The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

“Oh, right, I forgot. You were there this weekend.”

“You did not forget. Go ahead. Just ask how it went with my parents.”

“Fine. How’d it go?”

He leans back against the headboard and props one knee up, resting his beer bottle on it.

“It was good,” I answer. “We binge-watched a horrible reality show. We’re all addicted.”

Ryder sounds dubious. “Garrett Graham watches reality shows.”

“He does when we force him to.” I laugh. “He got into it, though. The couple he’s rooting for is so toxic. And yes, I dropped your name a bunch of times.”

“What’d he say?”

I think about Dad’s reluctant admission. “He said you’re a great player.”

Ryder narrows his eyes.

“He did,” I insist. “Because you are. That’s not his issue with you.”

“So he has an issue with me.” His broad shoulders sag a little.

“He thinks you have an attitude problem. But you already knew that.”

Ryder’s gaze drops to his hands. It’s adorably bashful, which somehow makes him so much sexier to me. “He’s not the only one. A friend in the pros told me my draft team is watching me like a hawk. Dallas has a new GM, and he’s not entirely sure about me.”

“Well, I mean, your reputation precedes you.” I eye him pointedly. “Any chance you feel like sharing what happened at the World Juniors? Because a lot of people are curious. Including my dad.”

He just looks at me. Silent.

“Yeah, what I was thinking? That was a stupid question to ask Mr. Forthcoming over here.” I lift a brow. “You know, you have a really bad habit of never talking about anything important.”

“That’s not true. We talk about hockey all the time.”

“Hockey doesn’t count. And you know that’s not what I mean.” I reach for my lager and take a sip before setting it back on the dresser. “It wouldn’t kill you to share sometimes. Even minor things. Like, for example, what you have against stuff.”

“Stuff?” he echoes.

I use air quotes to repeat his earlier insight. “‘Stuff is overrated.’ Okay, cool—why’s that? You don’t like clutter? You’re a neat freak? I mean, fine, it’s obvious you’re a neat freak. But isn’t this a bit extreme? There’s hardly any personal possessions in this room. Feels like a hotel room.” I gesture all around us. “Come on, you gotta give me something here.”

He ponders it for a moment, visibly uncomfortable.

“I moved around constantly when I was a kid,” he finally answers. “Stuff got stolen a lot.”

“You moved around with your family?”

“Foster care.” The words are clipped, gravelly.

I soften. “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

He takes a drink of his beer. “Most of the homes were overcrowded. Kids would be fighting for toys, for attention. It became easier not to have anything to fight over or get stolen from me. If that makes sense.” He gives his trademark shrug. “The neatness is a habit from those days too. We used to get in trouble if we didn’t keep the room clean.”

“Look at that,” I tell him. “Do you see what’s happening?”

“What?”

“We’re having an actual conversation.”

“Fuck. You’re right. Come here.”

Ryder doesn’t say a lot, but when he does, it speaks volumes. Those two words—come here—are loaded with so much heat. His blue eyes tell me we’re done talking.

I walk over and stand at the foot of the bed.

He cocks a brow. “Are you going to sit?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

My heart is pounding. Since I didn’t bring a purse, I fish my phone and ID cards out of my back pocket and drop them on the nightstand. Then I join him on the mattress and sit cross-legged.

My gaze shifts to the black screen of the TV. “So are we watching something?”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

He takes a long sip of his beer. I grin when I notice the bracelet on his wrist.

“You really don’t strike me as the friendship bracelet type,” I say frankly.

“I’m not.”

“Got it. So this is the fault of an overly sentimental BFF.”

“One hundred percent. I swear, this dude cries at any movie with a dog. I figured he’d have a nervous breakdown if I cut this thing off. I’m sort of used to it now, though.”

Ryder turns to place his bottle on the other night table.

“You still feeling stressed out?” His voice is gruff.

“Very much so.”

I move closer to him. I put my hand on his thigh.

He glances down at it, then up at me. Slightly amused.

“My hand is on your thigh,” I tell him.

“I noticed.”

He smiles, and my breath hitches at the sight.

Then he chuckles. “I love how you announce your move. ‘My hand is on your thigh,’” he mimics. “You know, most people would just make the move and then wait to see if it works.”

“What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

“Got it. So, what’s the next move, rebel?” he asks with uncharacteristic playfulness.

“Ask me if you can kiss me.”

His eyes grow heavy-lidded. “Can I kiss you?”

“No,” I reply. “I’m not interested.”

He barks out a laugh.

“Ha. See, I just did that to make you laugh.”

“What’s your obsession with making people laugh?”

“Not people. Only you. You’re scary otherwise.”

“Scary?” His voice thickens again. “Do I really scare you?”

“Sometimes. Not in that way, though,” I hurry to add. “I find it unnerving when I don’t know what someone’s thinking.”

“You wanna know what I’m thinking?”

“I’m pretty sure I know what you’re thinking now.”

I move my hand over his thigh in a slow caress.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“You’re thinking you want me to move my hand about, oh, two inches to the left.”

He nods in thought. “And then what?”

“Then you want me to unzip your pants. How am I doing? Am I reading your mind?”

“Completely wrong.”

My jaw drops in surprise. “Really? That’s not what you’re thinking?”

He inches closer and the familiar scent of him surrounds me. Woodsy and masculine.

“No, I’m thinking I want to slide my hand underneath your skirt and play with your pussy.”

“Oh,” I squeak.

“But first…” His face is close to mine. He’s so good-looking it makes my breath catch again. “Can I kiss you?”

I nod wordlessly and his mouth covers mine. His kisses are as addictive as I remember. Slow and teasing. Deep and drugging. His lips brush over mine, and every time I try to drive the kiss deeper, he eases away slightly. My breathing grows shallow. Next thing I know, he pulls me onto his lap so I’m straddling him. My hands lock around his neck. His are around my waist, fingers stroking where the hem of my thin sweater meets the waistband of my denim skirt. He finds bare skin and my body sizzles.

This time, when I deepen the kiss, he lets me. He unleashes a soft, growly sound from the back of his throat, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. As my tongue slicks over his, I become aware of my phone buzzing.

“Ugh,” I mumble. “I need to check that.”

“No,” he mumbles back, holding the side of my face to kiss me again.

“I have to. Mya took the train to Manhattan this weekend and she promised she’d text me when she got home. Want to make sure she made it back safe.”

As I bend toward the nightstand for my phone, Ryder tortures me by kissing my neck, his face buried in my skin. I shiver at how good it feels.

“Let me just tell her—” I halt when I notice the screen.

CASE:

Want to hang out tonight?

“Forget it,” I say a little too fast. “It’s not her.”

Ryder doesn’t miss the change in my tone. “Yeah? Who is it, then?”

“Someone else.”

As I’m trying to shove the phone away, he peeks at the screen. Seeing the notification, he lets out a low, mocking laugh.

“Hmmm. Should we tell him?”

“Don’t be an ass.” Sighing, I put the phone aside.