“Wow. First I’m a giant and now I’m a broken clock. You better be careful, Claire, or I might start to think you don’t hate me as much as you say you do.”
“I can’t stand you,” I assure him. “Sometimes I find you mildly tolerable, but that’s only because everyone else I’ve encountered today has been a total shithead.” I munch on my fries as he reasons out what I’m saying.
“Got it,” he nods, running one of those aforementioned paws through his beard. “You still hate me, you just hate other people more.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing a fry at him. “Don’t go thinking I’m going soft on you. I had a shitty day. And a shitty headache. And a shitty roommate.”
“Well, that sucks. If you want, I could meet up with you right after breakfast tomorrow so you can make up the lab that Kinsey screwed up today.”
“I already made it up,” I say, piercing another fry with my new favorite utensil. “That’s why I missed dinner, which only made my headache worse. Kinsey’s disappearing act just started the downward spiral of my day. There were many highlights along the way, including being woken up by the soothing tones of heavy metal, and nearly getting run over by the beer brigade on my quest for food. And now, I’m having dinner with you. It’s the cherry on top of the shit sundae that is today.”
He winces. “A lesser man would be offended, you know.”
“As you should be,” I return.
He leans in close and for half a second, my brain forgets that we hate him. The only data coming through the headquarters of my mind is that he smells good and that his thick fingers are unquestionably bigger than my last boyfriend’s dick. Well, calling him a boyfriend is generous. We didn’t last long, and it wasn’t only because he was clueless about what to do with the pencil between his legs.
Pete swipes a fry from my basket and takes a bite. I’m outraged. I’m also fascinated by how plump and pillow-y soft his lips are, but mostly, I’m outraged.
He doesn’t even apologize. He just tips his head toward the empty basket in front of him, as though the fries’ deliciousness excuses his pilfering. I roll my eyes.
“What?” he asks as he grabs another. “This is my tax. Afterall, if I hadn’t ordered for you, you might have asked for the pretzel bites.”
“You wouldn’t have stolen those?”
“Hell, no,” he says, shuddering. “You could crack a tooth on those things. Smitty is barely competent in the kitchen, but the man can deep fry a potato and heat up cheese sauce.”
I reach for another fry at the same time Pete does, causing my fingers to brush against his. Our hands still for a moment and I absorb the shock of electricity that jolts through me at our contact. Pulling my hand back, I’m tempted to grab the pitchfork just to keep my distance. Or, you know, to stab him.
“Stop eating my food,” I say, my annoyance fueled not only by the fact that he’s eating my dinner, but more so by the zing that ran through my body when our hands touched for a second.
Good. Lord. If a thrill like that can come from an accidental touch, I can’t help imagining what the man could do if he put his mind to it.
“Don’t,” I warn as he aims one of his killer smiles in my direction.
“Don’t what?” he asks, his tone innocent.
I take a sip of water as if that will ward off the headache that simply will not go away. Closing my eyes for a minute, I let the cold water roll over my tongue and down my throat, hoping it can douse the fire threatening to escape. But it’s all too much. Every stressor has taken its toll. Every irritation has piled up. The stupid smile on Pete’s face is the very last straw. Does he really think this is a game? That my ire toward him is all in good fun? God, the arrogance on this man fucking blows me away. After pushing my half-eaten basket of fries toward him, I reach for my bag and toss some cash on the bar, then level Pete Santos with a glare I’ve saved just for him. “You think because you’re charming that you can get away with shit. And ok, you have. Almost everyone at Bainbridge adores you. And what’s not to love? You’re sweet and funny and smart. You’ve got that whole teddy bear thing going on. One look at you and most people can’t decide if they want to cuddle you or let you fuck their brains out. I can only assume you specialize in both. But so what? You think you’re the only hot guy on campus?
Newsflash: you’re not.”
“You think I’m hot?” he asks, his eyes going wide.
“I’m just stating a fact. Objectively, you’re hot,” I tell him, practically screaming now. “But don’t think that because you’re this perfect combination of good guy and sexy lumberjack I’m going to fall at your feet like everyone else does. If that’s what you’re waiting for, Pete, get comfy. You’ll be waiting a long damn time.”
“You hate me.”
I sigh. “That’s been established.”
“But you think I’m hot?” he asks, and I’m beginning to wonder how the hell he ever scored high enough to win one of the two full-ride academic scholarships the university offers every year.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I advise. “You can be hot and still be a dick. It happens all the time. Like, constantly.”
“Constantly?” he asks, as though he’s having trouble following this conversation.
“Yes. There are hot dicks everywhere, Pete. I’m surrounded by hot dicks.”
He blinks at me, and I notice, not for the first time, the little flecks of gold and amber in his warm brown eyes. “You’re surrounded by hot dicks?”
