As the night wound down, she told me to come back to her dorm room with her, saying Cassidy was a heavy sleeper. I teased her about having sex in her twin bed with her roommate just a few feet away, and told her she’d had too much to drink. She tried arguing with me, and I just about caved. God, her lips were so soft and her body curved against mine so perfectly. At that very moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to bury myself inside her and feel her shatter around me. Had she been anyone else, I know I would have.
But something different lurks in those sultry green eyes of hers. I didn’t want an alcohol-fueled hookup to change it in any way, so I stayed strong last night.
I grab my cell from the nightstand and check the time. It’s been almost ten hours since I saw her. Before I talk myself out of it, I send her a text.
Hey, Ivy on the Roof. Good morning.
It takes only a few seconds until my phone vibrates.
Hey yourself.
Are you awake?
No, I’m sleep-texting you.
Is she being a smartass or is she pissed off? She was pretty freaked out when I first kissed her, back near the restrooms. I set the phone down and rub the sleep out of my eyes. What did she think I was going to do to her, anyway? She acted fearful, almost panicky. Had she warmed up to me only because she’d been drinking?
My cell vibrates again: a smiley face.
Okay, maybe she’s not mad.
That was fun last night. Hope you had a good birthday.
Thanks. I did. At least the parts I remember. I hope I didn’t do anything too stupid.
Except for the part where you jumped on the stage, grabbed the mic, and started singing.
OMG whaaat?
Just kidding.
She texts a smiley face with a tongue sticking out.
I stretch and yawn.
How do you feel this morning?
As in, am I hungover? If so, the answer is a little. But I’ll be fine as soon as I eat something.
Good.
Good that I’m hungover or good that I’ll be fine?
Haha. Good that you’ll be fine when you eat something.
My stomach growls.
Do you like waffles?
Okay, that was random. Is that what you’re eating?
No. So, do you?
They’re my favorite breakfast food.
I knew there was a reason I liked you.
I’ve never been admired for my food preferences before.
I laugh out loud, making it hard to text back.
Guess there’s a first for everything.
Another smiley face. And a heart now, too.
I sit up in bed and check out the window. It’s not raining.
What are you doing right now?
Waking up.
Good. Be ready in twenty minutes.
Whaaat?
I’m picking you up and taking you out for waffles.
Twenty minutes???? But I’m still in bed.
Then get your ass up. And wear something warm.
You mean like a sweatshirt? You still have my jacket.
Which reminds me. Hopefully, Stella got the stains out.
Then wear mine. Unless you’ve given it away to the Salvation Army already.
Not yet. But I was on the verge.
Twenty minutes later, after calling Stella to tell her I’d be by this afternoon, I turn onto the narrow, one-way street in front of Ivy’s dorm. I pull up to the curb, expecting that I’ll have to wait for her, but she jogs down the steps, looking totally hot in skinny jeans, a pair of black Chuck Taylors, and my jacket.
I close my eyes for a moment, hoping I’m not making a huge mistake. I learned long ago not to let anyone in too deep, and Ivy is rattling all sorts of things inside me I didn’t know were there. But it’ll only be a problem if I let it become a problem, right? Besides, I’m an expert at keeping people an arm’s length away. I won’t get emotionally attached to her. We’re just friends. Potentially friends with benefits. And that will be enough.
“Hey.” She flips her hand in a nervous little greeting, looking my bike up and down with wide green eyes.
I hand her the extra helmet and help her with the chin strap. “Have you ridden on the back of a motorcycle before?”
“No, never. My dad would kill me.”
“Good thing he’s not here, then.”
She hesitates only briefly before climbing on behind me and clamping her arms around my waist. She doesn’t need to hold on this tight—we’re not going very far and I’m taking the corners easy—but I like the front of her pressed to the back of me, so I don’t say anything. I’m tempted to drive around the block a few times more than necessary.
We’re soon seated in a booth at the Waffle Stop, and Ivy can’t decide whether to order waffles with fresh strawberries or get an omelet. Two little frown lines mar her smooth forehead.
“Which ones are you looking at?” I lean forward, trying to read her upside-down menu.
As she angles it for me to see, a strand of hair slips into her face. Without thinking, I reach out and tuck it behind her ear. Her eyes meet mine for a moment, then she blinks and looks down at the menu.
“The sausage and mushroom omelet looks really good,” she says, pointing.
“A flavor explosion of epic proportions,” I read aloud from the plastic-coated page, slightly sticky with syrup. “Sounds pretty damn awesome. I’m not sure how you can pass that up.”
“I know. It’s a hard decision.”
I find myself staring at her as she bites her lower lip and tries to make up her mind. God, we kissed a lot last night. And I mean a lot. But I couldn’t help myself. Her lips were so soft and willing against mine. Her whole body was.
Shifting slightly, I tug on the crotch of my jeans. “Get both.”
“I may make it sound like I have a ginormous appetite, but I can’t eat all that food.”
I flick her menu. “What if we split it?”
“You like mushrooms, too?” Her slightly upturned eyes sparkle with excitement. Over a silly omelet.
I have an insane urge to kiss her. Lean over the table, put my hand on the nape of her neck, and pull her toward me. I clear my throat instead and look back at the menu.
“Yeah,” I lie. It’s not that I hate mushrooms, I just don’t purposely order them.
“Okay, perfect,” she says, clasping her hands together. “That totally solves my dilemma. I hate choosing between two really good things.”
