“I never knew you were so studious.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He uses a small set of weights to do bicep curls as he runs backward on the elliptical. I try not to watch his muscles move. He’s much bigger than Kellan. Kellan has a traditional runner’s physique, tall and trim. Crosbie looks more like a wrestler, shorter, broad and stocky.
“All right.” I force myself to concentrate. I’m supposed to be quizzing Crosbie on biology, not obsessing over his body. I don’t even care about his body. But as I start to ask him real questions and he does his very best to answer correctly, I start to care about this, just a little bit. Because he’s completely and utterly sincere, no trace of the brash bravado he normally exhibits. No sign of the guy who dances on tabletops and adds Crosbabes to the list scrawled on the bathroom wall on the fourth floor of the Student Union building.
He’s not a genius but he tries hard, and he’s obviously been paying attention because he gets about seventy percent of the answers right without any prompting. Sometimes I give him hints and his brow wrinkles as he considers things, then bobs his head arrogantly when he figures it out, never once breaking his stride on the elliptical. The only time he sets down the weights is to take a drink of water, then he’s right back to it. He’s certainly committed.
Speaking of committed—I have a job to get to, and nine minutes in which to make the ten minute trip.
“Work,” I announce, slamming the book shut and standing. “I have to go.”
“Oh yeah.” Crosbie powers down the machine and hops off, snatching the towel and mopping himself up. Sweat runs in rivulets down his neck, his shirt is soaked, and I remind myself to keep my eyes on his face. “I’ll walk down with you,” he says, reaching past me to open the door. The elliptical did a good job of blocking out the noise from the rest of the house, but without it I can hear raised voices downstairs—certainly more than just Dane, and certainly having more fun than they were half an hour ago.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say hastily. Because even though we were only “quizzing,” absolutely no one will believe it, and how unfair would it be to have my “good” year tainted before it even begins?
“I don’t mind.” He’s too close now, holding the door and waiting for me to pass through. He smells like sweat and…man…and it should be off-putting, but it’s not. That’s confusing enough to have me hustling out the door.
“Really,” I say, putting up a hand to stop him when he tries to follow. “Don’t. It’s a flight of stairs. I can handle it.”
“I think the guys might say—”
I shoot him a terse smile. “I think they ‘might’ too,” I interrupt, my meaning clear. He’s worried they might make some sort of generally inappropriate comment; I’m worried about a more specific type of rumor. And I see the dark and offended look shift into his eyes when he realizes what I’m implying.
“Right,” he says, stepping back and folding his arms across his chest. “Suit yourself.”
I feel bad, but I don’t change my mind. “Good luck on your test tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Then he closes the door in my face.
chapter four
I arrive at Beans for my shift, entering the kitchen just in time to see Nate and Marcela laughing as they arrange pre-made cookie dough on a baking sheet. In itself, that’s hardly incriminating. The suspicious part is how Nate leaps away as though the cookies are radioactive and he’s only just now remembering it.
I’ve always known that Nate was in love with Marcela. The three of us are the same age—twenty-one—but Nate’s our boss and often acts like an old man. He tries to be professional and grown up, and apart from a two-month period last spring where he sent her gifts from a “secret admirer,” I don’t think he’s ever acted on it. I think the fact that she never figured out it was him was pretty discouraging, and since then I assumed he’d given up the dream.
“Hey,” I say, pausing mid-stride to peer between them.
“Hey,” Nate says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He has a handsome, model-like face—too pretty, Marcela used to say—and super blue eyes. Right now those eyes are having a difficult time meeting mine, though Marcela appears completely oblivious. Though it could just be her determined effort to give me the silent treatment.
I arch a brow at Nate as I walk past, then head out front. The shop is pretty low-key, and there are half a dozen patrons seated randomly around the room, reading, texting, and drinking coffee. I grab a bus bin and amble around clearing off tables, and when I get back to the counter Nate is standing next to the register, looking uncomfortable.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” he says quickly.