Wait? Do I want progress with her?

She throws her head back in that defiant way of hers, and her dark hair falls over her shoulders, long and thick, the curls soft. Part of me wants to touch them, to wrap my finger around those strands. Her whiskey-colored eyes flash fire at me, and she’s wearing a hole in her bottom lip as she chews on it.

I can’t seem to stop myself from taking the rest of her. I mean, how can I resist? Those curves, the way her…

My hands twitch. Don’t stare at her boobs, moron. Right, right. Charisma’s more than just a girl with a banging body. She’s smart as hell…and on her way to Boston soon.

Yeah.

We’ll be going in different directions after graduation.

Who knows where I’ll be, but it won’t be where she is.

“Can we be friends?” It’s not really what I wanted to say, but it’s what comes out.

She blinks. “Why?”

I adjust the backpack on my shoulders. “Maybe we were just fuck buddies who never talked about real shit before, but it’s a new semester. Maybe we can make a fresh start. Our friends are dating.”

She gets a wary look on her face. “Okay, tell me something about you. Surprise me.”

I rack my brain trying to decide what I can tell her. She probably wants me to say something really intelligent, and while I could do that, what I come up is: “I hate mayonnaise.”

A full smile crosses her face, and I blink at the force of it, the way her plump lips curve up. They’ve always fascinated me, and shit, I know they’re just regular lips, but she— “Shocking,” she murmurs. “You’re a mayo hater.”

I lean against the wall. Be cool. Be cool. I shrug. “Well, did you know that about me already?”

“Fair enough. Continue. Please elaborate.”

I grin. “Mayo’s disgusting, and people put it in everything—slaw, potato salad, dips, burgers. I’ve thought about starting a club for people to get together online to talk about how much we despise it. Maybe a website called MayoNOnaise.com. Catchy, right?”

Her eyes dance, and it makes me laugh.

“I love mayo,” she says. “You might actually know that if you had taken me out for a sandwich or something.”

“You never asked for a sandwich, but okay, point taken. Let’s go to the student center right now and grab one. I’ll pay and you can have all the mayonnaise. I may make you sit at a table a few feet away though.”

“It’s too early for lunch, and I have a class.”

“Fine, but we’re marking this down: I asked you if you wanted a sandwich. It shall be proclaimed on banners and described in song around the annual Waylon bonfire and the toga party for ages to come. Blaze Townsend asked Charisma Rossi if she wanted to do lunch and she said no. Her loss, really. Blaze is super good company.”

“Now who’s using third person?”

She just shakes her head at me and we walk together out the entrance. It’s freezing. I offer my varsity jacket, and she shakes her head.

Fine, fine. Move slow, Blaze.

“Where you headed?”

She gives me a side-eye. “Class.”

We head down the path, passing several people who call out to me along the way. She makes a left at a fork in the sidewalk, and I follow.

“Don’t tell me we have our second class together too,” she says as we pass by a couple of buildings. She darts a look at me.

“You never know.”

She turns right and takes the steps up to the Crest Building, an ancient-looking structure with thick windows and heavy molding around the entrance. I’ve never been inside it, but it looks interesting. Here goes nothing.

We enter a huge, spacious room on the ground floor with not a chair in the place. There are long yoga-looking mats on the floor, and the air has a musty quality to it. It reminds me how nice our gym facility is.

Against the wall is a rack of wooden and metal sticks, and next to it are wire mesh masks hanging from pegs. Ah. I give her a surprised look. I picture Charisma in a white fencing uniform—is that what they call it?—her lush body bouncing around, poking her opponent with a sword. Nice. I could get behind that.

“Fencing? I like your style, city girl.”

She blows at her bangs. “Why do you keep calling me that? I’m not, like, sophisticated.” She does a twirl. “Look at me. I’m in Chucks and leggings.”

“To this Mississippi boy, you are totally sophisticated.”

She pauses, a shuttered expression on her face as she sets her backpack in a cubby. I do the same. I’m all about going with the flow.

