I raise the cone in my hand. “How about we take this to go?”
She licks her ice cream, seemingly aware of how much she’s turning me on. Jemma’s driven me wild since we met, but I know little about her.
And I want to know her.
We exit the cafeteria, taking the steps two at a time until we’re outside. For October, the weather is warmer than expected. I can get away with wearing shorts, a Strickland Senators tee, and no jacket.
We walk side by side, dodging students as they pass.
“So, what’s your story?” I ask her. “Where are you from?”
“Lancaster,” she mutters.
“Lots of farms up that way.”
“Yeah. My dad owns a farm.”
I snap my head at her. “You’re a farmer’s daughter? Interesting.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t know that already.” I shoot her a confused look, and she adds, “My sister is Jordan Walcott.”
“Jordan’s your sister? Everyone on campus knows Jordan.”
I can see the family resemblance. They have the same red hair, pale skin, and green eyes, except for Jordan’s shorter hair. She has more of a punk rock look, whereas Jemma has the sweet and innocent look down pat.
“She’s the life of every party,” Jemma says. “Hard to miss her.”
Jordan is wild. At most parties, you can find her drunk off her ass with her skirt around her waist and dancing on the tables at the Delta Sig chapter house. She’s a frat boy magnet, fully involved in the Greek life.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Your sister knows how to party.”
She laughs. “God, I hope you two never… you know.”
“Nope, never,” I promise. “You’re the only Walcott I want.”
She smiles up at me.
“How come you’re a junior pledging Kappa Delta?”
She stares at the backs of the people before us and rolls her shoulders. “I needed a change, I guess. And I wanted to be closer to my sister.”
She seems more closed off now that we’re talking about her. If I want to know her, I must break through her walls. So, I offer something about myself.
“I helped my brother cheat on a test, and we got suspended for two games.”
She peeks up at me. “What class?”
“Business law.”
“Isn’t that a first-year elective?”
I nod. “He failed the class freshman year, and now he has to retake it before he can graduate this year.”
“I’m a journalism major,” she offers.
“You want to be a reporter?”
“That’s the plan.”
