Dream With Me (With Me Book 4) (2 page)

Yeah. I’m definitely not the only one in the hate camp.

Fourth Impressions, March, Junior Year

“You won’t even believe who
I met in the bathroom,” I say as I reach Chloe and Taylor at the bar.

“Who?” Chloe asks.

“Yeah, who?” Taylor hands me a fruity cocktail. Ohhh. It’s yummy.

“Hailey Bloom,” I whisper.

“No way!” Chloe says.

“What is she like?”

“She seemed super sweet,” I say. “And shy. Like, I was surprised that a big star like her would be shy.”

“Most actors are shy,” Taylor says.

“You’re not shy and you want to act,” I point out.

“
Most
, I said. Not all.”

I take another sip of my drink and glance around the bar.

And I see him.

Again.

“Ugh,” I say.

“Bad drink?” Taylor asks.

Chloe shakes her head, already seeing what I’m
ughing
about. “Look to your left, Tay.”

“Ohhhhh.”

“Seriously,” I say, “it’s like every time I turn around, he’s there. It’s bad enough we have to share classes together, but ughhhhhhhh on having to seeing him everywhere else, too. Do you see how he looks at me? No, don’t look now!”

“I wasn’t going to,” Taylor says.

“I was,” Chloe admits. “But yeah, he’s definitely making a grouchy face at you.”

“He looks at me like he hates me,” I say. “All he does is frown and scowl. He
never
smiles at me. He hardly speaks to me and . . . and . . . and . . .”

“Why do you care?” Chloe asks, then holds out her hands defensively when I glare at her. “Okay, ease down on the Death Stare. I’m not trying to fight with you; I’m genuinely curious. Why does it matter if he hates you? You hate him. He hates you. So . . .”

“Because it does!” I slam the rest of my drink back. “It just does.”

When I glance back at Griff, he’s still frowning at me.

I’m going to need a lot more alcohol.

Lasting Impressions, Last Day of Class, Senior Year

The last class of college.
I can’t even believe it. And it’s not really a “class” day as we turned in our Senior Thesis into Dr. Tucker a few weeks ago.

It’s more of a good-bye class. Dr. Tucker brought in coffee and donuts. Seriously, I love this woman, and I’m going to miss her like mad. She’s my favorite professor, and she’s been encouraging of my dreams. But I have her email and I definitely plan on keeping in touch with her and my other favorite professor, Dr. Farnan, who taught a lot of the Business courses I took.

The strawberry cream-filled donut is delicious, and I’m almost having fun, despite Griff being here.

As “luck” had it, we decided on the same Senior Thesis class and shared a few other classes this semester. Toward the end of sophomore year, I just resigned myself to the fact that I would see Griff in and outside of college. (But I totally still bitched about it, because it is annoying to always see the guy I hate!) We’re English majors, but there are a lot of classes to choose from—both in our major and outside.

We always seemed to choose the same kind of classes. Which was disconcerting, because it would seem we would have similar interest in our educational studies.

I look up to see Griff staring at me. Ugh. Why is he
always
looking at me? Why?!

Maybe I have something on my face. Crap, I’m eating a cream-filled donut, and I bet some frosting is on my lips. That’s the only reason why his eyes dipped down to my mouth.

It’s not like he wants to kiss me or anything.

I almost laugh at the thought. Griff kiss me? Yeah, that will be a cold day in hell. But when I swipe my mouth, there’s no frosting or powdered sugar to be found.

Why was he looking at my mouth then?

And why is he
still
looking at me as if
I’m
the donut he wants to eat?

Oh my God. I’m being stupid. STUPID. I’m on this sugar high—thank you, sweet, delicious donut—and it’s messing with my head. Griff’s not looking at me like anything.

And look, I’m right! He’s all grouchy and frowning at me again.

Back to our regularly scheduled program of hate.

Well, at least in a few weeks, I’ll never have to see Griff again.

Thank God for that.

Sunday, Seven Days until Graduation

‡

Desperate times call for desperate
measures. And if I don’t hurry, I’m going to miss the boat. Literally.

“Wait!” I wave my hands out the taxi window, trying to draw anyone’s attention on board. Hopefully one of my friends will see me and tell someone—preferably the captain—to hold off on leaving.

But who am I kidding? It’s seven fifty-nine p.m., one minute away from launch time. The skies are already midnight blue and the dock isn’t well lit. No one is going to be looking in this direction anyway. They’ll be looking at Lake Champlain or they’ll be inside. Most likely, my friends are at the bar or grabbing food from the buffet.

I should be with them—and not stuck in the backseat of this cab. I’m never late, but it felt like the Universe conspired against me. My car stalled, and to make matters worse, my cell died right after I phoned for a taxi. I’ve been unable to text my BFFs, Chloe and Taylor, to let them know I was on my way. And now, the car is slowly winding its way through the crowded parking lot.

“Stop!”

We jerk to a halt a second later.

“I’m going to make a run for it,” I say.

“In those heels?” the driver asks me, disbelief heavy in her raspy voice.

“I’ll manage.” I thrust the fare plus tip to the driver and step out. “Thank you!”

And then I run.

I don’t even like boats that much, but the dinner cruise is the kick-off to a bunch of events for Green College seniors. Graduation is next week. I still can’t believe that it’s so close, but I’m definitely looking forward to receiving my diploma. I can’t wait for the next phase of my life to begin.

I stumble in my haste but catch myself before I fall. Ugh, it looks like the driver’s disbelief was warranted. I’m usually good in heels, but I don’t want to risk a fall and have bloodied knees. The gold sparkly heels need to come off. Wasting precious time, I remove them and sprint—loose gravel is impossible to avoid, but I hardly notice. It doesn’t matter how fast I am because the boat sails off just as I reach the end of the dock.

