Is that what this is then? A way to woo the girl you can’t have?
No response.
WHY did you leave that letter if you aren’t going to tell me who you really are?
A hard, rapid series of knocks sounds on my door, making me yelp. It’s past eight and visiting hours ended a while ago. In fact, the hallway’s been eerily quiet tonight, an almost expectant air in the stillness. I frown and type.
Hey, someone’s at my door. Weird, right, this late?
He doesn’t reply right away, and I feel antsy about the knock. I set my phone down and look at my black booty shorts and camisole—not exactly how I want to greet someone.
“Who’s there?” I call out, but all I get is a whole lot of silence.
I look through the peephole, but no one’s there. Anxiety drifts over me, giving me goose bumps. I’ve been more cautious since the hit at school, especially since no one knows who it was. According to Trask, there aren’t any cameras in that part of the gym. Of course not.
I bend down to my hands and knees to see if I can see feet or a shadow, but it’s only the bright white lights of the hallway. I consider calling the resident assistant but quickly dismiss the idea. It’s just a knock, right? I could text Wyatt, but he said earlier he was headed out to grab dinner with some guys from the baseball team. I think he’d come up to my floor if I asked, even though visiting hours are over.
Still…
There’s no one there. Someone probably just knocked on the wrong door, realized it, and moved on. Maybe it was for Camilla.
Yet, I can’t stop myself from pacing the floor, feeling that anxious pit in my stomach expand. I stop in front of the door and soon it’s not just a door; it’s the woods at night.
Another knock then “Ava!” The voice is male and low and instantly recognizable.
I fling the door open, relief washing over me.
“Knox! What are you doing here?”
My eyes run over him. He’s still in football practice clothes, his hair damp and pushed back off his face. I swallow at his roped forearms and tanned skin, the sculpted muscles beneath his pants.
I cock my hip against the doorframe.
“Got done with practice, was just around the corner. Thought I’d come over and check on you, see how your head is. Plus, you might need me.”
Need him?
“Someone knocked on my door a few minutes ago—it wasn’t you?”
“Nope, but I can guess who.” He looks down the quiet hall, studying the closed doors. He even walks to the end of the corridor, opens the stairwell door, and checks it out. I notice he’s carrying a duffle bag. Weird.
“Who would you guess? Also, what’s up with the duffle? You planning on sleeping over?”
“May I come in? I can explain.” He leans against the edge of my doorway, and he’s wearing a cocky grin. It’s so different from how he is in class that I feel disarmed.
I cross my arms. “Why the heck is King Shark standing at my door asking to come in?”
He smirks. “Trust me, Tulip, you’re going to need me.” He holds up the duffle bag. “I have supplies.”
I arch a brow. “Color me intrigued.” I do a sweeping motion. “Please, come in.”
He waltzes inside, running his eyes over my small room, taking in the twin bed against the wall and the small dresser that come standard with the rooms in the dorm.
“You need to decorate,” he says, looking around.
I scoff. “Yeah, my neighbor Camilla has these cute twinkle lights up around her bed. I haven’t had time.” Or the money to burn. “Trust me, this is plush compared to my room at the home.”
He turns to face me. “A girl like you deserves pretty things.”
I frown, shoving that comment away, something I’ve learned to do well with him. “What’s in the duffle? A cute lamp? Some posters?”
He gives the room one last look. “No time to waste with small talk. These need to be filled stat, and I suggest changing out of that white shirt and putting on pants.”
What?
He opens the duffle and pulls out a bag of multi-colored balloons.
“Are we going to have a party? I’ll call Wyatt and Piper.” I’m joking. I’m not in the party mood.
He darts a look at me. “Prank night at Arlington. Wyatt didn’t tell you?”
I shrug. He’s spotty in the dorm, plus he’s on a different floor.
“It’s an annual thing, and I heard this afternoon that it might be tonight. Seems it’s a secret until it happens then all hell breaks loose.” He pauses. “Hijinks are about to ensue, and if someone knocked on your door, that might have been code for Get ready. Unless you want to hide under your bed and hope for the best…”
I rear back. “I was born ready, and I have heard of prank night. Even the staff gets involved, right? Or at least they let it slide as long as we clean up? Guess it slipped my mind since I’ve never lived in the dorms until now.” I eye him. “Thank you for paying for my room. I don’t think I ever said that the day in the auditorium.” Because things got a little hot and heavy. “I’m going to pay you back someday.”
He pauses in his handoff of a wad of balloons. “You don’t have to. Here, you take these and start filling them.”
“Bossy Shark,” I murmur as he drops half the balloons in my outstretched hands then rushes into my tiny bathroom.
I follow, and he’s in the small shower with the cold water on, his hands filling up a pink balloon.
“Take the sink. Don’t fill them too much—we don’t want them to burst.” He grins widely, and I blink, gaping at the football player in my shower.
“You’re like, really into this, aren’t you?”
“Less talking, more filling, Tulip. I came to help you and we’re gonna kick ass together, you feel me?” He flicks water in my direction. “Get to work.”
I like this side of him. “You participate every year?”
“Nope. This is for you.”
This is for you.
I let that settle and file in his dossier to savor when he’s gone.
A few minutes later, we’ve collected a pile of about fifty balloons, and he’s placing them back in his duffle with careful hands. I’ve got damp splotches on my camisole and his shirt is soaked and sticking to him, catching spray from the faucet.
“How many do we need?” I ask.
“All of them. This isn’t a night you want to be shorthanded.” His eyes drift over me, starting at my legs, lingering on my chest before coming up to my face. “Babe, as much as I like seeing you in booty shorts, you need to change. I’m talking sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. Tennis shoes might be a good idea so you don’t slip.”
I gape again. “How bad is this going to get?”
Another wide grin.
I shake my head. “You are crazy. Fine, fine, let me change.” I march over to my dresser, pull out a pair of leggings, and pull them on over my shorts. When I turn around, he’s watching me, eyes low and heavy. “This work?”
He clears his throat. “Anything works on you.”
There’s a clatter out in the hall as if something metal has hit the floor.
I yelp, nearly jumping off the floor. “Is that the start? What was that noise?”