“Welcome to class,” states a tall, thin man who’s come out of a side door. In his late forties with a blond man bun, he speaks with a slight Russian accent. He claps his hands fast and does a little dance, one step forward and two steps back, frisky like. “Grab a partner, preferably someone similar in height and wingspan. Take a mat.”

Charisma walks to the other side of the room and stands on a mat. I hang back for a second. Even though I said I had a class so I could walk with her, I don’t, and if I want to leave, now’s the time. I could get in a quick lifting session— “Charisma, do you have a partner?” The words come from a male.

My head swivels and I take in a guy with short auburn-colored hair who’s walked up to her. Wait a damn minute. Isn’t he the one I saw giving her a once-over at Cadillac’s?

Oh.

Hell.

No.

“I’m her partner,” I say as I walk over and stand next to her.

Chess Guy looks up at me, gets a load of my I’ll pulverize you look, and backs away slowly.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t own her. Not even close.

“So, you ARE taking fencing?” she asks, exasperation in her voice.

“Depends how I like it today. I can always add it.” I arch a brow.

She stills and frowns, the soft lines of her oval face flattening. “Blaze…please don’t take this class.”

Shit. She really doesn’t want to be near me. My heart twinges as her words snake around inside my chest. I did that to her. I removed her from my life in a public way that everyone knew about, even though that wasn’t my intention, and it made her hate me.

I stare at her. “Can you handle being close to me for just one more hour? Will you give me that? I’m not going to register for this class, okay?”

Her lashes flutter, but she nods.

“Everyone grab a practice foil,” comes from the instructor. He goes on to tell us his name is Chaz then he runs through the syllabus for the semester, which is basically us learning how to poke at each other. No books involved. I got this.

We grab the swords, each one a thin wooden blade with a ball at the tip covering the pointed end.

“Barritus!” I call out with the sword in the air, and a few nearby students glare my way. I wave and give them a grin. “What’s up? Cool class, right?” They blink and turn back to each other. I look at Charisma; she’s glaring too, but her lip is twitching.

“Dammit. Stop making people dizzy with that smile…and what the hell is ‘Barritus’?”

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in days. She likes my crazy—or she did.

“War cry of the Roman soldier.”

“Of course it is.” She smiles and…I think…I think I’d do anything to keep that smile there.

I shake myself. You’re done with her, dude. DONE.

I wave the foil around. “Did you know the legions usually marched in silence to maintain order in their ranks? But once they encountered the enemy, they would erupt with that war cry and freak everyone out. They’d use their shields to roughen the sound, making it rumble and reverberate across the battlefield.” I tap my head. “The Romans were masters at battle.”

“Is that what you call out when you take the football field?”

“Nope, but I should.”

She toys with the ball on the end of her sword, her words nonchalant. “I watched the big game. I saw you make a few big plays.”

My breath hitches. “Yeah?”

“Dammit. Stop grinning. You were amazing and you know it. I had my whole family around the TV watching!”

Awe fills my mind. She watched. She…watched me. Something stirs deep within, soft and warm, shifting, aching to get out, desperate to walk up to her and just wrap my arms— Chaz approaches our mat and grimaces as he takes in my tall body and her petite one. “You two really don’t go together.”

“I know, but he insisted,” she says dryly. “I suspect he wants to pulverize me.”

Chaz gives me a long, lingering glance, brushing over my frame. He comes back to my face, blinks, and then blushes.

I just smile. I’m used to men checking me out since coming to Waylon. I don’t lean that way, but I don’t have a problem with people who do.

We have a player on the team, Kent, a linebacker who told us he was gay our freshman year at training camp. For the most part—except for assholes like Archer—everyone supports him.

That wouldn’t have been the case with my aunt and uncle. They attend a small judgmental church in Alma. At fourteen, I announced I was done. I didn’t feel at home sitting in that pew every Sunday, especially with the folks who knew my parents, people who had gone to high school with them.

I heard the whispers.