I drop my things to the ground and let out every imaginable curse I can think of. I really can’t believe I missed it. I’m so mad at myself.

“Evie?”

I turn with my left arm pulled back, ready to punch, just in case the person is planning to attack me. When I see who it is, I let my arm drop to my side and unfurl my fist. Just when I thought my night couldn’t get any worse, I have to run into
him
.

“Griff.”

Griffin Sinclair is the bane of my existence. We haven’t gotten along since our disastrous introduction at a mixer our first week on campus. Green College is small, so I should have been able to avoid him.

Yeah. No such luck.

Griff and I are both English majors, and while we both have double majors (Business for me and Library Sciences for him), we share the same English advisor. Since freshman year, we’ve also had at least one class together. One unlucky semester, we had the same exact schedule. Needless to say, I’ve had to look at Griff’s no-nonsense, grouchy face for far longer than I’ve liked.

And sure, Griff might be considered handsome if one happens to like the tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed guy who doesn’t say much. He’s built, but not in the gym rat, steroid abuser kind of way. Natural-looking with all those big, hard muscles that so many girls go crazy over.

Me? Nope. Not interested.

Sure, maybe there was a time when I thought he was hot and sexy. But it didn’t last long. Especially not after he insulted me and hurt my feelings. That combination killed any attraction I
might
have felt.

It’s shocking to see Griff dressed up. He’s usually in jeans and T-shirt, the standard college guy fare. He’s not super fancy, but he’s also not in casual day to day wear. He’s wearing nice black pants and a collared hunter-green shirt. Our colors almost match—my dark green halter dress flares out. We look like we planned it.

I glance behind him to see that the parking lot has emptied, leaving us alone. Well, shoot. I’ll have to call for a new taxi. Except my cell is charging back at my apartment, so I’ll have to ask Griff if I can borrow his.

Griff and I barely say one word to each other if we can help it. But he hardly talks to anyone, so it’s surprising when he clears his throat and takes a step closer.

“You missed it, too?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I feel foolish, standing there in my bare feet, with all my things scattered about. My gaze flicks to the dock and Griff follows the movement. At the same time, we bend and reach for one of my discarded shoes.

Our hands collide.

It feels like I’ve just had a million static shocks. A distinct hum vibrates in every single nerve. My blood sings with awareness.

I cannot freaking believe this.

And from Griff’s widened dark eyes, neither can he.

I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t.

But . . .

“It’s probably a fluke,” I say.

I touch his hand again.

I jerk my hand back, cradling it to my chest. It’s the wrong move to make.

I can still feel
him
.

And now the feel of Griff is burning through my dress straight into my pounding heart. I jump to my feet, needing distance . . . I don’t even like Griff. Why would there be any chemistry of the I-want-to-jump-your-bones kind? I don’t understand it.

It has to be a mistake.

It has to be.

And it doesn’t escape my notice that Griff Sinclair has not said one word about . . . this.

Whatever
this
is.

Typical of him. I shouldn’t be surprised by his silence. And I shouldn’t be feeling this way about a guy who has made it very clear years ago that he didn’t like me.

I turn my back on Griff and face Lake Champlain. The water is calm and gentle, so completely at odds with how I’m feeling. When I glance up, the skies are clear. There are no storms on the horizon, no hidden currents of electricity that can explain away the shock of awareness.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe
I’m
the only one who felt anything. The whole day has been off. And other than Griff’s widened eyes, there was no other sign he felt anything.

Maybe it was nothing.

His hand curves over my bared right shoulder, his fingers settling onto my skin. His thumb skims my exposed shoulder blade, tracing the hard line of it.

My breath catches in my throat. And I stop thinking about why there shouldn’t be any attraction between us—how I should pull away and get my head back on straight . . . how I should forget everything. I know what the sensible thing is.

I know what I
should
do.

But another part of me—that part that
always
gets me in trouble—is telling me to stay. To not be sensible. To see what happens.

Griff reaches the line of my shoulder, but he doesn’t stop.

He moves.

His fingers glide up, his touch rough yet gentle. He doesn’t have smooth hands; they’re hardened by manual labor. I try to recall where he works outside of college, but I can’t. I’m focused on one thing. This mindless pleasure.

He strokes the curve of my neck, then lifts my thin, rose-gold necklace. When he lets go, the chain lands like a soft whip. My skin burns, my breathing shallows even more. And I tilt my head so he can continue touching me.

Griff takes the unspoken invitation.

He starts where my neck meets shoulder line. His fingers briefly rest over my pounding pulse before resuming their heated caress. He reaches my jawline, but doesn’t go toward my chin. Instead, he plays with my dangling earring before tracing the shell of my ear.

He doesn’t touch my hair, the loose dark curls that spill down my back. But I can feel his fingers itch with the need to do so, to run through the wild strands . . . to tangle himself even more in me.

I don’t want him to stop.

He moves closer. His pants touch my bare legs, his chest presses against my back, his hand is still on my neck. And his other?

His other hand rests on my left hip.

It surprises me he doesn’t reach for my breasts, but every single thing about this so far has shocked me. Griff isn’t like any other guy I’ve been with—most college guys aren’t about the foreplay.

But Griff?

Griff is
all
about the foreplay.

And right now, I can’t even recall why we don’t get along, because it’s obvious we get along in the most important way.

This is madness. I should think about this. I should be smarter. Pull away. Knock some much needed sense into me. A one-night stand goes nowhere . . . and we don’t like each other. But then, why do I want to have sex with Griff? Why am I burning with need for him?

I’ve never been the kind of girl who thinks and weighs every option. I’m impulsive. Instinctive. I live for the moment. I don’t want to have regrets, so I go after what I want and—