The waitress takes our order and pours the coffee. One by one, Ivy opens up four little containers of cream and dumps them in. She stirs and the spoon makes a musical sound as it clinks inside the mug.
“Your cream-to-coffee ratio is much higher than mine.” I wrap my hands around my cup of plain black coffee.
“And you’re quite observant this morning.” She blows on the surface, then takes a sip. “Does that mean I’m slipping on the food preferences slash likeability scale?”
I hold up my fingers, indicating an inch. “Just a little.”
The sound of her laughter sends pleasant ripples through my body. When I picked her up this morning, I figured she wouldn’t be this comfortable with me after last night. I expected her to be a little more reserved, maybe even embarrassed, but she’s not. It could be because she doesn’t remember that she invited me to stay over.
Or maybe she decided she could trust me.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says.
“So tell me something, Ivy.”
She looks at me, waiting.
“Since you’re twenty-one, why are you living in the dorms?”
“Why? Is it that unusual? My roommate is, and so are a few people on my floor.”
“I’m just curious, that’s all. Most people would be living off campus by now.”
She carefully sets down her cup and plays with a few grains of sugar that spilled on the table. “Technically, I’m a freshman, that’s why. I dropped out of my old college with less than forty-five credits. Since PSU makes all freshmen live in the dorms, that’s why I’m there.”
“Did you get sick of school and decide to join the circus? Backpack around Europe with a band of roving gypsies? Get tired of living in a tent?”
She snorts, then immediately clamps her hand over her mouth. A little boy in the booth behind her turns around to stare. I make a funny face at him.
“How do you do this to me?” she says through her fingers.
“Do what? I’m just sitting here, waiting patiently for my breakfast.”
She throws a plastic creamer container at me that I try to dodge, but it glances off my shoulder and clatters to the floor. “Make me laugh at a situation that I normally don’t find funny.”
“I don’t know about you, Ivy, but joining the circus is no laughing matter.”
She groans, puts her head down on her forearms, and mumbles something.
Despite all the joking around, I wonder why she dropped out of her old college and came here. Especially since PSU is so far from home. When we were dancing last night, she told me she was from California. Did she switch majors and decided to switch schools, too? What does she want to do when she gets out of college? Why does she seem scared at times, then fun and free-spirited at others? Impulsively, I reach across the table and grab her hands. I like the feel of her touch. She doesn’t pull away this time.
“How did you end up here?”
She searches my face, her gaze reaching inside me. It looks as though she’s trying to decide whether to tell me the easy reason—the one she tells everyone—or the actual one. Her dark-fringed eyes are clear, but I see the indecision, concern. Should she or shouldn’t she?
I hope she sees safety in mine.
Tell me. You can trust me.
It’s like she’s lived a lifetime of experiences already—not all of them pleasant. She’s an old soul like me, though I’m sure she’s not nearly as damaged.
She swallows nervously. “I…uh…went to a small college right after high school, but dropped out when…when something happened.”
Her racing pulse under my fingertips reminds me of a pair of butterfly wings, trapped under a layer of silk. I rub my thumbs over her soft skin.
“What happened, Ivy?”
Her shoulders sag as if they’re too heavy and she can’t hold them up any longer. “There was…an accident. A car accident. And…I was in a coma for nine days.”
I curse under my breath, squeeze her hands. “You almost died.”
She presses her lips together. “So they tell me. Good thing I don’t remember it.”
Physically, she looks fine. And I’m pretty sure I saw her running a few mornings ago. “I’m not surprised. That’s common with traumatic brain injuries.”
“The only lasting effects are the memory loss and the fact that I suddenly have a need to do creative things. Before the accident, I was probably the most unartistic person on the planet. I was going to major in something practical, like accounting or business, but now I crave something more creative.”
“Thus the photography class?”
She nods. “I’m planning to major in graphic design now.”
“I should’ve known that class didn’t just fulfill your arts credit.”
She looks up from her hands and narrows her eyes. “I suppose that’s why you’re taking it.”
“I’m like you before the accident. Uncreative with a capital U. The only things I can draw are stick figures.”
“I didn’t say I could draw now,” she says, laughing. “And what are you talking about, claiming to be uncreative? I’ve seen your guitar, remember?”
When has she seen— Oh, that’s right. I had it when I helped her off the roof. “I just play around with it. So you left your old school for PSU’s graphic design program?”
“That and…” She takes a deep breath. “I needed to get out of Lincoln Falls. I couldn’t go back to school there. I tried, but I ended up failing a lot of classes.”
I wonder if she’s got lingering cognitive issues from the brain injury. “Did you have a hard time concentrating? Because it can take a long time for the brain to heal.”
“Yes, but…it wasn’t because of the accident. At least, not entirely.”
Before she can explain further, the waitress shows up with our food, effectively ending the conversation.
Ivy cuts the omelet in half and slides the plate to the center of the table. “You pick,” she says. Then she takes a bite of her waffle, making sure to scoop up some strawberries.
I hesitate, not sure what she wants me to do. There aren’t any extra plates, and I don’t want to put it with my waffles.
She points to the omelet with her knife. “The person who divides the food doesn’t get to pick which piece they get. Since I cut it, you get to pick which half is yours.”
“How equitable,” I say with a grin.
“It prevented all sorts of fights between my sister and me when we were growing up. As the oldest, I thought I was being smart when I got to cut the doughnut or the cake
and
pick first, but Rose wised up when she realized she was always getting the small piece.”