“Putting men in their place is one of my favorite things to do.”
“You’re really fucking good at it,” he says, and when I turn to see his face, I’m gratified to find no trace of animosity there. Pete Santos is a guy who’s secure enough in himself that he’s not threatened by me. It’s refreshing and I’m beginning to think the grudge I nursed for years might have cheated me out of having a really good friend.
One who happens to be built like a damn grizzly bear, which I find so damn hot.
One who’s funny as hell but doesn’t always need to be the center of attention.
One who seems to get me in a way few people do.
Before I fall down a rabbit hole of self-recrimination, Pete’s got his hands on my shoulders and he’s turning me to face him.
“I love your shoes,” he says, and I smile in response.
“Most guys don’t, if you can believe it,” I tell him.
Bless his heart, he looks genuinely confused. “Do the guys you date generally have opinions on your shoes? Because what I love about these is that they add to your already perfect height. They make it even easier for me to kiss you, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”
“If that’s what you want to do, then I think you should do it.”
He tastes the last words on my lips as his mouth devours mine. Our bodies are pressed together and while I may not have a distinct memory of flattening myself to his broad chest like he’s a pancake and I’m the gooey syrup whose sole purpose in life is to cover him, I’m not mad about it. When he tilts his hips up just enough for me to feel the bulge in his jeans, my mouth opens on a gasp, granting him even better access.
Our kiss is interrupted when we hear hoots and hollers from a few holes back. Pete breaks our connection long enough for both of us to turn and see Toad and a bunch of guys from the baseball team.
My first inclination is to make a crude gesture, but I am in public and though there aren’t any kids around, I’m still a fucking lady. Kinda. Instead of sending the batboys the universal signal to mind their own damn business, I get right back to what I was doing because I like kissing Pete. I like it way too much, but while the pretense exists, I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.
Rosco clears his hypocritical throat, and Pete and I loosen our hold on one another so we can play the next hole.
“Has campus security done anything to find the dickbags who vandalized your car?” Rosco asks.
I shake my head in response. “Not much. They told me that they’re working on it, but that they’re really backed up right now, so I need to be patient.”
Pete and Rosco share a look and though I can decipher it, there’s no doubt they’ve come to some conclusion.
“Well, that’s both infuriating and depressing,” Holland announces, adjusting her stance before shimmying her hips and striking the ball. We all watch as it sails over thebridge, drops into a little cup on the back of a windmill, and races toward the flag at the back of the hole, marking Holl’s third hole-in-one.
Rosco kisses her in celebration and when their lips have been locked long enough that I’m about to clear my throat, Holland steps back so we can finish the round.
“I think someone in our group has some good news, though, right?” she prompts with an exaggerated wink and a jiggle of her elbow.
Ugh. I do have really good news, but it’s not exactly the kind of information that will have the guys jumping for joy.
All eyes turn to me, so I have no choice but to share with the class. “The Prentiss Reportliked my article,” I say.
I know Holland’s clapping and I’m sure Rosco offers his congratulations, but I’m looking right at Pete. “The Prentiss Report?” he asks.
“Yeah. It’s an online publication that?—”
“I know what it is, Claire. Everybody here knows what it is. They liked the article you wrote about the minimester program? That’s amazing.”
Once again, I search for a trace of anger or an edge of any kind, but I don’t find it. “One of their writers, Leslie Wheeler, gave it a like yesterday. That was pretty wild. I’ve read all of her stuff, and getting a thumbs up from her felt like a stamp of approval, or something.”
“But it doesn’t stop there,” Holland chimes in because she’s appointed herself my permanent cheerleader. This is what happens when an extrovert finds an introvert and selects them as a bestie.
‘There’s more?” Pete asks, sounding genuinely excited.
“They reached out to me. Well, Leslie’s assistant, Garrett, did. I guess she liked what she read, and she wants to see more of my work.”
“Claire, that’s huge,” Pete tells me as he wraps me in a hug that doesn’t feel like it’s for show. “Why didn’t you lead with that? We should be celebrating.”
