Seconds turn into minutes without a response. I’m about to leave the coffee shop when a blonde wearing a green Broad Street Beans polo sits across from me. She stares at me in horror as our eyes meet when she realizes I know her, too.
But I don’t know her as Sam.
Chapter 4
Sam
The line hasn’t died down since the minute my shift started. Dozens of students are in Broad Street Beans sipping overpriced lattes. As one group leaves, another enters, demanding even more complicated drinks. Rich kids are the worst. They bark orders in condescending tones that make my blood run cold.
I glance at the watch on my left wrist and let out a sigh of relief. Ten more minutes. That’s how long I have until I slip out from behind the counter and escape.
Except I’m not free.
I have my next job.
The crowd ebbs and flows, and with the new wave of customers comes someone from the past. Someone I still hate with a passion. A wealthy asshole I want to punch in the face whenever I see him on campus.
Tucker Kane
The biggest douchebag I’ve ever met. And the sad thing—he doesn’t even remember me. Or at least he never appears as if he does. Why would he?
Tucker had me fooled my freshman year. Our night together didn’t matter to him.
When a man like Tucker shows you attention, you feel like you’re the world’s most important woman. He promises dreams and then sells you nightmares. You mean nothing. You’re just another girl on his path to the next one, left behind to pick up the pieces.
Tucker never comes into Broad Street Beans. He glances around the store, his eyes traveling over every girl. He’s checking out his next victim, I assume.
Slinging a backpack over his right shoulder, he flexes his thick muscles. A small part of me aches when I’m reminded of our last time together. And that part of me wants to wrap my fingers around his biceps, slide my hands over his chiseled chest—he takes my breath away—that part hasn’t changed.
I can’t peel my eyes off him as he waves to a group of girls by the window toward the back of the café. He sits at the only open table right in front of the restrooms. It’s the worst seat in the house. No windows. Smells like a toilet.
Glancing over at Tucker, memories of my first time with him force their way into my mind.
I sucked in a deep breath, trying to psych myself to play strip poker. But I couldn’t do it. No matter how often I tried to get comfortable enough to sit at the table, no amount of liquid courage could prepare me to take my clothes off in front of strangers.
We were in the backyard of a fraternity house with ten people seated at the felt-lined table in front of me. Stacks of colored chips were at the center, a black, red, and green pile overflowing onto the river cards. When Tucker asked me if I could play poker, I lied. I grew up with a drunk father, a man who lost every paycheck playing cards on his lunch breaks and the weekends in Atlantic City. Because of that, I loathed anything to do with gambling.
Tucker pulled two lawn chairs beneath the maple tree and told me to sit. I did as he instructed without giving it another thought. He was gorgeous, well over six feet tall, with a surfer tan and short, blond hair gelled into tiny spikes. I’d seen him around campus a few times. I’d even attended the parties at his house. But he never noticed me, not even once. Now, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
He slid his arm behind my neck, resting it on the back of the chair. His fingers gently brushed against my skin, producing tiny bumps along my shoulder. It was October and still somewhat warm, but the chill running through me was from Tucker. My body was all too aware of how it responded around him, which made me even more self-conscious.
Tucker leaned over to speak against the shell of my ear, his breath sending a brush of heat to my cheeks. “We get the next round.”
“I’m not sure if I want to play.”
“Oh?” He cocked his head to look me in the eyes. “Getting cold feet?”
“I’d rather dance.”
He took a sip from his cup and squeezed my shoulder with his big hand. “Let’s dance then. Fair warning: it’s not my thing. I might do more drinking than dancing.”
“You sure you don’t mind leaving the game?”
He winked, staring down at my toga. “I can get you out of this sheet without playing games.”
Instead of irritation, which would have been the normal reaction, considering he was a pig, I was excited. I’d thought of Tucker every time he passed me on my way to class, every time we were at the same party.
His cocky smirk and pale blue eyes produced a yearning inside me. I pushed my thighs together, my core clenching with need. He noticed my sudden movement, which turned up the corners of his mouth even wider. Tucker was the cream of the crop of Strickland University’s elite. He was the son of a famous hockey player, rich enough to buy the school, and ruggedly handsome.
