My dad hasn’t arrived yet when I walk into the Coffee Hut, so I order a green tea at the counter and find us two comfy chairs in the corner of the room. It’s Saturday morning, and the coffeehouse is deserted. I have a feeling most people are probably nursing hangovers from Friday night.
As I settle on the plush armchair, the bell over the door chimes and my father enters the room. He’s wearing his trademark brown blazer and starched khaki pants, an outfit my mom refers to as his “serious professor” look.
“Hi, honey,” he greets me. “Let me grab a coffee.”
A minute later, he joins me in the corner, looking more harried than usual. “I’m sorry I’m late. I stopped by the office to pick up some papers and got cornered by a student. She wanted to discuss her term paper.”
“It’s okay. I just got here.” I pop open the lid of my cup and steam rises up to my face. I blow on the hot liquid for a moment, then take a quick sip. “How was your week?”
“Chaotic. I was concerned with the quality of the papers that were being turned in, so I extended office hours for the students who had questions about the exam. I’ve been on campus until ten o’clock every night.”
I frown. “You know you have a TA, right? Can’t he help out?”
“He does, but you know I enjoy interacting with my students.”
Yep, I do know that, and I’m sure that’s why all his students love him so much. Dad teaches graduate-level molecular biology at Briar, a course you wouldn’t think would be all that popular, and yet there’s actually a waiting list to get into his class. I’ve sat in on a few of his lectures over the years, and I have to admit, he does have a way of making the ridiculously boring material seem interesting.
Dad sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. “So, I made reservations at Ferro’s for Friday at six-thirty. Does that work for the birthday girl?”
I roll my eyes. I am so not a birthday person. I prefer low-key celebrations, or—in a perfect world—no celebrations at all, but my mom is a birthday fiend. Surprise parties, gag gifts, forcing waiters to sing in restaurants…she’s all about inflicting the greatest amount of torture possible. I think she gets a kick out of embarrassing her only daughter. But since she moved to Paris three years ago, I haven’t been able to spend my birthday with her, so she’s recruited my dad into taking over humiliation duties.
“The birthday girl will only agree to go if you can promise nobody will sing to her.”
He blanches. “Lord, do you think I want to sit through that? No way, honey. We’ll have a nice, quiet dinner, and when you talk to your mom about it afterward, you can tell her a mariachi band came over to the table and sang for you.”
“Deal.”
“Are you sure you’re okay that we’re not having dinner on your actual birthday? If you want to celebrate on Wednesday night, I can cancel office hours.”
“Friday is fine,” I assure him.
“All right, then it’s a date. Oh, and I spoke to your mom again last night,” he adds. “She asked if you’ve reconsidered changing your flight to May. She’d love to see you for three months instead of two.”
I hesitate. I’m excited to visit Mom this summer, but for three months? Even two is pushing it—that’s why I insisted on coming back the first week of August, even though the semester doesn’t start until the end of the month. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my mother. She’s fun and spontaneous, and so bubbly and encouraging it’s like having your own personal cheerleader following you around waving her pom-poms. But she’s also…exhausting. She’s a little girl in a grown woman’s body, acting on her every whim without stopping to consider the consequences.
“Let me think about it,” I answer. “I need to decide if I have the energy to keep up with her.”
Dad chuckles. “Well, we both know the answer to that is no. Nobody has the energy to keep up with your mom, honey.”
He certainly hadn’t, but luckily, their divorce had been one hundred percent amicable. I think when Mom told him she wanted out, Dad was more relieved than upset. And when she decided to move to Paris in order to “find herself” and “reconnect with her art”, he’d been nothing but supportive.
“I’ll let you know this weekend, okay?” I reach for my tea, but my hand freezes when the bell rings again.
A dark-haired guy in a Briar hockey jacket strolls in, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think it’s Logan.
But nope. It’s someone else. Shorter, bulkier, and not as devastatingly gorgeous.
Disappointment flutters through me, but I force it away. Even if Logan had walked through that door, what would I really expect to happen? He’d come over and kiss me? Ask me out?
Riiiight. I made the guy come last night and he didn’t even stick around long enough to kiss me goodbye. So yeah, I have to face the facts: I’m just another girl on a long list of John Logan’s conquests.
