Page 7 of Best Things in Life
“Maybe you can pick up some tips from Majik.”
“Magic? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The best cook on campus. She’s been recruited by Michelin-star restaurants but she always turns them down.”
“Really? I’ll have to look her up and get an audience with Her Highness,” I say. “Where can I find her? Or do I have to have my people call her people?”
Emily chuckles. “No appointment necessary, wiseass. She’s right across the street at BMOC House. She’s their cook and she loves feeding her boys. I think she gives them more nurturing than nutrition and I think that’s what keeps her at SPU.”
I stopped paying attention as soon as Emily said BMOC House. Damn. She cooks for Bigs and Nate and all the hot campus jocks.
“That’s just fucking ridiculous.” I jump from my chair, tension pulling across my shoulders. “Unless she’s a hot young babe looking to score a hunky—” Emily hoots a laugh so loud I back up. Watching her settle down from a belly-gut laughing fit, I try to control the scowl that comes from my heart. Avoiding Nate is going to be so hard. But seeing him all the time at the house would be harder because it would be like reliving the pain of loss all over again every time I see those dark eyes, that perfectly sculpted body. The scent and taste of him floods my memory with all the most intimate and tragically blissful moments of my life.
“Majik couldn’t be further from a hot young babe if she were from Mars.” Emily wipes a tear from her face and snickers. “You have to meet her. Maybe you can wrangle an assistant cook night—I hear she has interns come in once a week from the culinary school to work with her.”
“Then that’s exactly what I’ll do.” Suck it up. I can use all the creds for my resume I can get to make up for the first two years of my schooling being at a community college—though I hold it up as excellent training and I made the most of it. That and a cup of bad coffee won’t get you even a reservation at a Michelin-star restaurant let alone a job.
And I need that job so I can make a name for myself.
“I’d love to see what Majik has to offer. What’s her real name?”
“Claire Majisky.” I’ve never heard of her, but I don’t mention that because I’m not exactly current with my reading of industry journals—something I need to catch up on, according to my course syllabi. Shit. The stab under my shoulder blades prods me to change the subject.
“What about you, Emily? What do you have in mind for your future?”
“Women’s basketball coach—if I don’t make a pro team.”
“That’s kickass. What are your chances of going pro?”
“On a scale from one to ten, about a two—give or take two. It depends on this season. It’s my last shot. We barely made it to the NCAA tournament last year so I didn’t get much in the way of looks.”
“What you need to do is to break some records.”
“True. Some attention in the press would help. If Summer Philbin would give the team more play on SPU TV it might trigger more interest with other broadcasters.”
“Summer Philbin? You mean my ex-competition for Bigsby’s attention?”
“One and the same. But you don’t need to worry about her. She’s history. Especially the way Bigs looks at you—like you’re his last meal.” She winks.
“I never take competition for granted, Emily.” Especially when the competition isn’t another woman—say it’s a sport, like hockey. That turned out to be more competition than I could handle for Nate’s attention, didn’t it?
“You’re intense, kind of like Summer, but in a whole different way.” She grins and I’m not sure I’m enjoying her comparison. “P.S., I like you better. You’re a hoot.”
“You should talk.” I give her a hug. “I like you too, Emily.”
“I bet you go far,” she says. “I bet you become a cooking star with a pile of restaurants and your own cooking show.”
“I bet you get to the NCAA playoffs this year, break some records along the way, and end up playing in the WNBA.” I punch a fist in the air. “Then you take over for coach Geno Auriemma to coach the UConn Women’s basketball team and win the next tournament.”
She jumps up and swings me around, laughing and pumping her fist like we’re getting ready for a game instead of bed. But I shove her from my room, both of us laughing on that high note, because I need to be fresh and on my game for class—otherwise known as competition—tomorrow morning.
* * *
On the first day of classes I finds myself in the same class as Nate the Great because—of course. What’s that law about if it can go wrong, it will? My calculation about the size of this campus and the size of Nate’s profile were both seriously off base. I sit down front because I know that’s the last place he’ll sit. Whenever he can tear himself away from the group of girls hanging on his every word at the back of the room like he’s a celebrity.
The professor comes in from a side door to the front of the room and I pull out my tablet and try to relax. I’m not usually a front-of-the-room kind of student. And if I’m already feeling uncomfortable and conspicuous, I feel ten times the tingle as soon as he invades my space by slipping into the seat next to me. Fuck.
Nate’s presence takes over everything as if he’s a giant sucking in all the oxygen, taking up all the energy, and forcing me to turn my head in his direction. I don’t snarl, just barely containing it, because I need to stop letting him get to me. And if I can’t do that, I can at least not let him know he gets to me.
