Out on Good Behavior (Radleigh University Book 3) (9 page)

She gives me a puzzled look, and I remember she’s already said it was delicious, and she was also definitely expecting a very different response from me. You win, Imaginarily Judgmental Wait Staff—I
am
a shitty date. “It’s great. How’s yours?”

“Same.” I make a mental note
not
to make our next date at a restaurant; I am not nearly confident enough in my dating abilities for an audience. My tongue feels completely tied right now, and I don’t think that’s ever happened to me in my entire life.

Thankfully, Samara just smiles as if I’m not halfway to a panic attack, and that little curve of her lips sets me back to right again. “Good.” She takes another bite, then puts her fork down. “You said I can ask you anything, right?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Oh, sorry, I meant—ah kin ask you anythin’, raht?”

Her exaggerated accent achieves its intent of making me laugh, but even in faux form, it’s still sexy as hell. “Yes’m, I reckon you can.”

“Good. Because I have been wondering about your tattoos forever. You have four, right? The quote on your arm, the skyline on your wrist, and, um”—she grazes her chest with her fingertips, just under her collarbone, and I wonder if it’s as silky smooth as it looks—“these. The roses.”

Judging by her flush, she likes said roses. Duly noted. “Two more,” I tell her. “One’s on my ankle—a chain with a dangling cross—and the other…you’ll have to find for yourself.”

That lip bite. Fuck. “Interesting. Do I get a hint?”

I pluck a clam from her plate. “That
was
your hint.”

She doesn’t respond. She does, however, take an extra-long sip of water.

“What about you? Got any?”

She snorts. “My parents would literally kill me. I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

“You could always get one somewhere they’d never see,” I point out, waggling my eyebrows as I imagine going ink-hunting on Samara’s body.

“Parents aside, I could never handle the pain. I’m a baby about that stuff. No piercings outside the one in each ear, either, and I only have those because my mother got them done soon after I was born.” She pokes her fork at her food, her eyes fixed on her plate, but makes no move to take another bite. “Kind of a shame, since apparently I find them to be a huge turn-on.”

And now I’m squirming in my seat. “Is that so?”

“Trust me,” she says, pushing her food around. “Conservative is
not
my type.”

“Well…good.”

She glances up at me. “As long as we’re being honest, I wouldn’t have thought it was yours, either.”

“It isn’t,” I admit.

“Oh.”

“And yet, you definitely are.”

“Oh.”

I nod. “Oh.”

We finish the last bites of our food in companionable silence, boldly letting our feet brush under the table. And yeah, I’ll admit it—I kinda hope those waiters see.

• • •

It’s not even ten by the time I get home that night, so I’m surprised to hear the TV blaring on the other side of the door. I’m even more surprised when I let myself in and see a full house—Lizzie and Cait taking up the couch, and Connor and Mase sprawled on the floor.

“Frankie!” Lizzie pauses whatever they’re watching and sits up. “Is Samara with you?”

“Nope.” I grab a bottle of Sam Adams from the six-pack sitting on the table and toe off my ankle boots. “Just dropped her off. I thought you guys were out,” I say, gesturing between Cait and Mase with my bottle.

“We are,” says Cait. “This is out.”

“Figured you guys might want some privacy,” Mase adds, “but…guess that wasn’t an issue?”

“Was it that bad?” Lizzie asks.

“No, it wasn’t bad at all, thank you very much.” I pop off the cap with our boudoir legs bottle opener and take a sip, letting my mind wander to the memory of Samara’s dark eyes reflecting the candlelight, the sound of her laugh, the sexy blush-colored lace against her skin. I would’ve gladly stayed in her room for hours, talking and making out, but that didn’t seem very…first date-y. “We’re just taking it slow.” Lizzie raises an eyebrow, prompting me to add, “Something I realize none of you would know anything about.”

Cait and Lizzie look at each other and crack up. “Did we seriously just get slut-shamed by
Frankie
?” Cait asks, practically gasping for air.

“Frankie whose freshman year goal was hooking up with someone on every floor of our dorm?” Lizzie asks before dissolving into another fit. Even Connor and Mase are clearly holding back.

I sigh. “Fuck you all.”

That sets them all off, and I roll my eyes and pick my way to the couch, dropping between the girls and forcing them to make space for my pleather-covered ass. “What are you guys even watching?” I squint at the screen. “Is this
Hunger Games
?”

“Somehow, it’s the only movie we agreed on,” says Connor, grabbing a fistful of popcorn from the bowl sitting on the carpet between him and Mase. “The magic of ass-kicking and Jennifer Lawrence.”

