Page 4 of Notorious Man on Campus

“I always do, but I’m afraid I’ll have to work hard for it because I’ll be too busy feeling sorry for my best friend who’s making a big mistake.”

He snort-laughs. Both of them would have stayed for more if I didn’t push them out of my room.

“Time to go. I can’t waste any more of my time with you two clowns. I need to get a jump on a reading assignment and get to sleep early.” It’s half true. I do need to start reading for my ethics class, but I won’t be getting to sleep anytime soon.

Roman scoffs in disbelief, but Dylan drags him out by muttering something about cookies his mom sent him in his room. Cookies from home baked by his mom. Must be nice. Nyla sent care packages to Jimmy at SPU. So what? My lack of care packages from home, which happens to be unique among the guys at BMOC House, is the least of my problems right now. At least not my immediate problem.

That distinction goes to Nyla and the fact that she’s living here. Rule or no rule, I’ll be making a visit to her room after the house is quiet. Because we need to talk. And I have a feeling she’ll be expecting me.

Fuck. Why does that idea send a rush of heat through my veins?

Chapter 2

Nyla

I expect the knock on my door, knew it was coming ever since dinner. My heart pounds and confusion, excitement, and fear have me frozen. Brick is at my door. He’s every bit the hunk he always was, but he’s more man than boy now and the energy of his presence almost knocked me over when he walked into the kitchen today.

How could I have forgotten the strength of that connection we had? How? Because I buried it under layers of resentment and anger at him for banishing me so completely without another word, or goodbye, or explanation. Most of all, with no apology or regret. All the feelings were not one-sided, I know it, no matter how much he pretends, no matter how thoroughly he and his family erased me from their lives. I lost a lot that day they fired me. But not my hope.

Not as much as Brick lost, though.

He raps on the door again, not too loud, but it makes me jump, my covers slipping to the floor, and I stumble from my bed. I don’t know why I bothered to get into bed as if I was going to sleep.

Fear returns as I throw my robe over the cotton tank top and panties I wear in lieu of pajamas. What am I, a regency heroine? I fling the robe off and onto the chair. What do I have to be afraid of?

Nothing except him ruining everything for me. What if he insists I leave, threatening my scholarship and my ability to stay at SPU and graduate? He could force the issue with Majik. I knew there was that risk in spite of her confidence that Brick would be reasonable. She doesn’t know our history, that he’s my enemy.

Leaving BMOC House would be disastrous. I can’t afford to stay anywhere else and I know Majik was bluffing about going to Kappa Kappa Gamma. My whole family is counting on me to make good, sacrificing so I can be here for two years instead of at home working and bringing in a paycheck.

I need this scholarship to help me work my way out of poverty and to lift my entire family out with me. The last thing I need is for Brick to ruin it. Majik made it clear as the night sky here in New Hampshire that if I fool around with the guys, especially with Brick, I would be out.

Staying at BMOC House was the only way either I or Majik could afford for me to come to SPU. The scholarship is for tuition, not room and board. My family doesn’t have the credit for a loan and neither do I. So my room and board is all tied up with BMOC House and my agreement to work in the kitchen every day while I’m staying here and fit my classes and culinary practical in between.

A few times I wondered if this was a mistake. I knew Brick was here. It’s how I found out about the scholarship. His dad bragged about Majik’s cooking and her scholarship program to a reporter who was asking him about Brick. He and his football exploits are in the news nearly every day back home. When my community college advisor heard about the scholarship, she insisted I apply.

I never thought I’d win. My grades weren’t stellar even if my cooking is. Not that I was flunking. I’m a solid B student. But in spite of all the possible things that could go wrong with me being here at the same place with Rick Blanick, a guy I hate as much as my heart pounds for him, I didn’t hesitate for a nanosecond to say yes to the opportunity. Because this scholarship at St. Paul University means everything to me and my family.

Now, shivering in the middle of my room as if it’s freezing outside when it’s actually a warm late-August night, I wait to see if my ambition is enough to hold up against the power of my jumbled feelings for the guy I still dream about after four years.

The third rap against the hard wood shoots me to the door to pull it open before he knocks again, before anyone else hears him. Awareness of every molecule of air sizzles between us, between my thin SPU T-shirt and my bare legs and him in the formfitting T-shirt and gym shorts. His muscular chest heaves.

Those icy blue-green eyes that he uses to freeze people out laser through me until I feel like he’s seeing the fast beating of my heart, the shallow breathing, the dreams, the longing, and the deep connection we had that’s frayed but still there, resurrected the second he came into the kitchen. Maybe before that, if I’m honest. Maybe I thought of nothing else on the six-hour bus ride up here from Wilksburg, Pennsylvania.

“I see you dressed for our meeting.” He rakes his eyes, those icy-hot eyes, up and down my body and I swear I can feel my nipples pebbling, protruding through my top. But I refuse to feel self-conscious, because he’s the one intruding on my night. I didn’t invite him.

“Look who’s here. Brick the prick.” I take a shot in defense of my heart, but he laughs, low and sexy, and takes a step further inside and looks around as if he’s curious. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s still as bothered by me as I am by him.

“In the flesh.” His raspy whisper scrapes against my sensitive skin like a touch, exactly as I remember. Goose bumps rise on my arms, and a flush rises up my body to my neck. He’s sex incarnate. Every male molecule of him speaks to me, whispering , seducing me down to my core. Let’s not go there.

“What do you want?” I say.

“Loaded question.” His eyes go dark, caressing me, roaming over me. “But you always were an expert flirt. Naturally sexy in spite of your innocence.”

I’m surprised at his candor as much as I am at his picture of me.

“Okaaay. So this is a booty call?” I call his bluff because in spite of the carnal pull between us that feels like a real physical chain impossible to break, there’s too much baggage. Resentment on both our parts. Hate seems to curl off him as much as the rabid irrational physical attraction.

He chuckles, but he’s still so coiled and tense I almost want to stand on the balls of my feet, ready to flee at any second. But strangely, in spite of logical reasoning, I’m not afraid of him. Whatever fear I felt earlier has disappeared. Familiarity reigns instead.