Exhaustion hits me the moment I step out of the car. I need some sleep, STAT. Tomorrow’s going to be as long and tiring as today was, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.

When I stumble through the door, Nana is sitting in the same spot I left her. I suspect the only time she moved in the four or so hours I’ve been gone was to pee out the empty two-liter Coke bottle on the kitchen table. The bottle was full before I left. There’s a different magazine in front of her, though. I think it’s the Enquirer.

She takes in my disheveled appearance. “Thought you had a cocktail party.” A smirk forms. “Looks like you were on the menu.”

Heat floods my face. Yup. Nothing like a word from Nana to set the world back in order.

I ignore the jab and head for the doorway. “’Night,” I mumble.

“Goodnight,” she replies, her chuckles following me into the bedroom.

After I’ve closed and locked the door, I pull out my phone and bring up Tucker’s name. For one long moment, I stare at it. I’m tempted to text him something. Anything.

Instead, I go to the info screen and press “BLOCK.”

Because no matter how sexy he is or how many orgasms he can wring out of me, there’s no place in my life for a second round with him.

4

Tucker

The sound of a car engine revving jerks me awake. It’s still dark out, but I can make out the tiniest sliver of light on the horizon, a grayish stripe in a black background. I flip the lever of my seat and allow the mechanism to push me upright, just in time to see a small Honda Civic pulling out of Sabrina James’s drive.

Blearily, I check the time on the dash. Four a.m. As her car drives past, I catch a glimpse of dark hair, and before I know it, I’ve pulled out in traffic behind her.

I followed her to Boston last night because the roads were still icy and I was worried about her. And I wasn’t convinced she was going to text me. After she’d come that last time, she’d totally shut down. It was obvious that being intimate isn’t something she feels comfortable with. I got the sense I could say about any filthy thing I wanted to her and she’d be completely fine, but a tender, caring word and she’d jackrabbit out of there.

Hell, she almost jumped out of my truck in her haste to get away. I didn’t take it personally, though.

I stretch my back as best as I can. I haven’t slept in my truck for a long time, and my body’s reminding me the exact reason why. But it was either catch a few zzzs or take a chance driving back on the slick roads. I chose to sleep in my cab.

Sabrina’s car zips through a yellow light and then takes a sharp left. By the time I catch up, she’s pulling into the employee parking lot of a south Boston post office. A second later, she stumbles out of the driver’s seat wearing a work uniform, her long hair tied back in a ponytail.

A smile curves across my face. Smoking hot, bright as the sun, and a hard worker? Damn. My mom would love this girl.

*

I drive back to Hastings with a silly-ass grin on my face and throw myself on my bed to sleep for three measly hours. Then I hop right back in the truck and drive to campus to meet up with my study group, because we’ve got a big marketing test tomorrow. Though I’m not sure this nine a.m. cram session is going to help me much in my groggy state. Two cups of coffee succeed in waking me up a bit, and I feel much more alert when the session breaks up around eleven.

Rather than head home right away, I grab a third coffee and pull out my phone. It’s time to do a little digging, and I’d rather do it at the coffeehouse than at home where my nosy roommates might ask questions.

I know Sabrina has classes with Dean, but Dean’s not exactly reliable when it comes to her, so I hit up the only other poli sci major I know—Sheena Drake. She’s an ex but still a good friend of mine. Actually, I can’t think of a single ex I’m not friends with.

Me: What do u know about Sabrina James?

Sheena answers right away, which tells me she either didn’t party too hard last night, or she partied so hard she never went to bed.

Her: Ugh. Hate her.

I frown at the screen.

Me: Why?

Her: b/c she’s hotter than me. Bitch.

My loud snort draws the attention of the trio of students at the neighboring table. Another text from Sheena pops up.

Her: But she’s hotter than EVERYONE. So I guess I can’t b mad? Why r u asking about her?

Me: Ran into her last night. She seemed cool.

Her: I wouldn’t know. Got 2 classes w/ her but she’s not too chatty. Super smart, tho. Rumor is she only hooks up w/ jocks.

I sip my coffee as I ponder that. Guess it makes sense, seeing as she hooked up with me last night. My phone buzzes with another message from Sheena.

U crushing on her?

Considering I had my tongue, mouth, fingers and dick all over her last night, I think I might be past crushing. But I just type, Maybe.

Her: U so are!!! Tell me everything!!!

Me: Nothing 2 tell. CU in Econ tmrw?

Her: Yup.

Me: K. Thx, babe.

Her: <3

I scroll through my contact list in search of anyone else who might know Sabrina, but only one name pops out at me. Hell, it’s probably the person I should’ve spoken to first.

I gulp down the rest of my coffee, then head for the door. I shoot off a quick text, but there’s no insta-response, so instead of waiting I send another message, this time to Ollie Jankowitz, the roommate of the guy I’m trying to track down.

Me: U with Beau?

Him: Negative.

Me: Know where he’s at?

Him: Gym.

Well, that was easy.

I leave my truck in the student lot and decide to make the trek on foot, since the football stadium is only a short walk from the coffeehouse. My Briar hockey ID doesn’t give me access to the training facility, but luckily I reach the door at the same time as a sophomore lineman, who lets me in.

I find Beau Maxwell in the weight room, working on his chest and arms. Beau is Briar’s beloved quarterback, and, as far as I know, the last guy who’d held Sabrina’s interest for any significant period of time.

He’s a friend of mine, closer to Dean than any of us, but we’re still buddies and I’d rather he hear that I’m chasing after Sabrina from me than the gossip mill. Athletes spend as much time as anyone talking about hookups, girlfriends, and future lays.

“Maxwell,” I call as I cross the room, which smells like sweat and industrial cleaning supplies. “Got a minute?”