“What if she doesn’t wanna go with you?” Tom crossed his arms, just as expected, and his protective stance said it all: Touch her and I’m going to rip your head off. Or in his case, he’d conduct a poetry slam and use his words, because violence was so uncool. World peace. Save the whales. Soy milk. The end.
“Shell”—I furrowed my brows—“what’s going on here?”
She stood on wobbly legs. “Ian, it’s fine, we should go and—”
“Shell!” Tom grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her protectively into his embrace. “He’s your study partner, not your boyfriend.”
“Actually . . .” I smirked.
Tom’s face turned a funny shade of purple. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore what?” Damn, my back ached. Why did it always take the guys this long to stake their claim? To finally plow the land, plant the flag, and sing the victory song.
His eyes darted between Shell’s and mine.
And then the anger disappeared. There we go. In, three, two, one.
“Shell.” Tom grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward him. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”
Thank God, a confession!
“Remember when you used to always order coffee but never tried it with a splash of milk and honey?”
And there’s my exit. Someone save me from the “I’ve finally discovered it’s been you all along” speech.
She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes.
“And when you stayed really late, fell asleep on your book, and I woke you up and you said—”
“Just one more cup!”
They laughed in unison.
Holy shit, pretending to be pissed was hard when I was on the verge of getting a headache as they traveled down courtship memory lane.
“He doesn’t even know you like I do.” He pulled her closer to his chest, his hands twisting around hers like his fingers were trying to mate with her palms. “Leave him.”
Yes. Please. For the love of God. Leave me.
To her credit, Shell pretended to look torn as she lowered her head and then very slowly said, “Ian, I think you should go.”
Triumph crossed Tom’s features.
Victory pounded in my chest.
And so the last round went to Tom . . . The last round always went to the guy unless the computer program said the guy was a complete douche. But the program, so far, had been flawless in helping us separate the winners from the losers. And as much as Tom irritated me, I knew deep down he really cared for Shell, and that if they made it through the next few months, they’d most likely get married in a year or so. They were both immature freshmen, both selfish, and it made sense that it took a while for them to actually get over their own insecurities before they could be good together.
Six days in.
And Shell had her man.
“If this is what you want,” I said to Shell, picking up my books and stuffing them in my shoulder bag, “then I won’t stand in your way. Just remember, I’ll be here when this douche drops you, which”—I eyed him up and down in challenge—“he will.”
“You need to leave.” He gripped her harder, tighter, his eyes possessive, furious. “Now.”
And sealed.
Jealousy was one thing; saving her was another. But the minute his eyes shifted from saving her, into admission, and finally into the stance of possession? Well, I may as well tell them congrats on their newfound relationship. I’d forged it the best way I could. Planted the seeds, watered them, and allowed them to grow.
Unless a fire took hold and burned down the entire damn field, they’d be good.
Another satisfied customer.
I shoved past them and quickly got into my car, starting the engine and peeling out of the parking lot, to show how insulted I was at his stomping all over my territory.
My text alert went off at the stoplight.
Shell: Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The light was still red, so I texted her back.
Ian: No prob. Remember the rules, but, be yourself. Invoice in mail. Please delete this number and all emails. 2 WM biz cards are in in your desk. If friends ask, you know what to do.
Shell: You’re the best!
I threw my phone and chuckled. “I know.”
My cockiness didn’t last.
Because a brief vision of Blake sending me that exact same text buzzed through my mind like a bad high.
It would happen.
And soon.
We were four days in.
I’d told her I needed a week, maybe two, depending on circumstances. Shit, and she was making such good progress. She probably didn’t even realize that she no longer hid behind her hair, or slumped in her chair during class. Her shoulders had straightened, she made eye contact regularly, and, damn, she looked hot.
She was even opening up more to me, sharing likes and dislikes, which I typically wouldn’t encourage. But in her case she needed to learn how to get comfortable around guys, so I allowed it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was eager to learn about her, or that the way she told animated stories that made me laugh.