“Go Wildcats.” He gives her that deadly grin and her face flames when she blushes, her eyes glazing over.

Ugh. He’s a sparkly, sexy unicorn. And everyone wants to ride him.

I put my hand up to block my face but it’s too late; he’s staring directly at me. His brow goes sky high and he plops down in the seat she vacated as Dillon takes the one on the other side. “You keep turning up wherever I go. You stalking me?”

“Fate’s a cruel bitch. We’ve been here almost four years, and this is the first class we’ve had together. Lucky me.” There’s no heat in my words. Last night changed something for us, but I haven’t wanted to think about it. I saw a different side of him, something vast and deep, and my brain is still processing and rolling it around in my head.

The lecture hall has small chairs, and I can’t help but brush up against Blaze’s broad shoulders as he gets settled. Goose bumps pop up on my arm each time it brushes into his.

I nonchalantly ease away from him.

“You got a pen I can borrow?” he asks me, and I turn my head, which has been staring down at my notebook, looking intently at nothing.

I take him in up close. He looks hot AF today, his damp wavy hair brushed back off his face, still wet from a shower, probably.

“Seriously? Aren’t you prepared?”

He pulls a handful of pens out of his backpack. “Just messing with you. I’m uber prepared. I’ve got to ace this class.”

He fiddles with his notebook, getting it situated on his desk just so. He moves it forward and then back, then to the side, then— “Can you ever sit still?” I laugh nervously. I’m not sure what to say after our convo last night. Have we called a truce? Do I want a truce? Maybe. Regardless of the fact that he hasn’t been with Dani—and why hasn’t he—he didn’t want to continue with me.

“Just, you know, I’m antsy. Always have been.” A pink blush rises on his face. “You never noticed before?”

I did, actually, but we happened so fast and then it was over so I never commented on it. On the football field, I’d noticed how he would always be on his feet, walking up and down the sidelines, slapping other players on the back when he isn’t playing. When I’d see him at Cadillac’s, I saw how he rarely sat down, preferring to pace the room and talk to people. I wonder if being busy keeps his head clear? I wonder…

Dang.

We really didn’t know each other.

“Why are you antsy?”

“Are we about to have a real conversation?” he asks.

“We did last night.”

“Indeed. Did you dream about me?”

And there he goes with the cockiness.

“Nope. I dreamed about cupcakes, lemon ones called Pucker Up. I shoved two in my mouth and may have had an orgasm.”

“Did you dream about golf-ball-headed aliens too?”

Oh, he went there, the first time we had sex. Memories bombard me of us in the library when we ended up in the Dead Zone, the deserted top floor of the library where no one went. We sat on the floor in the dark between two bookshelves and talked about dreams. Later, using our phones as lights we giggled and stared at drawings of sexual positions in a Kama Sutra book. We studied a particular one, both of us transfixed on the image of a long-haired woman bent over a dining table laden with grapes and fruit as a tall man took her from behind, ecstasy on both their faces as they had sex. “Let me do that to you, Charm,” he said to me in a low voice before he kissed my neck. I nearly levitated off the floor we were sitting on. Here was this guy, so freaking out of my league, but I didn’t hesitate. I whispered my rules to him, and he stared at me for a long time, his chest held so still, studying me as if I was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. I knew his reputation as a player. I knew we were just friends because our friends were dating, but I held his gaze and unzipped his pants. His hand unbuttoned my shirt, unclasped my bra, and once he flicked his tongue over my nipple piercing, any leftover reservations flew out the window. We didn’t even make it to a table, not that there was one nearby. He put me on my knees, flipped my skirt up, rolled on a condom, and fucked me, my name a litany on his lips. His skilled fingers—Jesus, they knew how to play me. I came so hard I saw stars. I came so hard the second time, he laughed and put his hand over my mouth.

When it was over, we adjusted our clothes, stood up, and just looked at each other. We both wore stupefied, astonished expressions. His hair was mussed from where my hands had tugged. He’d yanked mine out of my ponytail and it was down, sticking to the sweat on my face. I hadn’t planned on having sex with him. I don’t think he had. He was the wrong kind of guy to hook up with. We just happened, like all delicious mistakes do. “We can do that whenever you want,” he finally said, eyes low and heavy, lust still swirling. “Your rules. Call me.” I gave him a jerky nod and bolted out of the Dead Zone, out of the library and into the coolness of the fall air. And shit, I did call him a week later. I got sucked in, knowing he was not my norm. Maybe that was part of the attraction—a guy I’d never give a second look except to admire him in a passing kind of way.

“Your face is super red. Like really. You hot? I can fan you with my notebook?” He chuckles.

I blink, coming back to the present. He totally brought that night up on purpose.

I cross my arms and circle back to our earlier conversation. “Why the fidgeting?”

He rubs at his jawline. “I have an attention issue and get distracted. A bird that flies by the window, someone coughing, you—especially you. Doesn’t mean I’m not smart. It just takes me a while to take it all in.” He taps one of the pens on his desk.

Especially you.

“ADD?” I’ve read enough to know a little about it.

“Technically, ADHD, but I don’t jive with putting a label on it.”

I feel him. “We put labels on everyone. Greeks, jocks, nerds—it’s how our society works. People need a name to understand it. I’m not saying it’s right, just human nature. It’s a fascinating topic.”

He nods and leans in. “Right. It’s just a trait I come with, not a disability. Got diagnosed in third grade when I wandered out of the classroom and the teacher found me in the gym shooting hoops.” He grimaces. “I spent most of middle school in the principal’s office. My meds didn’t work, and it wasn’t until I put a football in my hand that I felt right.”

Dillon leans over. “He’s a kickass football player with the reflexes of a cat. He’s a dynamo.”

Blaze smirks. “He’s my biggest supporter, obviously.”

DING!

We stop talking as a bell rings, something similar to those little metal ones used at old hotels.

Dr. Cartwright walks out from the office door at the front of the room. An older man with a shock of wiry gray hair and a barrel chest, he looks a little intimidating.

“Ladies and gentlemen, get settled. Class has officially started, and that was your first prompt. From now on in this class, you will hear that bell randomly. When you do, I want you to write down exactly what you were thinking at that moment. Whether you are intently concentrating on my lecture or thinking about clipping your toenails, I want the truth. I will be using this information for a study you all agreed to participate in by walking through those doors.”

Everyone dutifully pulls out a piece of paper and starts to write down some comments. I was thinking about Blaze when the bell sounded. Not fair; I didn’t know the thought police would be listening this morning.

I write down Reflexes of a cat.

Without being too obvious, I sneak a look at Blaze’s paper. Must pass this class.

“Also, write on your piece of paper your major and the number on your seat, but not your name. This will keep your responses confidential while allowing us to correlate all of the data to make it useful. I’m working on a new study, and you’re the mice in the maze. Also, I hope you enjoy the seat you are in, because it’s your seat for the entire term. To gather good data, I need it to be consistent.”

“I guess that makes us psych buddies,” Blaze says with a slight grin, nudging my shoulder with his. It’s just a light touch, but the pressure sparks fire straight to my core.

Down libido. I own you—you don’t own me.

“Just as long as you know we are no longer fuck buddies,” I say.

He frowns.

DING!

Great. I look down at my paper and decide it’s time to start not caring about this shit.

I write Fuck buddies on my paper and show him. What is wrong with me?