Chapter Seven

*Caroline*

“Need some help?”

I’m on my tiptoes when the question comes, trying to reach a book on the top shelf in the bookstore at the student center.

My heart does a nosedive off a cliff as that familiar gruff voice washes over me, his accent a smooth drawl that’s reminiscent of the hot summer night and slow kisses—kisses we never had…well, except for that one time.

I ignore him and try to grab the book.

“You’re too short. Let me,” Noah says, this time closer, his voice soft, almost placating.

I suck in a breath. The artist side of me was always drawn to the colors I saw when he spoke, shades of gold and gray, one side of him sunny and easy, the other part wrapped in fog and smoke.

I ease back on my feet and whip around, internally wishing I’d worn something more I hate you and don’t you wish you still had me, but sadly, I’m not in my kickass shoes and itchy dress. Today it’s flat-soled red Converse, black joggers, and a Yankees sweatshirt. I blow at a piece of hair in my face. Shit.

Of course, he looks magnificent in a tight long-sleeved black shirt that clings to his broad chest and tapered jeans molded to those leg muscles. His face gets most of my attention, the darkness on his jawline adding a broody look.

Curse him and his hotness.

I stare at him a little too long, until I snap out of it.

“I don’t need help.” My voice is strangled as I move to brush past him—forget the textbooks—but he reaches out and takes my elbow.

“Caroline—”

His fingers are a hot brand on my skin—it’s the first time we’ve touched in a long time—and I pull away. A tremble starts in my legs. How dare he? It was one thing to see him in a social setting and pretend I was fine, but when we’re face to face without people watching… “Don’t put your hands on me. I’m not your hookup anymore, football player.” My words are sharp, layered with bitterness.

His face reddens, and he drops his arms. “I didn’t mean—” he stops, not finishing as he studies my face.

I wonder what he sees. You know what he sees, Caroline—someone who wasn’t up to his usual standards.

Everything I didn’t say last night rushes out. “Didn’t mean to what? Take my virginity and tell me you love me? Or you didn't mean to blurt out about your bet with your friends? And you know, that’s totally fine. We both knew I wasn’t enough to keep your attention.”

His jaw clenches and he frowns, his brow furrowing. “I didn’t plan for things to happen that way, I didn't know it was your first time until it was to late... You didn't- you never said anything.  And I didn't mean to say anything about the bet.”

“How did you want to let me know that you were just using me? A text would have worked just fine,” I bite out.

He seems to grind his teeth, and his hand balls up as he puts it to his lips. “Just let me explain? Pleas- Football was hard and I was worried about colle-"

“Yeah, too difficult for a jock?”

It’s not true. I know he’s sharp, but anger eats at me—plus, Dani dances in my head, her hand curled around his arm, staking her claim.

The silence builds between us, and he watches me intently, as if trying to figure me out. He starts at my hair and works his way down to my feet, then comes back to my face. Just when I think I might combust from the intensity of his eyes, he looks away. “Is that really what you think about me? Just another dumb athlete with a hard-on for every girl who walks by?”

“ITSF.”

“If the shoe fits?” he asks.

“Damn you for always knowing my acronyms.”

His lips tighten.

“What?” I cock my hip. “You look like you want to say something.”

He taps his hand against his leg. Ice-blue eyes, ones I used to stare into and get butterflies from, glitter down at me. “You just can’t handle that I ended things, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart, and there had to be something between us for you to be able to end things.”

“Never were.”

Shit…shit…my heart feels like an anvil just landed on it, heavy and hard, and I can’t breathe for a second at his words, part of me pissed, the other part devastated. I wanted to be his sweetheart, I did, but he…

You’re not my type.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I say quietly, my anger folding away piece by piece and slipping into that horrible self-pity I despise.

He closes his eyes and scrubs his face with those talented hands, strong and big and capable, skillful with a football. I’ve never met someone as devoted to a sport as he is. He doesn’t seem to get enough of training and working out. Perhaps all players are as focused as him; I don’t know. I do know I went to every home game he played at Waylon, way before we hooked up. Part of that was sorority driven—gotta support our players—but he was the one I watched. Number eighty-two.

Someone slides by us, and I realize we’ve been standing here looking at each other for too long. It’s time to go. I step back from him, and my hands shake as I cling to the books I already got, needing something to keep me anchored.

