Page 13 of Patrick

“Where are we going?” she asks. I don’t know, but her question re-starts my brain from its stunned state and I pull myself fully into the real world with the help of my growling stomach.

“Lady’s choice.”

She eyes me under her lashes. “I bet I’m as hungry as you are. How about Philbrook Dining Hall?”

“Philly? Sure. It’s a little further, but why not?”

“I’m in love with their all-day breakfast and I’m dying to fill up on French toast.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “Does your father know you eat French food?”

She laughs and the sweet mild sound is like a song. The kind that talks to my soul—and of course to my dick, both at the same time—which sounds cooler than it is. In reality, it’s actually very uncomfortable to have my heart thudding hard against my chest and my dick swelling in my pants all while she absorbs my attention like she’s playing a magic flute and I’m an entranced snake.

Grinning, she bumps her shoulder against my elbow, being on the short side of average height.

“What are you so giddy about?” I half laugh, half snort, wondering if she’s feeling the same way I am. Don’t ask me to describe it beyond horny and entranced, maybe confused as hell, but in an inexplicably good way. It’s the inexplicable part that makes me uncomfortable.

“The honest truth?”

Slowing down like I might be taking a wrong step, I nod. “Always, Feef.”

She almost stops as she stares, and I press the hand I have on her lower back with more force to keep her on the dirt path and out of the path of some oncoming students who look like they’re having an affair with their cell phones.

Glancing down in the direction of her bright pink boots, she says, “I’ve thought about you often in the past two years. Since that day after school when I last saw you.”

“You mean the time your brother wanted to clock me for standing in your presence?”

She nods.

“And?” I prompt. Noticing we’re within a few yards of Philly, I stop because I want to hear what I’m predicting and hoping is a confession.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like if we could…” she licks her lips, and I watch, my mouth watering at the prospect of capturing that pink tongue in my teeth⁠—

“If we could have gone to that party together, let things progress between us, and maybe develop into⁠—”

“Something our families would consider sacrilege?”

“A romance.” She states firmly and boldly, not blinking and without euphemism. Apparently, she’s over her hesitation about speaking her mind. Thanks to the prodding of my wise-ass cynical comment about our family’s guaranteed disapproval.

I can’t help my snort, a full-fledged hardy snickering snort. It’s an evasive move because I’m trying to deke her out, to get her to think I’m not tempted. Because I shouldn’t be. One of us should be cynical about pulling a Romeo and Juliet move. That story didn’t end well if I remember right.

Flattening her mouth, she turns away from me and walks straight to the dining hall entrance, moving fast enough for me to take several long quick strides to catch up. But I’m known for my speed, and I jump ahead and open the door for her.

I lean in as she walks past me inside. “Don’t be mad, Fifi. I’m here, aren’t I?”

She tosses a skeptical look over her shoulder, but I see the hint of amusement at the edges of her mouth.

“Let’s get our food first,” she says. “There are plenty of empty tables.”

She’s not wrong, and I follow her past the ID scanner to the breakfast station.

We’re not surrounded by hundreds of hungry students, but at the same time, I wish we were somewhere private. And that’s not my dick talking. This is one of those conversations with the kind of implications that has my heart thundering relentlessly without any signs of calming down. That can’t be healthy. I need to chill. It’s just lunch and a talk with an old frenemy, right?

Except she’s more like a friend with a family full of enemies. One of whom I’m going to be playing against on Saturday. Shit. If her brother Vincent ever found out we were having lunch together, there would be blood on the ice. As I pick up a tray, I promise myself there would be more of his blood than mine if—no, when—we fight.

We get in line, and I wave her ahead of me. Then I watch her gather a breakfast worthy of a lumberjack as she orders her food with mouth-watering specificity like a true foodie. Watching her fascinates me as I absent-mindedly stock my tray with three burgers, fries, a side salad, two glasses of milk, and an apple.

We find a small table where we can eat alone in the nick of time as hunger sucks at my gut. Loudly.