He all but ignored Lisa and Gabe. His eyes focused only on mine. “You came.”
“I was forced.”
“Coerced.” Lisa rolled her eyes.
Gabe watched the exchange with open amusement.
Weston was still staring.
Apparently having enough of the awkwardness, Gabe moved me to the side and held out his hand to Weston. “We think she’s homeschool, it’s why she doesn’t talk.” He pointed back to me. I could feel my face heat to five hundred degrees. “But she’s cute as hell so we keep her around. This one is my cousin.” He pointed to Lisa. “And I’m pretty sure you and I had a KI class together.”
Weston’s eyes left mine and landed on Gabe. Nodding, he shook his hand firmly. “Yeah, I think it was archery.”
“Best class ever.” Gabe sighed.
“Ah, now I remember.” Weston laughed. “You’re the guy who shot the professor in the ass with the arrow.”
“She turned me down.” Gabe shrugged.
“Sexual harassment.” Lisa fake-coughed.
Waving her off, Gabe continued talking. “How’s practice going?”
“He’s talking football,” Lisa whispered. “Shh, it’s like watching a baby turtle trying to find the ocean. He’s either going to get eaten because he knows shit about sports, or he’s going to swim free into the ocean and discover he’s a real boy.”
“It’s good.” Weston ignored us. “You know how practice is, brutal. But it’s going to be a good season.”
“You think you’ll get a bowl this year?” Gabe asked, sounding genuinely interested.
“Good Lord the turtle made it!” Lisa whispered in my ear.
“Yeah.” Weston’s eyes flickered to mine before he nodded at Gabe. “Coach is hoping for the championship. After the loss last year to Oregon, we kind of want to redeem ourselves.”
“Tell me about it.” Gabe sighed. “I hate the Ducks.”
“Green and yellow, green and yellow,” Lisa sang behind him.
“I will think nothing about punching you in the face if you sing that again.” Gabe swore.
Lisa grinned. “Well, my work here is done. I just saw one of the guys I met at registration. He walked in, our eyes met. Now I’m going to meet him in the middle of the dance floor.”
When she left, Gabe murmured, “She likes to narrate her own life.”
“Cool.” I laughed. “She needs her own soundtrack.”
“Don’t tell her that.” Gabe shook his head. “I wouldn’t put it past her to start singing rather than talking. And I’m already losing IQ points by hanging out with her.”
The conversation slid into a lull. Weston was still staring. Gabe’s grin grew wider by the minute. Finally, he mumbled something about spiking the punch and walked off. Which really just meant that Weston was the worst RA in the history of RA’s. Especially if he was okay with Gabe spiking things.
“Let’s take a walk.” He offered his arm.
I paused, staring at the outstretched arm and then back at his eyes. “I don’t know if I should.”
“I didn’t do it.” He swallowed, his eyes closing for a brief second before meeting mine again. “The rape? I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now. You can trust me. In fact, I’ll even let you have one of the rape whistles.”
“You carry them?” My eyes widened.
“Hey, guys get raped too.” His smile fell, and then he reached into his pocket and handed me a whistle. “Don’t forget the most important part about owning one of these babies.”
“What?” I took the red whistle in my hands and examined it.
Weston’s breath fanned my face. “Blow.”
“Huh?” Okay, I was going to pass out. His lips were inches from mine.
“You have to blow…” His full lips expanded into a bold grin. “The whistle. You know, in order to get help.”
“Oh,” I said, breathless. “Right.”
He led me out of the lobby. I was lucky to be walking in straight lines after that little exchange. I had no idea why I’d captured his attention, but I still had that sinking feeling in the back of my mind that it wasn’t a good thing. Being his friend would never work and being more scared me half to death.
Chapter Seven
Note to self, when a girl’s smile makes you forget your own name — you’re in some deep shit.
Weston
“This way.” I grabbed her hand and led her down the street. “So, tell me about yourself, Kiersten.” Lame. My first question was so unoriginal I wanted to punch myself. That was what freshman orientation did to a person.
“I’m eighteen.”
“No, I didn’t—” I turned and found myself under the full force of her green eyes penetrating mine. “That is, yes, I’m glad you’re over eighteen, I don’t want to get in trouble for holding your hand or anything.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t strike me as the type of guy who just holds hands.”
“You’re right.” I exhaled. “But I’m a fan of hands, or maybe it’s just yours, Lamb.” It was true. I liked her hands. Everything about her screamed innocence. I almost felt bad for corrupting her, for wanting her. Almost being the key word.
“And there’s the nickname.”