Not for a household of giants.

“Here you go, darlin’.” The asshole is mimicking my accent, my words, and—

Well, she’s not my girlfriend, and I have no claim on her.

But you did just kiss her, I argue. So? I volley back at myself. You were fucking terrible at it and she’s never gonna want to see you again or put her mouth on yours, you out-of-practice, virgin piece of shit.

I have no right to be jealous of his flirting, especially since Charlie isn’t reciprocating.

“Thanks.” Charlie takes the salt from my roommate, her gaze darting to me, a hesitant smile on her lips directed at McMillan, as if she knows what’s going on and doesn’t intend to encourage it.

She’s being polite but not returning his over-the-top flirtation.

Any other girl would be playing us against each other. I’m sure of it.

But Charlie isn’t any other girl.

She held out—wouldn’t go out with me when I hinted at it, thinks I’m kind of an asshole.

Right?

Seventh Friday 3.0

Charlie

“Thanks for tonight. I had a lot of fun.” I glance at Jackson out of the corner of my eye, studying his profile in the dim cab of his truck. His strong jaw is set in a stubborn position, as if his teeth are clenched, tense. As if he no longer knows what to do with me now that we kissed in his kitchen.

That kiss.

I press two fingers to my lips, the heat from his mouth still fresh on my pout. It wasn’t anything particularly sensual, just the meeting of our mouths, but the sensation lingers just the same.

My lips are soft—I exfoliated them tonight before applying gloss—so I imagine he must have liked it, green as he is.

What’s it like for a guy like that to have no experience?

I could tell by the way he hesitated, nature taking over but still uneasy in his movements. Unsure.

Halting.

Refreshing.

I haven’t made out with tons of people myself, but I can’t imagine never having done it at my age. What is that like for someone in their twenties and living with a houseful of guys who screw and have casual relationships on a regular basis?

No wonder he was embarrassed and turned bright red.

Still.

I liked it, and I’m glad he doesn’t have a mile-long list of conquests like most athletes; that would turn me off.

Beside me, Jackson taps on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song softly playing on the radio—some old-school country ballad about politics, religion, and a dog named Blue—as we back out of the driveway and into the main street.

Jock Row… Jock Road. At least, that’s the unofficial name for it. Stanley Drive is what it’s actually called, after the alumna who donated a few million bucks to build the residences situated along the street with the sole purpose of housing athletes.

They’re nice digs, way more grand than the shithole I’m shacked up in with my friends on the other side of campus. I was embarrassed the other night showing Jackson where I live knowing he’s set up in the football house. The floors were disgusting, but the rest of it wasn’t terrible.

At least the door wasn’t falling off its hinges.

I make a mental note to send my landlord yet another message about my front door and gaze into the backseat of Jackson’s truck. My date’s truck.

Yup, it’s official—we’re on a date.

Butterflies flutter within my stomach, waking from their slumber. It’s been a long time since a boy has made me nervous.

Jackson turns a corner, and the small collection of gourds in the backseat rolls from one side of the seat to the other. We didn’t bring the pumpkin we carved, the guys collectively deciding they wanted to put them all out on their porch—but I have the unmarked gourds and the scarecrow, Biff, and plan on putting them on my porch as soon as I get home.

Cozy my place up for the impending holiday.

“Glad you had a good time.”

Good tyme.

I shiver. That accent. That voice, that tone.

Jackson taps the steering wheel again, and my eyes go to his hands.

His big, strong, masculine hands.

Before tonight, I haven’t had a set of hands on my body in God, who knows how long.

I try not to stare at Jackson’s hands or forearms, dragging my stare away and refocusing my concentration on the road ahead of us. Plucking at the hemline of my dress to distract myself, to keep my own hands busy.

“I did have a good time.” I groan; we sound ridiculous. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’m surprised you…”

I pause, self-conscious.

“Surprised I what?”

“Nothing.” I zip my lip and shake my head.

His irritation is evidenced by his sigh. “I hate when people say nothin’—just tell me what you were going to say.”

He’s right; I hate when people do that too, and he knows damn well I had something to say. Ugh.

So. I do the only thing I can do: I take a breath, suck it up, and say what I was about to say. It’s the only way to save face with him so he doesn’t think I’m a wimp.

“I’m surprised you put the moves on me.”

“I wasn’t putting the moves on you.”

“Oh? Then what would you call breathing all over my neck?”

Jackson laughs, gripping the wheel. “I was sweet-talkin’ you because you were pissed I said we’re hangin’ out.”

The words I waz sweet-tawkin yew go straight to my lady bits.

They tingle.

“You didn’t have to get up and spoon me from behind. You could have just said you were sorry for being insensitive.”

It’s true; he could have.

But he didn’t.

He put his mouth on my body—on my neck. His warm breath caressing my skin felt so, so…oh lord, I’m going to end up touching myself tonight when I climb into bed at the memory of those lips…

Hardly the same thing. Not even close.

Too bad I’m not desperate enough to chase after a guy who doesn’t want to date me.

Have fun and hang out? Yes.

Talk and text? Yes.

Invite to parties and games? Yes.

Date? No. Have a relationship with? No. Sleep with? No.

It’s just so weird to me. Here he is, this hulking hunk of a guy, outweighing me by at least two hundred pounds. Jackson Jennings is a mountain of a man with more testosterone pumping through his veins than the average college boy. It makes no sense to me that his hormones aren’t raging, too, and if they are, the guy has more self-control than I can comprehend.

Most guys his age have zero self-control. None. And it shows.

“You weren’t expecting me to put the moves on you. So that’s what you thought I was doing, eh?”

“I mean…yeah?” Shoot, I hate when I’m wrong.

“Well.” He pauses. “Maybe I was.”

My head whips in his direction, eyes so wide the air from the heater in the dash is blowing them dry.

I blink.

Blink again.

“Say that again.” I need clarification.

“How about we do this, Miss Know-It-All: when we turn onto the next block—onto Frat Row—if we see any people walking into a fraternity house dressed in costumes, you have to kiss me.”