I push the button for the elevator then the air changes behind me, crackling. My shoulders stiffen. There’s only one person in the world who makes the hair on my nape rise. Him. And by him, I mean that egotistical bad boy who thinks he’s God’s gift. River Tate—AKA Perfect Guy from the night I met Donovan.

Ah! He was the guy who bumped into me on the steps. Should have known. It’s happened before, a slight bump here, a brush there. I never see it coming, but oh yeah, I always feel the effects.

Neither of us speaks as the doors slide open, but I can feel the disdain in his gaze right between my shoulder blades. I step in and slowly turn around. Yep! There he is, all six feet four inches of broad-shouldered hot college boy wearing a purple Braxton Badgers shirt that’s sculpted to his chest, clinging to his muscled arms. Unfortunately, the color also makes his eyes pop and complements his skin tone. And the hair? Ugh. It’s thick and dark and perfectly messy as if he just came from a blowout at the salon. The color is a deep mahogany with pops of gold from the sun, and it frames his face, accentuating high cheekbones and a square chin. His body is built and massive, a gladiator with legs for miles.

He. Is. Devastating.

Yes, I’ve noticed.

I can look.

A person can appreciate art from the heavens.

Sunshine is pretty too. It also burns your eyes.

“Well played, God, well played,” I murmur under my breath, barely audible. “He has a fan club devoted entirely to his lips, but you could have made him kind to go along with it. Hey, maybe you have a plan for him, I don’t know. Whatever. I’m not judging. I leave that to you.”

He’s talking on his phone, his lips quirked up as his deep voice rumbles. “Yeah. I’ll bring you something special, baby girl.”

Gag.

Without acknowledging me, he laughs at the reply on the other end, the sound husky and deep. “Mhmm, I got your little gift. I smile every time I look at it.”

Probably a mirror.

He smiles into the phone, a dimple popping on the side of his jaw.

It doesn’t affect me at all.

Nothing about him makes me swoon.

He tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You want a big one?” He chuckles. “Why am I not surprised? I always deliver what you want, don’t I?”

Get a room!

I clear my throat and send him a glare—which he doesn’t notice because he isn’t looking at me.

His voice lowers. “I’ve got class. I’ll see you soon, baby girl.” He makes a kissy noise into the phone, taps end, and tucks it in his jeans.

His eyes flit to me then slide away as he stares at the ground. He whistles to himself, seeming lost in thought and annoyingly happy.

I slap the button for the sixth floor. Lord knows he won’t—even though we’re going to the same class. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, it’s the same scenario. I get on the elevator and he follows. We never speak. But, oh the tension is thick. On my side. He barely notices.

Besides being the star wide receiver for Braxton, he’s the Kappa president. You’d think he’d be friendly to me since I date Donovan and he was there for our meet cute, but River goes out of his way to avoid me. On the first day of class, he rushed in late with his head bent as he sat down next to me. He looked over, met my gaze, murmured Oops, can’t do it, then promptly rose up and walked to another desk five rows behind me. I had to discreetly sniff my pits.

Case in point: this past May when Donovan gave me his Kappa pin—pretty much pre-engagement if you’re Greek—River raised a maddening eyebrow, draped a lazy look over my three-inch high-tops and mini skirt, and sneered. Sneered! The pin made me an honorary little sister, but judging by his face, I didn’t rate. It’s fine. Totally! Not everyone is an Ana fan.

I’m not in a sorority.

I’m not good enough for one of the gods on campus.

The elevator stops on the second level and three girls get on, all Deltas. I’ve been to enough parties at the Kappa house over the past year to know their faces. Without even a glance at me, they gush at River as they surround him. I take a step to the back, putting distance between us.

My gaze snags on one in particular, Harper Michaels. She glances over her shoulder, her cool gaze meeting mine.

Oh, no, girl, I won’t back down, my face says. Not today. Bring it.

I hold her eyes for several seconds until she’s the one to look away.

With her white-blonde hair—not out of a bottle—pale blue cardigan, and pink lipstick, she’s beautiful in a classic way I can never be. Hailing from the same ritzy prep school in Atlanta as Donovan, they came to Braxton as boyfriend and girlfriend but broke up right before I came along. Her sorority pegged me as the “homewrecker” of their relationship, which is ridiculous. He was single when I met him and he pursued me. My chest tightens. She’s pre-law, and I wonder if she got into Harvard.

I eavesdrop on their conversation. Hard not to in an elevator.

“You’re amazing, River, and you know it,” comes from one of the Deltas. Mellany Something. Her hair is red and curled in beach waves. She strokes her hand down his arm as if she’s done it before. Probably has.

“Appreciate it, Mel, but I dropped five passes,” is his reply. “We only won three games all season. Not even a bowl game. It’s been the worst year…” His words trail off. He fidgets as he swirls the silver snake ring on his left index finger. The man is constantly moving his body, touching that ring, tapping his legs, or shifting his shoulders.

As a trio, they coo, placating him over the loss this past Saturday.

“God, tell me, why do they fall at his feet?” I mouth to myself. “He’s gorgeous, I get it, but so damn evil. Oops. Sorry, I cussed.” I’m staring at my shoes as I silently grouse, but when I glance up, I think he might have been staring at me. I’m not sure. He didn’t hear me because it wasn’t audible, yet my face heats.

“Aw, don’t be sad,” the bosomy brunette murmurs in a sexy voice as she leans into him. Audrey Something. “Besides, I can make it up to you.”

“That’s an invitation if I ever heard one,” I whisper to myself. “Poor wittle football player. Let me rub your shoulders and maybe your tiny little dick—”

He swivels his head and looks at me. I freeze mid-sentence, then cough.

“Allergies,” I murmur.

He moves his eyes off me and looks at Audrey.

Yep.

He’s hooked up with her. I walked in on them upstairs in a bathroom at the Kappa house at the start of the semester. It was a campus-wide mixer, and the line to the bathroom was long, so I slipped up to the top floor where it was quieter. I opened the door, and he had her bent over the vanity, her hair clenched in his fist as he took her from behind—fully clothed with his pants unzipped and hanging around his hips.

Our eyes met in the mirror as he fucked her.

Still as a statue, I stood there entirely too long as our eyes clung. I can recall every nuance of that incident, her yes, yes, yes, the loud roar in my head, the wash of heat that flashed over me. With my chest rising rapidly, I was transfixed as he orgasmed, his eyes low and heavy on my face. Then he had the audacity to smile. Yeah. I’ve seen River Tate’s O-face. He bites his bottom lip.

I shove the unwanted image out of my head.