Sayonara Waylon, sayonara Blaze.

He glances down at the paper and taps his chin. “I’m thinking you need a humanity elective. How about Social Psychology 410 with Dr. Cartwright? He’s very entertaining. No pillow required.”

A tingle of excitement hits. “Oh! That class is legendary. Rumor is you need special pull—or you have to be an athlete.”

He smiles. “You have pull with me, and Dr. Cartwright owes me. Would you be willing to take it?”

Why not? “Sure.”

He pats me on the back. “Good. I’ll take care of updating your schedule. Now, let me set you up with this fellow. Did I mention medical school already? Mike is very, very handsome. Your mother would be thrilled.”

He met my parents when they came to visit me one year and had us all over for a cookout.

I shake my head. “Pass.”

He cocks his head, his face growing serious as he studies me. “I don’t mean to meddle, dear. I just can’t help myself.”

I shake my head. “You and my ma are a lot alike.”

He grabs a Post-it from his desk, scribbles on it, and hands it over to me.

I take it, staring at the phone number. “Dr. A—”

He waves me off. “Do what you want with it. You never know, he might just be a good friend. You look like you need one,” he finishes quietly.

Dang. I must really be off.

A long exhalation comes from me as I tuck the number in my purse. “Fine.”

6

“Need some help?”

I’m on my tiptoes when the question comes, trying to reach a book on the top shelf in the bookstore at the student center.

My heart does a nosedive off a cliff as that familiar gruff voice washes over me, his accent a smooth drawl that’s reminiscent of hot summer nights and slow kisses—kisses we never had…well, except for that one time freshman year.

I ignore him and try to grab the book.

“You’re too short. Let me,” Blaze says, this time closer, his voice soft, almost placating.

I suck in a breath. The artist side of me was always drawn to the colors I saw when he spoke, shades of gold and gray, one side of him sunny and easy, the other part wrapped in fog and smoke.

I ease back on my feet and whip around, internally wishing I’d worn something more I hate you and don’t you wish you still had me, but sadly, I’m not in my kickass shoes and itchy dress. Today it’s flat-soled red Converse, black joggers, and a Yankees sweatshirt. I blow at a piece of hair in my face. Shit.

Of course, he looks magnificent in a tight long-sleeved black shirt that clings to his broad chest and tapered jeans molded to those leg muscles. His face gets most of my attention, the darkness on his jawline adding a broody look.

Curse him and his hotness.

I stare at him a little too long, until I snap out of it.

“I don’t need help.” My voice is strangled as I move to brush past him—forget the textbooks—but he reaches out and takes my elbow.

“Charisma—”

His fingers are a hot brand on my skin—it’s the first time we’ve touched in three months—and I pull away. A tremble starts in my legs. How dare he? It was one thing to see him in a social setting and pretend I was fine, but when we’re face to face without people watching… “Don’t put your hands on me. I’m not your hookup anymore, football player.” My words are sharp, layered with bitterness.

His face reddens, and he drops his arms. “I didn’t mean—” he stops, not finishing as he studies my face.

I wonder what he sees. You know what he sees, Charisma—someone who wasn’t up to his usual standards.

Everything I didn’t say last night rushes out. “Didn’t mean to what? Dump me in the middle of my own sorority’s party in front of all my friends and half of campus? And you know, that’s totally fine. We both knew I wasn’t enough to keep your attention.”

His jaw clenches and he frowns, his brow furrowing. “I didn’t plan for things to happen that way.”

“How did you want to break up with me? Over candlelight? A text would have worked just fine,” I bite out.

He seems to grind his teeth, and his hand balls up as he puts it to his lips. “Things were complicated. It was the middle of football season—”

“Yeah, too difficult for a jock?”

It’s not true. I know he’s sharp, but anger eats at me—plus, Dani dances in my head, her hand curled around his arm, staking her claim.

The silence builds between us, and he watches me intently, as if trying to figure me out. He starts at my hair and works his way down to my feet, then comes back to my face. Just when I think I might combust from the intensity of his eyes, he looks away. “Is that really what you think about me? Just another dumb athlete with a hard-on for every girl who walks by?”

“ITSF.”

“If the shoe fits?” he asks.

“Damn you for always knowing my acronyms.”

His lips tighten.

“What?” I cock my hip. “You look like you want to say something.”

He taps his hand against his leg. Ice-blue eyes, ones I used to stare into and get butterflies from, glitter down at me. “You just can’t handle that I ended things, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart.”

“Never were.”

Shit…shit…my heart feels like an anvil just landed on it, heavy and hard, and I can’t breathe for a second at his words, part of me pissed, the other part devastated. I wanted to be his sweetheart, I did, but he…

You’re not my type.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I say quietly, my anger folding away piece by piece and slipping into that horrible self-pity I despise.

He closes his eyes and scrubs his face with those talented hands, strong and big and capable, skillful with a football. I’ve never met someone as devoted to a sport as he is. He doesn’t seem to get enough of training and working out. Perhaps all players are as focused as him; I don’t know. I do know I went to every home game he played at Waylon, way before we hooked up. Part of that was sorority driven—gotta support our players—but he was the one I watched. Number eighty-two.

Someone slides by us, and I realize we’ve been standing here looking at each other for too long. It’s time to go. I step back from him, and my hands shake as I cling to the books I already got, needing something to keep me anchored.

He steps in front of me, much like he did last night, blocking me, and I tilt my head back to take him in. At my height of five feet, three inches, it’s hard to glare at a guy who towers over you and not look ridiculous, but I manage—until his eyes flicker with lingering emotion. I drop his gaze. I can handle the smooth-talking Blaze, the one he shows everyone, but it’s that deeper side of him that intrigues me. And I can’t have that.

I dart my eyes around the store, searching for a way out, but I’m stuck between him and a bookshelf. “You’re blocking my path.” I focus on his legs. No sexiness there—well, except for the tight muscles under that denim.

“This is what I know,” he says in a low voice, ignoring my statement. “You told me we were just messing around. You set all the rules. Isn’t that how you operate? So why does me ending things with you even matter?”

“You never asked for more. You could have.” The revealing words fall around us, tinged with hurt, and I want to pull them back.

Protect your heart, Charisma.

The silence between us crackles, yet I’m aware of other people around us. There are a few girls on another aisle, and I glance over as one of them pulls out her phone. No doubt she’s taking a picture of him. Part of me retreats, anxious she’ll get me in that photo—a girl who clearly doesn’t belong. He doesn’t notice. Everyone knows who he is, and they’re probably wondering why he’s talking to me.

I inhale then immediately regret it when his scent hits me: freshly showered male with undertones of crisp pine. I shouldn’t be surprised I smell him. He’s standing way too close. What’s his deal? I decide I hate all pine trees. I will never look at another one again.

“No, I didn’t,” he finally says, the words taut as if pulled from him unwillingly. He taps his leg, his tell that he’s anxious or angry. We weren’t together long, but every moment we spent together, I studied him like a wine connoisseur given a glass of rare cabernet. I know what makes him laugh, usually random things that make no sense. I know that groan he makes deep in this throat when he slides inside me, like he’s home. I know the feel of his hand when he cups my face and stares at me, a hesitant expression on his face—

“You can’t even look at me anymore. I wonder why,” he says, his voice a challenge.

Steeling myself, I face those baby blues. “You know why. I wish we’d never met up last fall. I wish you’d never flirted with me. I wish I’d never fucked you that first time in the library. I hate you—”

“Same page. Same fucking page, Charisma.” And then he’s walking away, broad shoulders swaying as he stalks down the aisle, straight to where Dani is—staring at the lipstick counter. All hail the beauty queen.