Page 25 of Too Hostile

That kiss.

That kiss is ingrained in my brain. Just planted right there in my memory, and I play it over and over again.

I want to kiss him again. So damn badly.

Fetus.

I’m not a damn fetus. I may only be eighteen, and I may act like a shithead, but I’m very mature for my age. I had to grow up young, and I can handle hanging out with people ten years, or even more, older than me.

And Ronan—I don’t think he’s even ten years older than me. I should do some research and find out his exact age. He looks really young for a professor. I don’t think he’s even hit his thirties yet.

“How old are you, Nathan?” I ask, trying like hell to sound casual but failing and failing hard because way to just blurt that out, Fletcher.

“Thirty-nine. Why?” he asks cautiously.

I shrug, lining up a shot and sending the number four ball to the corner pocket. “Just curious. Since you all called me a fetus.”

He tosses his head back and laughs at that. I miss the next shot, and he lines up to take the next one. “Well, that’s what we call Ronan. Annie’s turned thirty-five six times since I met her.” That makes me smile. “And then there’s Ronan, who just turned twenty-six.”

Twenty-six.

I can’t fight the smile on my face at that because I knew it. He’s not that much older than me.

I can also work with that.

RONAN

No. I refuse to believe he’s here. Right outside my house.

Shirtless too, I might add.

Good God, his body is just stupid. I mean, stupid fucking hot. He’s nothing but muscle. Sculpted, chiseled muscle that’s so damn defined I can follow each line, which I do with my eyes as I stand outside my front door and ogle the hell out of him.

He has on a pair of loose black shorts and has earbuds in his ears, smiling as he runs up to me, taking them out of his ears. He’s sweaty, and his hair is matted, which makes me think he’s been running for a bit, but he doesn’t seem winded at all.

I’m also wearing shorts, a t-shirt and Nikes for my morning jog. All perfectly in place. I was ready for a nice, relaxing run, and now here Fletcher is, just barreling into my life.

I’m not nearly strong enough for this. “Are you stalking me?” My tone is nowhere near as irritated as I want it to be.

And he must notice because he’s grinning by the time he stops in front of me. “Nope. Happy accident.” He looks behind me at my house—it’s a modest but modern and well-kept, two-bedroom, two-bath, only a couple of blocks from campus. “This is where you live, huh?”

This isn’t good. “Oh God, now you’re really going to start stalking me, aren’t you?”

He waggles his brows at me playfully. “Quite possibly.”

I actually frown at that, though, realizing how ill-timed my joke is. The Rhonda Tuttle situation is still mainstream news. Still a huge deal around here, and here I am making a joke about it, while flirting with a damn student.

“Right. Well, don’t do that, and have a nice run,” I say, brushing past him. I can do this. I can and will resist him. It’s not appropriate. What if someone sees him outside my house?

I start to jog down the street, but of course, Fletcher is right there with me, running alongside me with a smile on his handsome face.

“Fletcher, surely this isn’t your regular route,” I try.

“Actually, it is.” He keeps up with me easily as we round a corner. “I can’t believe I’ve been jogging past your house all year, and I didn’t even know it.”

“You know, if people see us together . . .”

“What people?” he asks, and I don’t think he’s just messing with me. I think he actually wants to know what I’m worried about.

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