Anywhere Else.

Quinn

"It's been decided, Quinn."

My brother's voice cuts through the phone, flat and final, as if he's announcing tomorrow's weather instead of signing my death warrant.

I shift the phone against my shoulder, my free hand automatically flipping to Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution—a nervous habit that usually calms me. Today, it does nothing. "I could still look for somewhere else," I try, desperation creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. "You know, literally anywhere else on campus. A closet. A storage unit. The library basement."

"Nope." Beck's response is maddeningly firm, and I wish I could punch him through the phone. "You're staying with Cade. End of discussion."

I adjust my glasses with more force than necessary, the familiar weight doing nothing to ground me.

Of course.

Of all the people in this godforsaken college town, it has to be him. The one person who would probably throw a party if I spontaneously combusted.

"If only Dad wasn't stuck playing mother hen to hockey players," I mutter, half to myself, already knowing it's pointless. "Then maybe I could—"

"Quinn." Beck's voice sharpens, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "Freshman year is about making the right connections. And I need to know you're somewhere safe, with someone I trust."

"Someone you trust?" The words come out sharper than I intended, my carefully maintained composure cracking. "Beck, you're talking about the same guy who promised to make my life a living hell if he ever had to see my face again. Ring any bells?"

Beck actually has the audacity to laugh. The sound grates against my already frayed nerves. "Damn, Quinn, he was kidding. You're being dramatic. It's been two years—water under the bridge."

Two years since I'd made the right call and ‘ruined’ everything. Two years since Cade West looked at me like I was something he'd scrape off his shoe. Two years of us doing everything to stay out of each other’s way.

"Right," I say, my voice going flat. "Water under the bridge."

"Look, I gotta run. Practice starts in ten. Have fun with your constitutional law or whatever."

"It's constitutional theory, and it's only my—" But he's already gone, leaving me with nothing but dead air and the sinking feeling that I'm about to walk into a war zone.

…

NorthCrest College is everything I imagined—trimmed lawns, perfect buildings, a campus built to impress without even trying.

I bite back a grin. Eighty percent of U.S. lawyers walked out of these gates, degrees in hand, and if—no, when—my plans go accordingly, I’ll be one of them. Seven years from now, I’ll walk across that stage, and nothing—not even the devil himself—will stand in my way.

But as for now I shift uncomfortably people stare at me like I've landed from another planet. Maybe it's the pencil skirt—navy, perfectly pressed, stopping just below my knees. Or the matching blazer that Beck back home called "criminally boring." Or maybe it's the way I'm dragging what looks like a suitcase but is actually a wheeled crate full of law textbooks behind me like some kind of academic psycho.

Either way, I'm getting looks.

I ignore them, focusing instead on finding the brooding hockey jerk. I exhale three times and pull out my phone dialing cade’s number that beck had sent to me earlier

Straight to voicemail. Again.

I try once more, my jaw clenching with each unanswered ring, before giving up and typing out a text: I'm here. Where are you?

Five minutes pass before a response comes.

WEST:

847 Maple Leaf Dr. Apt 2B.

That's it. No acknowledgment like I didn’t just give ‘him’ ten missed calls. I bite back a scream adjusting my blazer. How on earth am I supposed to find it.

…

By the time I find the right apartment—after getting lost twice and nearly taking out an entire sidewalk café with my book crate—I'm sweating through my blazer and two seconds away from throwing hands.

I press the doorbell with more force than necessary.

Nothing.

I press it again. And again, holding it down long enough to be annoying.

"For fuck's sake," comes a muffled female voice from inside, followed by the sound of bare feet on hardwood and what sounds suspiciously like someone tripping over furniture.

The door swings open, and I'm face-to-face with a girl who's clearly just rolled out of bed—or rolled out of someone else's bed. She's wearing nothing but an oversized hockey jersey that barely covers her thighs and a pair of lace panties that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

My face flames as I immediately avert my eyes, staring at the doorframe. "Um..." I clear my throat, my voice coming out embarrassingly strangled. "Is this Cade West's apartment?"

She looks me up and down with the kind of slow, assessing gaze usually reserved for particularly unimpressive insects. Her lips curve into something that might generously be called a smile. "Huh. Guess his type’s changed" She turns her head, calling over her shoulder, "Cade!."

My stomach drops to somewhere around my knees.

Cade West steps into view behind her, and every coherent thought I've ever had promptly evacuates my brain.

He's shirtless, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs that hang low on his hips and showcase exactly why half the girls on campus probably have his name written in their phone under "God's Gift to Humanity."

The hickey blooming purple-red on his collarbone that makes my cheeks burn even hotter.

But it's his expression that makes me freeze. His gaze rakes me once, barely concealing his disgust. "Well, well," he says, his voice rough with sleep and something that’s definitely irritation. "Look what the cat dragged in."