“Zip it, roomie. I’ll see you later.”

“By later, you mean tomorrow?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Twenty-Six

Sawyer is waiting for me when I get downstairs. He’s leaning against the wall with the mailboxes, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed while he surveys the hustle and bustle in the lobby. Based on his expression I’d say he’s amused. There are a couple of guys lounging on the sofas, tossing a basketball between them. Two different pizza delivery drivers waiting for students to meet them in the lobby to collect their orders. A couple having an argument near the elevators. And at least four girls who are eyeing the fuck out of him.

I see him before he sees me. I use the time to take him in. He’s painfully good-looking. He’s changed since I saw him this afternoon. The suit is gone, replaced with faded denim jeans and a grey v-neck sweater, the collar of a white button-down shirt appearing underneath. His dark hair is tousled, as if he showered after work and just ran his hands through it while it dried. I cannot wait to get my hands on that hair. I know it must be as thick as it looks, and I’m a bit fascinated with the barely-there wave. It’ll definitely be something to hold on to later.

He sees me coming and his eyes do a slow trail down my frame and then back again. “You pick up all your dates here?” I quip.

He exhales slowly and shakes his head. “I didn’t think there was a woman alive who could have me waiting on her in a college dorm,” he replies. “But then again, I wasn’t expecting you, Boots.”

Well, hell, I don’t have a reply for that. I stare in his eyes for a moment and nod, the moment strangely intimate. He has the most devastating blue eyes, and I’m finding I really like having their attention on me.

He helps me into my coat and we head out. As he holds the car door for me I realize I still don’t know where we’re going, and it’s nice. Not planning the date is fan-freaking-tastic. I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to ask him what he wants to do and worry about him having a good time. I just get to have fun. Sawyer might be right about being pursued versus doing the pursuing. Unless he’s about to take me to a strip club.

We make it as far as 5th Street, which isn’t far at all, when I remember that I Googled him today. And that I know too much. Like his middle name (Thomas) and his birthday (January twenty-seventh) and his net worth (a lot). All stuff I should not yet know. It’s probably no more information than he’s dug up on me, but still, it feels weird. It might be the billions part that makes it weird. It’s definitely the billions part.

I fidget in my seat and then ask if he had a good day at work.

“The afternoon was pretty tedious. I had to sit through a meeting with a raging hard-on.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. I don’t even mumble it sarcastically.

“What’s going on here, Boots? No snappy retort from you?” We’re stopped at a light by the hospital. An ambulance whizzes past, the red and blue lights slicing through the car.

“Nothing is going on.” I shake my head and sit up straighter.

“Ah, you finally Googled me, didn’t you?” he says, smirking.

“Um, yeah.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t act differently.”

“Is that why you like me? No one else will call you an asshole to your face?”

“It’s a struggle, Boots, a real struggle to find that kind of honesty. I cry into my thousand-thread-count custom-made Kleenex all the time. Sure, I can get Siri to call me an asshole, but it’s hard to take a phone seriously, you know? She lacks the acrimony.”