but the evidence of their work is still strewn around.

“Whoa,” Jordan says as he takes it all in. “It looks like this room exploded. How long were we up there?”

“This is how they are when they have a big project due. They take over the entire first floor. Fabrics and threads, measuring tapes, and scissors.” I look at him. “Violet owns like ten different ones and still can never find a pair.”

“Why do they call it a pair?” he asks. “A pair of scissors sounds like they come in two.”

“It’s a plural tantum.”

His mouth quirks up on both sides.

Even in the cool night air, I feel my cheeks warm under a blush. “Like jeans or pants.”

He’s quiet a second and then says with a smirk, “Or panties.”

We lock eyes in the darkness, and my heart flutters.

The gas station is on the next block. We walk up the street and stop at the intersection.

Jordan hits the crosswalk button. “Do they take over the first floor a lot?”

“Violet and Dahlia?”

He nods.

“Once a week or so. Sometimes they go to the design lab, but Violet says she’s more inspired at home where she can play her music loudly and keep late hours.”

“And Jane?”

“She is a music major, but she spends a lot of time in her room.”

He hangs on my every word. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you do when they’re taking over your first floor and blasting tunes all night?”

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

The light changes, and we cross the street at a clip. The gas station/quickie mart smells like burnt coffee. I hang back and let Jordan grab what he wants, which includes a bag of chips, Twizzlers, two energy drinks, and a pack of gum.

“You don’t want anything?” he asks as he places his items on the checkout counter.

“No thanks.” I peruse the items up front and smile at the Fun Dip packets. “I didn’t know they still made these.”

“They’re classic. No childhood is complete without Fun Dip and candy necklaces.”

I run my hand along the pack and then pull it back. “I wasn’t allowed to have either of those as a kid.”

“You’ve never had Fun Dip?” Jordan asks, disbelief in his tone as one dark brow lifts.

I shake my head and move to the other side of him, closer to the door. He pays, and we head back outside.

Jordan opens the chips before we’ve crossed the parking lot. He tosses one in his mouth, chews, and asks, “What kind of deprived childhood did you lead, sweet Daisy?”

I swear he says things just to see me blush, which I, of course, do. “I wasn’t deprived. I had candy and junk food sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“At birthday parties and Halloween, Easter, that kind of thing.”

He nods thoughtfully, and we walk across the street back toward the house.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” Jordan says. “Where do you hang out when they take over for these wild and crazy design sessions?”

The wind blows my hair around my face. I tuck it behind my ears and hug my arms to my stomach. “In my room or—”

“Hold up.” He stops, sets the bag on the ground, and removes his hoodie. When he thrusts it in my direction, I stare at it, unsure what to do.

“Take it. You’re obviously cold.”

I wrap my fingers around the soft fabric, hand still outstretched. He nods, encouraging me.

“Thanks.” My pulse kicks up a notch as I pull his sweatshirt on over my head. It’s warm and smells faintly like fabric softener and something else I can’t quite place.

“Welcome.”

We continue in silence. Most of the houses along the street are quiet. The lights are on inside, but the yards and driveways are still. I walk this street almost every day, but I’m usually in a hurry one way or the other.

Jordan’s long strides are slow, and his gaze roams around, taking it all in as he eats his chips. I get the feeling very little studying is happening tonight.

I take a step, looking over my shoulder at him as I do. “There’s a tree house in the back yard.”

His stare focuses on me, and my pulse races higher.

“Sometimes I go out—”

“Watch out!”

Brakes squeal against the pavement, and a flurry of red light flashes in front of me before I’m yanked backward, swallowing my words, and slamming into his chest.

A shocked gasp escapes as I glance from the car backing out of the driveway and into Jordan’s dark eyes.

“Oh my gosh.”

He curses under his breath.

My hands tremble. “Thank you. I didn’t see it.”

“No shit.” His voice is quiet but forceful. He steadies me and steps away.