Laughing, he climbs back on the bed. “Don’t worry, babe, I got you.”

I crack a smile. “Or, second, I’d have to kill you for discovering my secret.”

“Or, or, hear me out: you take me on as your muscle and handsome sidekick and we hit the road as soldiers of fortune.”

“Hmm.” I pretend to study him, deliberating. “Tempting offer, comrade.”

“But first we should probably strip search each other to check for wires. You know, to establish trust.”

He’s adorable in an insatiable puppy sort of way. “Yeah, no.”

“You’re no fun.”

I can’t get a read on this guy. He’s sweet, charming, funny—all those sneaky qualities of men that trick us into believing we can turn them into something civilized. But at the same time bold, raw, and completely unpretentious in a way almost no one in college ever is. All of us are just stumbling through self-discovery while putting on a brave face. So how does that square with the Conor Edwards of lore? The man with more notches on his hockey stick than snowflakes in January. Who is the real Conor Edwards?

Why do I care?

“So, uh, what’s your major?” I ask, feeling like a cliché.

His head falls back and he blows out a breath. “Finance, I guess.”

Okay, not what I expected. “You guess?”

“I mean, I’m not really feeling it. It wasn’t my idea.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“My stepdad. He got it in his head I’ll go work for him after I graduate. Learn how to run his company.”

“You don’t sound stoked about that,” I say, throwing out some west coast jargon just for him. It earns me a chuckle.

“No, not stoked,” he agrees. “I’d rather get strung up by my balls than put on a suit and stare at spreadsheets all day.”

“What would you rather major in?”

“That’s the thing. I have no idea. I guess I ultimately caved on finance because I couldn’t come up with a better excuse. Couldn’t pretend I had some other great interest, so…”

“Nothing?” I press.

For me, I was torn by so many possibilities. Granted, some of them were leftover fantasies from childhood about being an archeologist or astronaut, but still. When it came time to decide what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, I had no shortage of options.

“The way I grew up, it’s not like I had any right to expect much,” he says gruffly. “Figured I’d end up working minimum wage with a name tag, or in jail, rather than going to college. So I never really gave it much thought.”

I can’t imagine what that’s like. Staring into your future and having no hope for yourself. It reminds me how privileged I am to have grown up being told I could be anything I wanted, and knowing the money and access were there to back it up.

“Jail?” I try to lighten the mood. “Give yourself more credit, buddy. With your face and body, you would’ve made a killing in porn.”

“You like my body?” He grins, gesturing to his long, muscular frame. “All yours, T. Climb aboard.”

God, I wish. I swallow hard and pretend to be unaffected by his hotness. “Pass.”

“Whatever you say, buddy.”

I roll my eyes.

“What about you?” he asks. “What’s your major? No, wait. Let me guess.” Conor narrows his eyes, studying me for the answer. “Art history.”

I shake my head.

“Journalism.”

Another shake.

“Hmm…” He stares harder, biting his lip. God, he’s got the sexiest mouth. “I’d say psych major, but I know one of those and you aren’t it.”

“Elementary education. I want to be a teacher.”

He raises one eyebrow, then scans me with a look that’s almost…hungry. “That’s hot.”

“What’s hot about it?” I demand, incredulous.

“Every guy fantasizes about banging a teacher. It’s a thing.”

“Boys are weird.”

Conor shrugs, yet that hunger still colors his face. “Tell me something…why aren’t you already here with someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“There isn’t a guy in the picture somewhere?”

It’s my turn to shrink away from the topic. I’d probably have more to say with regards to thirteenth-century textiles than dating. And since I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one evening, I’d rather not compound my humiliation by sharing the details of my non-existent love life.

“So there is a story there,” Conor says, misreading my hesitation for coyness. “Let’s hear it.”

“What about you?” I volley back. “Haven’t settled on that one special groupie yet?”

He shrugs, unbothered by my teasing jab. “Don’t really do girlfriends.”

“Ugh, that sounds slimy.”

“No, I just mean I’ve never dated anyone for more than a few weeks. If it’s not there, it’s not there, you know?”

Oh, I know the type. Bores easy. Constantly looking over his shoulder at the next thing passing by. A walking meme in the flesh.

Figures. The pretty ones are always aching for their freedom.

“Don’t think you’ve distracted me,” he says, giving me a knowing smile. “Answer the question.”

“Sorry to disappoint. No guys. No story.” One unremarkable entanglement sophomore year that hardly fulfilled the definition of a relationship is too pathetic to warrant mention.

“Come on. I’m not as dumb as I look. What, did you break his heart? He spend six months sleeping on the sidewalk outside the sorority house?”

“Why do you assume I’m the kind of girl a guy would pine over in the rain and sleet?”

“You kidding?” His silvery eyes sweep over me, lingering on various parts of my body before returning to meet my gaze. Everywhere he looked is now tingling like crazy. “Babe, you’ve got the kind of body that boys build in their heads under the sheets after dark.”

“Don’t do that,” I tell him, all humor draining from my voice as I start to turn away. “Don’t mock me. That’s not nice.”

“Taylor.”

I jerk when he takes my hand, keeping me in place so that we’re still facing each other. As my pulse kicks into overdrive, he presses my shaky hand against his chest. His body is warm, solid. His heart beats a quick, steady rhythm beneath my palm.

I’m touching Conor Edwards’ chest.

What the hell is happening right now? Never in my wildest dreams did I envision the Kappa Chi Spring Break Hangover party ending this way.

“I mean it.” His voice thickens. “I’ve been sitting here having filthy thoughts about you all night. Don’t mistake my manners for indifference.”

A reluctant smile pulls at the corners of my lips. “Manners, huh?” I’m not sure I believe him. Or that a porno clip in his mind starring me qualifies as a compliment. Although I guess it’s the thought that counts.

“My mother didn’t raise a scoundrel, but I can be downright improper if you’re into it.”

“And what passes for improper on the west coast?” I ask, noting the way his top lip twitches when he’s being cheeky.