The Graham Effect (Campus Diaries, #1)

I grab his hand and urge him forward. “Come on.”

We amble past a koi pond framed by lush vegetation and a bubbling waterfall. Lots of people decided to visit the gardens today. We pass a group of parents with their young children bounding along the winding paths. We dodge a hand-holding couple standing at one of the feeding stations. They’re watching a small orange and black monarch sip on some nectar.

“I don’t get you,” Ryder says gruffly.

“What’s not to get?”

He shrugs.

“No. Tell me.”

“You’re just…not how I figured you’d be,” he admits.

“Okay. And how did you figure I’d be?”

“You know, this super serious hockey player with a one-track mind.”

“I can be serious about hockey and still have other interests.”

“Like butterflies,” he says dryly.

“Why not butterflies?” I gesture at all the beautiful creatures fluttering over our heads. “Look how gorgeous they are.”

We wander toward a new path, this one quieter because there’s no children. A few feet ahead, a pink-haired lady is photographing a yellowish-brown butterfly perched on a leaf.

Ryder gives me a sideways look. “I just realized…I’ve never seen you take any pictures.”

“Should I?”

“It’s weird. I usually can’t go one day without seeing a chick taking a picture for social media. I saw a bunch of cheerleaders the other day posing in the quad for, like, a million shots. One of them kept poring over each picture and then ordering her friends to redo it.”

“Don’t get me wrong, my camera roll is filled with a gazillion shots. I just don’t take pictures here anymore because I’m pretty sure my last butterfly pic count was ten thousand, and I’m not joking. As for posting the pictures I take, nah. I’m not a social media girl.” I cock my head at him. “I assume you don’t have any social media either?”

He starts to laugh.

“Yeah, dumb question.”

“You know better, Gisele.” He shrugs. “I’m surprised you don’t have it, though.”

“Why is that surprising?”

“Because you’re a chick.”

“So that automatically means I need to be posting bikini pics and selfies? Fun fact: sometimes you can take pictures and just keep them for yourself without including the rest of the world.”

“I’d like to be included in the bikini pics. How do I opt in?”

I grin. “I’ll start sending you weekly shots.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“And I used to be on social media,” I remind him. “I still have the accounts, but they’re either private or deactivated. My old friend went after me pretty hard. That’s when I realized I don’t want my whole life online. All these moments belong to me. Not anyone else.” I wave at the butterflies and moths floating freely around us. “This is just for me.”

We keep walking, and I begin to feel the heat. The conservatory is made almost entirely of glass, and the October sun shining through the panes heats up an already tropical environment.

“It’s like we’re in the sauna again,” he grumbles, rolling up the sleeves of his gray Under Armour shirt.

I sort of wish we were. Because then he’d be inside me again.

“The butterflies need the warmth to fly. Do you not want them to fly, Ryder? When did this vendetta against butterflies begin?”

“At a very young age,” he says solemnly.

I love it when I get him to be playful. I’m starting to crave it on a level I’m determined not to overthink.

We stop in front a feeding station, where I read the information plaque on a nearby tree. No matter how many times I come here, I still manage to learn something new. There are too many paths and vegetation patches to keep track of.

“Aw look, you have a new friend,” I say in delight.

Ryder cranks his neck to squint at the blue butterfly that just landed on his shoulder.

“Poor guy,” I tsk. “He doesn’t know you well enough yet to figure out you’re an asshole.”

With a laugh, I dance down the path. I’m in a spectacular mood today. First the sauna sex, and now I’m here. This place always revitalizes me. And, maybe…as grumpy and uncommunicative as he can be…a tiny part of me enjoys spending time with Ryder.

“So what else are you into?”

I stop in my tracks.

“Are you trying to get to know me?” My jaw is literally at my feet.

“Forget it.” He walks past me.

I scamper eagerly after him. “No, let’s do this. Ask me anything. But,” I warn, “anything you ask me, you have to answer yourself.”

“This feels like a trap.”

“That’s how it works.”

“Fine,” he finally relents. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Wow. Such a thought-provoking question.”

I swear, this guy is reticent to share even a single significant detail about himself. Favorite color. Ha. Total cop-out right there.

“Green,” I tell him. “What’s yours? Wait, let me guess—black to match that enchanting disposition?”

“Gray.”

“That’s pretty much the same thing. What shade? Light gray? Dark?”

“A deep slate gray. Stormy, like your eyes.”

My heart does a little somersault. He’s not trying to be romantic, but I liked that line. I liked it way too much, in fact.

I’m starting to worry I might be in trouble.

I keep reminding myself this is supposed to remain casual. He said he doesn’t do feelings. And, really, it’s hard to picture myself going out with this guy. He’s notoriously tight-lipped. It’s like pulling teeth to draw personal details out of him. Exhausting just convincing him to tell me a sad story about his childhood.

Granted, if I had a whole bunch of sad childhood stories, maybe I wouldn’t want to share them either.

“Favorite sound?” His question interrupts my thoughts.

“Sound? That’s a weird one.” I ponder it. “The rain. I love the sound of the rain. What’s yours?”

“A puck striking the boards.”

“Oh, that’s good too.”

“Favorite sex position?”

My head swivels toward him in accusation. “You can’t discuss sex in the butterfly gardens.”

“Why not?”

“This is a very PG place.”

“Yeah. Well. I just turned it X-rated. Got a problem with that?”

He moves closer and I gulp for oxygen. It’s difficult to breathe, and that has nothing to do with the stifling tropical air pushing a hot breeze through the gardens. All around us, butterflies hover. Chase one another through the flowers. A few of them dance past Ryder’s head. It’s the most Disney moment possible, yet the gleam in his eyes is downright pornographic.

“Favorite position?” he prompts.

I swallow through my suddenly dry mouth. “I like being on top.”

“Why’s that?”

“It hits a good spot, inside and out.”

He smiles knowingly. “You like grinding your clit against me while you ride?”

I can scarcely breathe. “Oh my God. You’re not allowed to talk dirty right now.”

“You think this is dirty talk? That’s sweet.”

I croak out a laugh. “Fine. What’s your favorite position?”

“Anything that lets me be inside you is going to be my favorite position.”

Yeah, I’m in trouble.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


RYDER



Porn addiction and you


SHOWERING AROUND OTHER DUDES IS ALREADY NOT AN IDEAL situation. Showering with dudes who hate your guts is a whole other story. The epitome of discomfort. And I can’t think of anything more painful than making small talk while naked.

Colson and I were the last ones off the ice this morning because one of the skills coaches wanted to practice some passing drills with us, so now we’re the last ones in the showers. We need to be fast because we’re due in the media room in ten minutes for a last-minute meeting. At least it’s not the auditorium, which means Sheldon and Nance aren’t there to torture us today. I hope. I’m half expecting an ambush from them where they show us their wedding video and possibly home videos from their joint childhood.

We stand in our respective stalls with the waist-high partitions, so I still see him from the corner of my eye. That’s how I can sense his eyes on me as I drag both hands through my wet hair to wring the water out.