Page 3 of Strike Zone

I jerk my eyes away from him and pretend to be intrigued with the wood graining on the table. I even fiddle with one of my pens to keep up the ruse.

He takes my bait and allows his eyes to wander down to the hollow of my throat, the top of my cleavage, and the lace cups covering my breasts. They look amazing, by the way.

I tilt my head in his direction in time to catch him absentmindedly licking his lips.

“You can’t miss something that was never yours,” I say, a breath away from his face before retreating.

He shakes his head loose, and his mane of hair swishes from side to side. I smile to myself as I begin to pack up all my belongings. The fact that I’ve entertained his company for this long is galling.

“What are you doin’?” His calloused palm lands on top of my hand halting my movements.

“Packing up. Do you mind?” I give his dry, cracked knuckles a pointed look silently asking him to move. What does he do all day with his hands? Hasn’t he ever heard of moisturizer?

“Not really.” His lip twitches on one side.

I blow out a frustrated breath. My hair whips around and lands over my glasses. He watches as my hair swings back and forth like a pendulum until I finally push it off my face.

I attempt to free my hand but his grip only tightens. I stare at him. Really.

“Sit. Please.” He gestures toward my chair.

“Let go of my hand first,” I counter.

“Sit and I’ll let go of your hand.”

My stubborn side wants to keep fighting with him, but I’m starting to lose blood flow in my fingers from his punishing grip.

“You are such a child,” I quip as I sit down.

He bristles. I’ve touched a nerve. It wasn’t my intention. Pulling off a verbal slap in the face is yet another skill in my arsenal. My father has warned me more than once about my sharp tongue.

My mouth opens to say something reassuring, maybe apologize, but before I can speak he is smiling and back to his jovial self. Or is Mr. Happy Go Lucky a front he puts on?

“Yeah, that’s me.” His tone straddles a line between sadness and sarcasm.

“I didn’t realize that was a sore spot.”

“It’s not.”

“Fine.” I raise a questionable eyebrow.

“Good.”

“Great.” I force a smile. “I’m sitting. What do you want?”

He glances at me for a moment, as his pointer finger lingers over my neat row of pencils before pushing every other one, making them uneven. I scratch at my chest that’s now warm to the touch.

Directing my focus back to his face, I wait for him to speak even though my fingers itch to fix everything he just destroyed. Two can play this game. I am equal parts stubborn and perfectionist. I guarantee I will outlast him in this match.

“Charlie,” he finally answers.

“Excuse me?” Charlie? As in my roommate. I must have heard him wrong. What does he want with her?

“I need your help getting a date with your roommate.” I would laugh if we weren’t in a library surrounded by several groups of people trying to study. Ever since an anonymous article was printed about the top hook-up spots inside the library last semester, it has become more popular than a dating app.

“You date?” I question. I blink hard attempting to register this information.

“Well, no. I need you to get me in a room with her. Alone.” He leans back in his chair until it’s on two legs. What I wouldn’t give for it to slip out from underneath him right now. Instead he removes the filthy cap from his head and roughs up his caramel brown hair.

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