She barks out a humorless laugh. “Seriously? Is this some sort of sick game you’re trying to play? After all we’ve been through, you’re acting like this is suddenly something special?” She eyes Olivia and me up and down skeptically.
“Watch it,” I warn her softly.
A malicious smirk plays on her lips, and her eyes lock with Olivia’s. “Careful, sweetheart. He only wants one thing. Trust me.”
With that, Adrianna turns and walks away, her long raven hair swishing back and forth behind her.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Delilah mutters under her breath, possibly almost as annoyed as I am.
I exhale long and hard, my breath visible, mingling with the cold air. I gently grab Olivia’s face in my hands, pleading with my eyes. “Finch, don’t listen to her, okay? I just, I—”
She turns her head, placing a delicate kiss to the inside of my wrist. “I get it. She’s your Quinton.”
I smile sadly, remembering the day in the cafeteria when I told her that. It was the first time we had lunch together. I was copying her notes and asked if Rat Boy was her boyfriend after he acted so possessive over her. Then she asked me about Adrianna, and I explained to her that Adrianna was like my Rat Boy.
“I’ll see you later,” she promises, walking away to her next class with Delilah.
I watch them go, Delilah throwing me a sympathetic look over her shoulder that says she’ll talk to Olivia, mildly putting me at ease.
I swear, every time something good happens something always has to come along and fuck it up for me.
Twenty-nine
Only You
I walk into my dorm room and see a sight for sore eyes. Olivia is sitting on my bed, propped up against the headboard. She’s dressed in one of my old football hoodies, absentmindedly twirling one of the drawstrings around her finger, with a pair of simple black leggings and blue socks adorning her feet. She has one of her knees bent up, propping up her binder to study from, all her other study materials sprawled out around her.
I grin, leaning against the door frame for a moment to watch her flip through her notes.
Sensing my gaze, she peers up at me, catching me staring at her. “What?” she asks, self-consciously.
My grin deepens as I push off the door frame, making sure to close the door behind me, and saunter to the end of my bed, tossing the two water bottles I just picked up from the small café down the hall to the side. I lay my hands flat on the mattress, leaning on my arms.
“Nothing,” I muse, raking my eyes up her body, all the way from her sock-covered toes to the messy bun of caramel-colored locks piled on top of her head.
She flashes me a dubious look.
“Okay . . .” I drawl, lazily skimming one of my hands up the bed toward her.
Quickly, I grab hold of her ankle, pulling her down the bed toward me. She shrieks at the sudden movement, tossing the binder she’s holding to the side before crashing into me. I grab her legs, wrapping them around my torso once she’s perched on the edge of the bed. Giggling, she places her hands on my chest, stabilizing herself.
I grin down at her. “Maybe I’m thinking about how good you look in my bed,” I admit in a low, raspy whisper.
All the laughter drains from her eyes as she draws in a sharp breath, her eyes clouding over at my confession.
But as fast as she fell into the trance, she snaps out of it, giving me a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m sure I’m not the first girl you’ve said that to,” she says, her voice light, joking, but I sense the insecurity behind it.
I frown, my shoulders slumping. Since I met back up with her after our classes, I can tell she’s not fully recovered from all that happened today with Rat Boy and Adrianna. I can tell their words are still swirling around in that pretty little head of hers, no matter how hard she’s trying to hide it.
“Finch,” I sigh, not knowing where to start. I slide my hands up her calves, which are still wound around my waist, to her thighs, rubbing soothing circles into the soft fabric of her leggings as I try to find the right words.
I hate that she knows my past. I hate that I even have a past. And that after all these years, when I thought it wouldn’t matter, it matters. Not just to her, but to me too.
“You’re the first girl in my bed,” I admit.
She flashes me another dubious look, her hands on my chest falling until the tips of her fingers are barely resting on my stomach. Her legs also begin to go slack, but I run my hands down them, locking her ankles back into place around my waist.
“I’m serious. You’re actually the only girl I’ve ever let into my room,” I confess softly, suddenly nervous.