He steps in front of me, much like he did last night, blocking me, and I tilt my head back to take him in. At my height of five feet, three inches, it’s hard to glare at a guy who towers over you and not look ridiculous, but I manage—until his eyes flicker with lingering emotion. I drop his gaze. I can handle the smooth-talking Noah, the one he shows everyone, but it’s that deeper side of him that intrigues me. And I can’t have that.

I dart my eyes around the store, searching for a way out, but I’m stuck between him and a bookshelf. “You’re blocking my path.” I focus on his legs. No sexiness there—well, except for the tight muscles under that denim.

“This is what I know,” he says in a low voice, ignoring my statement. “You told me that night meant nothing to you, that we were just messing around. So why does it bother you so much?”

“You never asked for more. You could have, But I was just a bet to you.” The revealing words fall around us, tinged with hurt, and I want to pull them back.

Protect your heart, Caroline.

The silence between us crackles, yet I’m aware of other people around us. There are a few girls on another aisle, and I glance over as one of them pulls out her phone. No doubt she’s taking a picture of him. Part of me retreats, anxious she’ll get me in that photo—a girl who clearly doesn’t belong. He doesn’t notice. Everyone knows who he is, and they’re probably wondering why he’s talking to me.

I inhale then immediately regret it when his scent hits me: freshly showered male with undertones of crisp pine. I shouldn’t be surprised I smell him. He’s standing way too close. What’s his deal? I decide I hate all pine trees. I will never look at another one again.

“No, I didn’t,” he finally says, the words taut as if pulled from him unwillingly. He taps his leg, his tell that he’s anxious or angry. We weren’t together for more than one night, but every moment we spent together, I studied him like a wine connoisseur given a glass of rare cabernet. I know what makes him laugh, usually random things that make no sense. I know that groan he makes deep in this throat when he slides inside me, like he’s home. I know the feel of his hand when he cups my face and stares at me, a hesitant expression on his face—

“You can’t even look at me anymore. I wonder why,” he says, his voice a challenge.

Steeling myself, I face those baby blues. “You know why. I wish you'd never picked me up on that back road. I wish we never fucked. I wish I didn't know what your face looks like whenever you cu-"

“Same page. Same fucking page, Caroline.” And then he’s walking away, broad shoulders swaying as he stalks down the aisle, straight to where Dani is—staring at the lipstick counter. All hail the beauty queen.

Seriously, she was crowned Miss Ohio her sophomore year.

She looks past him and sees me. With a frown, she checks me out, from the top of my ponytail to my red shoes. I know what she sees—a blob in a sweatshirt with no makeup—and obviously, I’m not her competition, but I guarantee she knows I slept with him. She knew at Cadillac’s. Not much gets past those pesky, pretty Thetas.

His back is ramrod straight, his fists balled up at his sides as he walks past her.

She tosses back her mane of blonde hair and looks over her shoulder at me with a triumphant smirk as she trots after him.

He’s mine, her gaze says.

You can have him! mine shouts back.

I can’t breathe watching his frame fade away from me as they exit and head out into the student center. There he goes. With her. I lean over and hang on to a nearby shelf, shoulders heavy, emotion building inside me as I replay the night we broke up.

He said I had rules, but he never asked for more.

He pushed me away and drove right out of my life that night.

Memories wash over me, the ones of him staring me down in the hallway during highschool. The mean things he said to me, how he blamed me for my mom taking his fathers job. God, why would I ever believe the things he said to me that night in his truck.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was laying in the bed of his truck underneath thestars and him telling me all of his deepest secrets for hours.

And what did I do after he left? I ended up in the dark basement of my childhood home, huddled in a corner alone as my family slept upstairs, my arms wrapped around a body that didn’t fit the mold of his perfect type. Blindsided, I cried my eyes out. I fucking cried because he fooled me so, so good. Because underneath, I thought, I thought he was on the same wavelength I was. Wrong.

But why is he so…angry with me? What have I done? I let him go. He asked for it, he got it.

A student walks past me and then looks back at me, giving me a lingering glance, and I straighten, realizing I’m still hunkered over on the shelf.

God, dig up some backbone, Care. The Noah era is over. Stop wallowing in this misery and move the F on.

I pull out the phone number Dr. A gave me and fire off a text to Med School Mike. Might as well get back in the saddle.