Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
“Well, no, but now I will. Especially with you about to hit it big time. The draft is this year, isn’t it?”
“April. But yeah. This is my last year here at Franklin.”
We cross the quad toward the east entrance to the school, the opposite direction to my place. My apartment is on the beach side. The school is surrounded by different kinds of student housing and off-campus leasing, so every time I’ve ducked my head while walking home in case Peyton was nearby was probably pointless.
When we reach the road, Peyton turns left and then right into a long, hilly street, moving farther away from the beach.
“I would’ve thought your dads would rent you a condo on the beach out here.”
Peyton smiles. “We had a choice of a fancy condo on the beach or a house a few blocks away. We chose the house.”
“What? Why? You could’ve lived where the beach is right there.” My apartment block is on the beach, and the sound of the ocean has lulled me to sleep every night. It’s been amazing. Definitely better than waking up to freezing cold with snow in October and the smell of pretension in the air.
“Why do you think? Parties. Duh.”
“Of course. What was I thinking?”
“I guess Hahvid took all the fun out of you.”
You can say that again.
Peyton purses his lips. “What I still don’t understand, though, is why you’d go to somewhere like Harvard for your undergrad but come to Franklin U for law school. I didn’t think our law program was a top school.”
“It’s … not,” I admit.
“And your dad, the Lord Farquaad Vanderbilt—”
“The what?”
“Oh, that’s what everyone used to call your dad in high school.”
“They did?”
Peyton looks away. “Okay, that’s what my parents would call him.”
I laugh hard. “Holy shit. Your dads are cool.”
“They’d always complain how your dad would storm into PTA meetings and be like”—He puts on an exaggerated deep voice—“‘I donated a building here twelve years ago. Why don’t I get a say on how much of the funding goes to the football team? We’re in Illinois. Who plays football in Illinois?’”
“Wow. Great impression of my dad. It was really … uh, uncanny.”
“Needless to say, my usually laidback, Super Bowl-winning parents didn’t like that. They always said your dad thought he was owed more because of your last name.”
“I wish I could say things have changed, but they haven’t.”
“We’re here.” Peyton walks up the short drive to an elevated beige-and-white clapboard home.
“Are these steps really safe with all those parties you throw?” I follow him up to a terrace and then more steps to the front door.
“We really should have thought of that, but we were kind of set on the view.” He nods behind me, and when I turn, there’s blue in the distance. “This way, we get the beach and the parties.”
“And all the girls?” I ask, and no, I’m not very subtle.
Peyton doesn’t answer. Damn him. He opens the door and gestures for me to go first.
It definitely looks like two college guys live here. There are pizza boxes on the coffee table, shoes strewn around the room, red Solo cups everywhere, and it smells like dude.
Not that I’m opposed to the scent of sweat and ball sac. In the right moments, that stench can be sexy. In this moment? The only thing keeping me in this room is Peyton’s insanely ripped body and his vivid blue eyes.
Plus, the memory of his face when he came.
“My room’s this way. I’ll get you a change of clothes.”
He leads me to the room that sits over the garage, and it has that amazing view out the window. “How much did you have to fight your brother for this room?”
“Not at all. His room at the other end of the house is bigger.”
“Bigger than this?” It’s almost the size of my living room slash dining room. “Damn. Can I move in too?”
Peyton tenses again, just like he did when I dared to mention the night we hooked up.
Yep. He thinks I’m a stalker.
“That was a joke, by the way.”
“I know.” Peyton moves to a drawer, putting his backpack on the ground and his coffee on the dresser. A T-shirt is thrown my way, and then he opens another drawer and grabs me a pair of jeans.
“Thanks for these.” I hold them up and drop my laptop bag.
“No problem.”
We stare at each other, neither of us moving. Hell, I’m not sure either of us is breathing.
What we did that night four years ago was so impulsive, and even though we’d known of each other for years before that, my graduation party was the first night I’d been drawn to him. Or to anyone, really.
I’d tried with girls, I really had, but I could never connect. Not like I did with Peyton.
The air between us had the same tension that’s filling this very room—the same crackle of energy. I want to know if he feels it too, but I’m too chickenshit to ask.