The Score (Off-Campus #3)(30)
I slowly shake my head.
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.” I think about the nonstop arguments Sean and I had since the summer, and I feel even more confident in my decision to end it. All those spiteful comments he’d hurled my way…mocking me about my dreams…giving me ultimatums for the future…
Sean might have forgiven me for what I did after our breakup, but suddenly I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him for what he did before it.
“We weren’t right for each other anymore.” I swallow the pain in my throat. “If it was possible to stay in college forever, then yes, Sean and I would probably be together. But it’s time to grow up, and we want completely different things for the future. Or at least I think we do. This breakup is screwing with my head. I don’t even know what to think anymore.”
“That’s your problem. You think too much.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Gee, is that your advice? Stop thinking?”
“Stop obsessing.” Dean shrugs. “You broke up with the guy for a reason—a damn good reason, if you ask me—and now you’ve gotta follow through on it. Quit talking to him and quit second-guessing yourself.”
“You’re right,” I say grudgingly.
“Of course I am. I’m always right.” With an arrogant smile, he moves closer and rests one big hand on my knee. “Okay, so here’s our plan for tonight. First we’ll bone down to take the edge off. Then we’ll order a pizza and replenish our energy, and after that, round two. Sound good?”
Exasperation rises inside me. Every time I think there’s more to Dean than simply being a sex-obsessed horndog, he goes and proves me wrong. Or actually, he proves me right.
“Have you considered seeing a psychiatrist about your delusions?” I ask politely. “Because, sweetie, there’s no chance in hell of us boning tonight.”
“Fine. How about we go down on each other instead?”
“How about you leave?”
“Counter offer—I stay and we dry hump.”
God, this guy is incorrigible. “Counter offer—you can stay, but you’re not allowed to talk.”
He counters with, “I stay, I’m allowed to talk, but I won’t hit on you.”
I think it over. “You stay, you can’t hit on me, and you have to watch my show without a single complaint.”
A broad grin stretches across his face. “I accept your terms, madam.”
9
Allie
“So what are we watching?” Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Shirts glances at the television screen. It’s paused to the opening credits of the episode I was about to play before Dean showed up.
“Solange,” I answer.
He wrinkles his nose. “What’s Solange?”
“It’s a French soap opera I’m watching so I can learn to speak the language.”
Dean snickers. “You know there’s a French department at this college, right? Classes you can take?”
“Yeah, where all you do is conjugate verbs and learn how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is. I’m all about immersion. If I hear people talking in French for long enough, I’ll pick it up a lot faster.”
He raises his eyebrows. “How’s it going so far?”
“Not great—” He snickers again “But I’m only on season one,” I protest. “I’m sure after a few more seasons, I’ll be fluent.”
Dean looks at the screen, then back at me. I can tell he’s debating whether he made a grave error by coming over tonight. But he surprises me by saying, “All right. Catch me up. What’s this show about?”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“As a heart attack.”
“Really?” I beam at him, because this is the first time anyone has offered to watch this show with me. My friends refuse to, though to Hannah’s credit, she did manage to sit through the pilot. Afterward, she informed me that she’d rather have crows peck at her eyes than watch the next episode. Honestly, I don’t blame her. It’s not a good show. I know this. But what started off as a language exercise ended with me getting totally hooked. It’s like crack to me now.
“Okay, so that’s Solange.” I press play, and a gorgeous redhead with massive boobs and a teeny waist appears on the screen.
“Ah,” he says. “The titular character.”
“You only used that word because it has tit in it.”
“Obvs. Tits are great.”
I sigh. “Anyway, Solange is dating Sebastian—”
“Sebastian, huh? That’s my middle name.” He pauses. “Well, one of them,” he amends.
My brow furrows. “How many middle names do you have?”
“Two. My full name’s Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis.”
I shake my head in dismay. “What is wrong with your parents? Why would they give you so many names? Did they want you to get made fun of in school?”
That makes him chuckle. “Trust me, it’s nothing compared to some of the dudes at my prep school. This one guy I played lacrosse with had six middle names.”
“So you’re saying it’s a rich person thing? Cram as many unnecessary syllables on your kid’s birth certificate?”