Bad Judgment (11 page)

Covering my chest with both arms in an attempt to escape the intensity of his gaze, I force myself back to the subject at hand. Is he playing me? Or is he serious?

I’m still not ready to give in and make this seem too easy. Strategy. This is all about negotiation. “Look, we can only study together a couple times a week. I study every day, and I can’t have you up in my business all the time. I don’t want
anyone
up in my business all the time. I don’t actually like people enough for that much human interaction.”

His response is so quick, it’s like he was anticipating me shutting him down. “Three days during the week and one day on the weekend. A couple extra days before the Professional Responsibility midterm, and then we go hard for all of our finals.”

When he says
go hard
, my mind immediately dives into the gutter.
Bad, Justine.
I force the illicit thoughts away and focus firmly on the subject at hand—
studying
.

“You know you need to ace that Professional Responsibility midterm, right? Because otherwise Babcock is going to screw you over. You need irrefutable proof that you crushed that test so if she does screw you over, you can appeal the grade. You pissed her off, and she’s not going to forget.”

He nods. “I know. That’s why I’m thinking we have to focus harder on that one.”

When did this become a
we
thing? But then again . . . Professional Responsibility is my least favorite class of the semester, so it’s not like I’m going to be all that motivated to study for it on my own either. Maybe this will actually be beneficial for me too.

“So, do we have a deal?” Ryker holds out his hand to shake, but I hold mine up instead. “You also have to study for the class we don’t have together. What was it?”

“Election Law. Easy shit. My dad wants me to go into politics, so it’s actually not that bad. I’m taking it pass-fail.”

“You better not fail it, because that would be moronic.”

“I can’t fail Election Law. That’s practically impossible.”

“Fine.” I reach out and slide my small hand into his much bigger one, and he grips it firmly. I’m so focused on the feel of his hand wrapped around mine that I almost forget to add, “We have a deal.”

His smirk tilts up the corners of his mouth, and I snatch my hand back.
Okay, no touching. That needs to be a rule.

I hope to hell I know what I’m doing.
Because another kiss like the one in the library can’t happen again. I’m getting paid to help him study, not to date him. I need to draw the line and keep it there.

He picks up a highlighter, and my eyes are riveted on the muscles of his forearm and his watch.
Why is that sexy?

Shit.
I’m so screwed.

Desperate for a distraction, I reach for the bag between us.

“What’d you get?”

Justine

Before I can call Merica and spill about the Ryker study date, her name pops up on the screen of my cell. Part of me expects a barrage of questions more intense than those the professors throw at us with the Socratic method, but apparently she can’t actually read my mind because all I get is a yawn.

“I slept through my night class, and now I’ve gotta ask Kristy Horner for notes.”

The name Kristy Horner brings an automatic groan to my lips. She’s the most vocal of my classmates about the fact that she slept with Ryker, and apparently had several repeat appearances.
Don’t care
, I snap at myself. I just wish it was the truth. I’m still deciding how to respond when Merica continues.

“Maybe I’ll use this opportunity to strike up a casual conversation about Ryker’s dick and finally get my answers.”

“Ugh. Please don’t. That’s just . . . really?”

“What? You keep telling me you’re not going to take one for the team and find out, so what choice am I left with?”

“To live on blissfully without the knowledge, continue to be happy with your boyfriend?”
And let me stop thinking about the size of Ryker’s penis when I’m only supposed to be thinking about his grades
, I add silently to myself.

I open my mouth to tell Merica everything, but she launches into another tirade about the horribleness that is Kristy Horner. I stop at a train crossing, half listening, and my gaze lands on the white bakery bag on the seat beside me that holds half a blueberry muffin.

Because Ryker wanted to buy me something to make it a date . . . even though he has no idea that the only reason I was there is because I signed a contract with his dad.

Another shard of guilt lances through me.
Nope. Not thinking about it.

After the way our study date—no, study session—started, I expected the rest of the night to be filled with me trying to ignore more innuendo and smug smirks with very little actual studying getting done. That wasn’t the case, and it totally threw me.

I don’t like it when people surprise me. I put Ryker into a little slot marked
overprivileged douche bag
, and if he doesn’t fit there, then I’m not sure where to put him. This deal I made with his dad depended on him staying in that slot.

Instead of focusing only on my work, I spent way too much time noticing how delicious the five o’clock shadow shading his jaw looks, and how he pushes up his baseball cap and messes up his blondish-brown hair before readjusting it while he’s reading. Then there’s the way he taps his highlighter twice on a page when he’s committing a concept to memory.

All things I shouldn’t be noticing. But the one big thing I already knew stands out above them all—he’s too hot for his own good. More than one girl walked by our table multiple times, eyes on him as she did.

It would have annoyed me, but Ryker didn’t even notice. He’s completely oblivious to the stares he gets from the women—and men—in a room.

