Page 4 of Second Quarter Comeback
“Nice to meet you, Killion,” she says, her tone teasing. “You going to let your brother have all the fun, or are you planning to live a little too?”
I glance back at Lucian, now attempting some kind of impromptu dance battle, then at her. “I think I’ll stick to the sidelines tonight.”
“Good choice,” she says, raising her cup in a mock toast. “Welcome to the corner crew.”
I lean casually against the wall beside her. Maybe this party won’t be such a disaster after all.
Chapter Three
Camille
Never Underestimate Chemistry
Oh my God. Is this even real? I mean, this guy. He’s definitely not my Charles, but can we all take a moment to appreciate the view?
He’s tall—taller than most of the guys here—and moves with that effortlesskind of confidence that makes you wonder if he was born knowing he’d be the most interesting person in any room. His dark brown hair is slightly tousled, it has that just-rolled-out-of-bed-but-make-it-fashion look that somehow works for him. It’s cropped short on the sides, with just enough length on top to give him something to rake his hand through—and he does, casually, as if he’s forgotten how unfairly good it makes him look.
Then there are his eyes. Blue eyes, or maybe gray. It’s hard to say with the dim light in this place. But they’re deep and thoughtful but with just enough edge to keep you guessing. When they land on me, it’s like he’s peeling back my carefully constructed layers one by one, leaving me standing here, trying not to look as ridiculous as I feel.
His jawline can cut glass, his cheekbones belong in a museum, and there’s a hint of stubble that makes him look like he’s stepped straight out of some “athlete with depth” magazine spread. He’s not smiling, but the way his expression shifts—subtle, deliberate—says more than words ever could.
He’s . . . delicious. The kind of guy you’d want to lick like a popsicle and maybe, you know, test his proficiency in kissing. For research purposes, obviously. After all, I’m a scientist and everything has to be tested and replicable.
But no. Focus. I can’t afford to lose brain cells over a guy when my last midterm is on Monday.Priorities, Camille. Priorities.
“So,” he says, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. His voice is low and smooth. There’s just enough gravel in it to make your knees a little weak and make you have a little orgasm in your ears. “You have to be honest. Do you always bring a textbook to a party, or is tonight special?”
“I like to be prepared,” I say, hoping my tone comes off as casual and not completely flustered by your existence.
“For what? A pop quiz during a keg stand?” His mouth curves just enough to show he knows how funny he is.
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s easier than I expected. “Something like that.”
His gaze still on me, but not in an intimidating way. It’s more like he’s genuinely curious, and somehow, that’s even worse. “What’s your major?”
“Biochemistry,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. Then add, “But I’m planning on going into med school. I’m a freshman. You?”
“Football,” he replies with zero hesitation.
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s not a major.”
“Depends on who you ask,” he says, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “I’m training for the draft. Quarterback. I’m a junior but I stopped going to school last semester.”
“Did you even declare a major before dropping out of college?” I ask, unable to resist poking a little fun.
“Judgy much?” he counters, but there’s amusement in his voice.
“Not judging,” I clarify, shrugging. “Just curious. Me and athletes don’t exactly run in the same circles. I don’t know how all that works.”
“But you know Luc,” he says, tilting his head slightly.
“Luc?” I repeat, blinking.
“Lucian Crawford,” he clarifies, like it should be obvious.
“Oh, Crawford. Ugh, everyone knows him,” I say with a wave of my hand. “He doesn’t blend in. You two don’t look much alike, though.”
I don’t tell him that he’s slept with a few of my friends—not Zindy, who swears he’s a walking STI.
