Page 13 of Shiver
Obediently, Egon pulls out his phone. I catch a glimpse of several notifications on his screen that he ignores as he pulls up the calendar app. It takes him only a minute to find that I’ve populated it to accommodate hockey.
His grin does something to me. My stomach flips. I can’t help myself when I raise a brow. It’s not directed at Egon, though I know he thinks it is as he laughs in relief. No. It’s directed at myself.
What the actual fuck? Nobody’s smile garners a reaction from me.
Taking a breath, I brush it off. “That work for you?” I ask.
“I’ll make it work,” he says, yawning again. Then he chuckles. “Sorry. I think my body is already anticipating being sleep deprived.”
I wave him off. “No worries. We’ve covered what I wanted to. Go to sleep.”
He flashes me another grin. This time I look away, so I don’t have to see it.
“See you in a couple days, Rake,” he says on his way out my door. As it slowly shuts behind him, I hear his voice and pause, holding it slightly ajar. I vaguely hear ‘Hey baby. Sorry, it’s late and I have hockey early. Can’t see you tonight.’ And then his voice is too far away to hear. There’s a faint feeling of smugness knowing that he’s turning down his girlfriend tonight. Then I’m frowning at myself as I lock my door.
“Seriously, Rakesh. What the fuck?” I mutter and fall back on the couch to flick on the television. Montreal kept their shutout with a low-scoring game of 1-0. The Lights won against the Gulls 2-1. And the Manatees crushed the Pirates 5-1. That had to hurt.
* * *
I receivea text from Egon when he’s away, begging me for a quick pointer for his toxicology class. His panic is evident in his text, so I pull my phone from the charger and roll to my back. Holding it above me, I tap the video call icon.
Immediately, his face fills my screen, and I’m right. There’s barely subdued panic in his eyes. “These words aren’t English,” he complains. “They’re Latin.”
Laughter escapes me before I can stop it. He’s not wrong since many scientific terms are derived from or are Latin. “Take a breath, Egon.”
He does what I say, and I watch through the screen as his eyes flutter closed. He’s got dark lashes, the kind that women glue on. While his eyes are closed and he’s calming himself down, I admire the way his hair drips, as if he just got out of the shower. Now that I’m looking at him closely, I’m pretty sure that’s the case. His shirt clings to him a bit awkwardly, making me think he was still damp when he pulled it on.
His eyes open and he at least appears a little more rational.
“Alright,” he says.
“You listen well, Egon,” I tell him, voice low and only slightly suggestive. His lips quirk up and I swear there’s a bashful glint in his expression. Before he has to say something in return, I say, “Tell me what has you confused.”
Just like that, I’m laying in bed as I work him through understanding what happens when you ingest too much paracetamol. An hour goes by. And then two. Before I realize what happened, we’re no longer talking about toxicology but anything ranging from hockey to—get this, his girlfriend. Before he can get too deep into this conversation and I’m tasked with trying not to look disgusted at not only how mushy his tone is getting but also that we’re talking about a woman, he abruptly stops talking and stares into the screen.
“Did I wake you when I texted?” he asks.
I raise a brow. “No. Why?”
“You’re in bed. And not wearing a shirt,” he says, his face getting closer to the screen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was when I texted you. I always try to study when my roommate is out celebrating or moping, depending on the game we played. Gotta take advantage of what little peace I get when we’re traveling.”
Shrugging, I nod. “Not a big deal. I was just watching a movie.”
The way I have my phone propped against the wall, he has a view of my pecs and shoulders, as well as the bicep of my right arm. There’s satisfaction brewing inside me when I see him studying me.
His mouth opens when he suddenly snaps his head up and I hear the faint sound of a door opening.
“Yo, you best not be video fucking Temca,” the voice says.
“Ha,” Egon returns, grinning. “I wouldn’t be fully clothed if that’s what I was doing, Haines. I’m talking to my tutor.”
“He has calling hours, eh?”
Egon goes to grab his phone but I’m suddenly getting motion sick as the camera goes all over the place. When it settles, the face staring back at me isn’t Egon’s.
This man is leaner but more defined. His face is thinner, and his lips are too. His eyes are dark, partially covered by blond hair that’s likely usually styled, but flopping messily on his head right now.
Well, he’ll be plan B if Egon doesn’t pan out. Not that I’ve ever failed at getting a straight man into my bed.