“Jus? Are you even listening to me?” Merica’s voice comes through my phone louder.

“What? Oh, sorry. Mind wandering. I’m stuck at a train crossing.”

“Damn trains. So, you’re cool with Saturday night?”

Crap, I really did miss part of the conversation, and she’s going to give me hell if I ask what she said. My listening skills outside of class fall somewhere between decent and marginal on a good day, and with thoughts of Ryker in my head . . . well, let’s just say I’m working with a handicap.

Get out of my head, Grant.

“Sure, sounds great,” I reply, deciding to just roll with it. Merica isn’t into much that I dislike. It’s not like we’re going to end up at one of those learn-to-paint-like-an-amateur-Monet classes that seem to be all the rage right now.

Merica squeals on the other end of the phone line. I have no other description for the sound she’s making. “Yes! I’m so freaking excited. Talk tomorrow?”

Her palpable excitement gushes through my phone, and for a moment I wonder what the heck I just agreed to.
I guess I’ll find out this weekend.

“Of course.”

“’Night, hottie.”

“’Night, Mer.”

When we hang up, it hits me that I never got a chance to tell her about what happened with Ryker.

Nothing happened. Just studying. Stop obsessing over it.

Right, like that’s possible.

Ryker

I pull into the underground parking garage of my condo building and climb out of my Camaro. I don’t make it five steps toward the elevator before another car door slams shut and a voice calls out to me.

“Hey, man, you coming for poker night tomorrow?”

Turning to face Ian Everett, I pause. “Hey, I wondered what the hell happened to you. Haven’t seen your car around for a few days.”

Ian’s blond mop is messy and looks like he just spent the last few hours with several women. As he comes closer, I decide I’m probably right. The lipstick smear on his chin tells me plenty.

“I’ve been crashing with this chick from Supply Chain Management. We had a group project and she . . . well, you know how that shit goes.”

He’s right, I do know how that shit goes, but it’s been a while since I gave up the comfort of my own bed for an entire night. And I never bring them here. It might sound cliché, but my condo is my sanctuary. I don’t even really like people knowing where I live. Especially not since Veronica Muzio decided to camp out on my doorstep for three days when I stopped answering her calls. Building security was at a loss, and explaining to her that she needed to move the fuck on wasn’t fun. I don’t need that shit happening again.

Tapping a finger on my chin, I tell Ian, “I think you missed a spot, unless that red is really your color.”

He laughs and shrugs before swiping the side of his hand across his jaw to remove the makeup smear.

We head for the elevator together, shooting the shit. Ian’s in his last year of his MBA, being groomed to move into the junior executive program of his father’s company after he graduates. We’ve known each other since our undergrad days when he tried out a pre-law class and decided it wasn’t for him. I didn’t get it back then, but now, I wish I’d made the choice to go to business school instead of law school.

But then you wouldn’t have met Justine
.

It’s like Ian’s a mind reader. “So, what’s up with you? New chick on your dick?”

“Not exactly.”

The elevator lets out on our floor.

“That doesn’t sound promising.”

I shrug, not wanting to admit that I’m still trying to gain any ground with Justine after two years of blow-offs.

“Yeah, well. I’m working on it.”

Ian’s eyebrows hit his shaggy mess of bangs. “Working for a woman? Damn, Ry. You losing your touch? What happened to all that easy ass you’ve always gotten?”

“You know what they say about too much of a good thing, right? Well . . . maybe I’m trying something different.”

My friend crosses his arms over his chest and eyes me. “Different like fucking dudes? I’m equal opportunity when it comes to other people, but I’m not gonna try that shit myself.”

The suggestion is so ridiculous that my gut-level laugh echoes through the hall. When I’ve finally caught my breath, I shake my head at Ian. “Not a chance. I’m trying the slow-and-steady method for this one.”

My words seem to truly confuse him because Ian’s face twists up with confusion. “Slow and steady? That’s a thing? What happened to
hit ’em and quit ’em
?”

“Hasn’t worked with this chick, and I don’t expect it to work with her anytime soon.”

Ian pushes off from the wall and gestures to my door. “You’re gonna tell me this shit over a beer, because I’ve never heard a fairy tale like Ryker Grant striking out with a woman.”

Six beers between us later, Ian is laughing his ass off over how many times I’ve been shot down by Justine.

“You’re telling me that you’ve been asking this chick out for two fucking years and you’ve only kissed her
twice
? Seriously? How did I not know this?”

“Because I didn’t think it was worth sharing.” I lift the bottle to my lips and wish it was something a hell of a lot stronger.

“She got a gold-plated pussy or what? Jesus, man. That’s desperate shit.”

Lowering the bottle a little harder than necessary, it cracks when it hits the table. Turns out I don’t like to listen to Ian talk about Justine’s pussy. Not a surprise.