And honestly? I’m totally cool with that. As underwhelming as it may have been, getting, um…conquered by Logan is hands-down the highlight of my freshman year.
*
Logan
“Has a girl ever faked an orgasm with you?” I blurt out. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, and I nervously tap my fingers on the kitchen counter as I look at my roommate.
Dean, who was on his way to the fridge, stops in his tracks so abruptly that if he’d been on skates, I would be wiping ice shavings off my face right now.
“I’m sorry, didn’t hear you. What was that?”
His expression is the epitome of innocence, so it’s not until after I repeat myself that I realize I’m being played. Dean doubles over, honest-to-God tears streaming down his cheeks as he shudders with laughter.
“I totally heard you the first time,” he croaks. “I just wanted to hear you ask it again…oh shit…I think I might piss myself…” Another howl rips out of his throat. “You tapped a girl and she faked it?”
I clench my teeth so hard my molars hurt. What on earth had made me think confiding in Dean was a good idea?
“No,” I mutter.
He’s still laughing like a maniac. “How do you know she faked it? Did she tell you afterward? Oh God, please say yes!”
I stare into my coffee cup. “She didn’t tell me anything. I just got a feeling, okay?”
Dean opens the fridge and grabs a carton of OJ, still chuckling to himself. “This is priceless. Big stud on campus couldn’t make a girl come. You’ve officially given me enough ammo to rag on you for years.”
Yup, I sure did. Nobody ever said I was smart.
And why the hell am I even still obsessing about this? All weekend I’ve fought the temptation to see Grace. I forced myself to study for exams. I played a six-hour Ice Pro marathon with Tuck. I even cleaned my room and did laundry.
And then I opened my eyes this morning and couldn’t take it anymore.
I’ve got moves, damn it. Women know that when they hook up with John Logan, they’re going to leave with a satisfied smile on their faces, and it drives me crazy thinking that Grace might’ve been unsatisfied. It’s been gnawing at me for days. Days, damn it.
You know what? Screw it. I might not have her number, but I know where she lives, and there’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate on a damn thing today until I’ve rectified this unholy situation.
Leaving a girl wanting isn’t just embarrassing. It’s unacceptable.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of Grace’s door.
Showing up at a girl’s dorm at eight-thirty in the morning might not be the best way to score points, but since my stupid ego refuses to let me walk away, I take a breath and tap my fist on the door.
Grace opens it a second later.
Wearing nothing but a bathrobe.
Her eyes widen when she sees me, her voice coming out in a squeak. “Hi.”
Swallowing, I do my best not to dwell on the fact that she’s probably naked under that robe. The white terrycloth hangs to her knees, the belt secured tightly around her waist, but the top parts slightly, giving me a candid view of her cleavage.
“Hi.” My voice sounds gravelly, so I clear my throat. “Can I come in?”
“Um. Sure.”
She closes the door behind me, then turns around, an uneasy smile playing on her lips. “I don’t have much time. My last psych seminar is in an hour, so I need to get dressed and hike all the way across campus.”
“That’s okay. I don’t have a lot of time either. Study group in thirty minutes.” I shove my hands in my pockets to stop from fidgeting. I’m nervous and I have no idea why. I’ve never had a problem talking to chicks before.
“What’s up?” She nonchalantly grasps the front of her robe, as if she’s realized it’s dangerously close to gaping open.
“You didn’t finish, did you?” The question flies out before I can stop it.
“Finish what—” She halts, a flush rising in her cheeks as understanding dawns. “Oh. You mean…?”
I grit my teeth and nod.
“Well…no,” she confesses. “I didn’t.”
I struggle to keep my mouth in a neutral, non-frown position. “Why’d you tell me you did?”
“I don’t know.” She sighs. “You were already done. And I guess I didn’t want to damage your ego or anything. I was reading this article the other day about how men are sensitive about that kind of stuff. How it triggers feelings of inadequacy if a woman doesn’t reach orgasm. But did you know that something like ten percent of women don’t have an orgasm during sexual activity? So going by that statistic, men really shouldn’t feel like—”
“You’re doing that babbling thing again.”
Her expression is sheepish. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind it. I’m glad you’re worried about my ego.” I grin at her. “You should be.”
She looks startled. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been thinking non-stop about how I didn’t make you come last time.” I shrug. “And how badly I want to change that.”