“And Liam Hemsworth,” says Lizzie, holding out a hand. Connor passes her the bowl, and I reach over and help myself to some. “Don’t forget Liam Hemsworth.”

“So this is what Friday nights become when you’re in a monogamous relationship, huh?” I ask, popping a couple of kernels in my mouth.

“Pretty much,” says Cait.

“But,” says Lizzie, stabbing an index finger into the air, “bear in mind
we’re
all getting laid later.”

Mase and Connor high-five like thirteen-year-old boys.

I sigh again and take another good, long sip of beer. “Like I said, fuck you all.”

Twenty-seven days.

• • •

When I wake up the next morning, my first thought is,
I have a girlfriend.

Then,
Fuck.

Then,
How soon can I see her again?

I groan and close my eyes. Then I reopen one and feel around for my phone. Two texts, which must’ve come in after I went to bed embarrassingly early compared to my usual Friday nights. It pained me to say goodbye to Samara after a single goodnight kiss, but I promised us to go slow and I’m sticking to it.

The first text is from a number I don’t recognize, and says,
Missed you tonight
. I open it, and see that below that, there’s an additional,
It’s Natasha, by the way
. Natasha? I rack my brain for a minute, then remember the cute, flirty, pierced brunette from my gender studies class. Shit. I skip past that one, and see the next one’s from Abe.

Lady, where are you? RHHR is here and I’m p sure they’re looking for u.
“RHHR” meaning Rainbow House Hot Redhead. Apparently, I missed a very busy night at XO while I was sitting nervously at a restaurant, simultaneously trying to be a good first date while also pretending for everyone around us that it wasn’t one.

I think she had a decent time, but I don’t even know. Maybe she was just being polite, laughing at my jokes. Maybe trying to affect the whole “just two female friends going out to dinner” thing was too confusing—or made her realize that’s all we are to her.

Maybe I should stop being a fucking insecure idiot. Jesus, is this what relationships are?

It is with babygay virgins
, a little voice in my head nags back. I pull a pillow over my head to drown it out, scream into fabric, and then toss it back onto the bed.

I need to see her again. Is that normal for dating? I mean, I’m pretty sure Lizzie and Cait see their boyfriends as often as humanly possible, but…is that normal?

I flail out of bed and stalk over to Lizzie’s room “Lizzie B.!” I call through the door. “I need help and I need you not to make fun of me for it.”

I hear some muttering on the other side, and then footsteps. Heavier ones than Lizzie’s. Whoops. Sure enough, it’s Connor who opens the door with sleep-tousled hair. “Is this an emergency?” he asks.

“Sort of.”

“Would Cait classify this as an emergency?”

“She would not.”

He yawns. “Then I’m all you’ve got. Lizzie’s sleeping like a rock and I’m not going to enable the carnage that would ensue if you woke her up.”

“Fair.”

He closes the door behind him and follows me to the kitchen table. “What’s up?”

I go right for it, not wanting to waste Connor’s generosity with morning therapy. “How do I ask out my girlfriend?”

Connor rubs his eyes. “What?”

“Like, how often can I suggest plans before it’s weird? I mean, I know I did this before we actually started dating, but, like, then I kept finding excuses and…I don’t know. Does it still work like that? Because I want to see her, like, a lot, but I don’t wanna be weird about it.”

He cocks his head. “That…I never really thought about it. We just ask each other if we wanna do something and then we do it.”

“But, like, you think of a thing to do. That’s part of it.”

“Sometimes? Sometimes it’s just ‘Come over, I’m bored.’” He yawns. “We’re at school. There aren’t a whole lot of options. Especially since I’m not exactly rolling in it.”

Lack of funds is definitely a problem I empathize with, unfortunately. It was easy to split dinner last night under the guise of being there as friends, but even that was a stretch for my wallet. “Yeah, that doesn’t help. And options kinda dwindle even further when your relationship is a secret,” I mutter. “But I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

His mouth twitches. “Cute.” Then he yawns again and glances at his watch. “If I’m not getting back to sleep, I’m gonna need some coffee.”

Whoops. I jump up and oblige, filling the carafe and getting the machine going. “Sorry. It’s Saturday—can’t you go back to sleep for the rest of the day? Or do you have TA-ish things to do?”

“Neither. For some reason, I let myself get talked into a personal training session. I’m meeting Mase at the gym at nine.”

I shudder. “Fun as that sounds to watch—for so many reasons—I think hell must be the gym before noon.”

“Really? I would’ve thought you’d enjoy that many people in spandex.”

“Touché,” I say with a grin, my mind immediately drifting back to Samara’s gloriously tight ass in yoga pants. And just like that, my mind starts whirring. “Actually, you just gave me an excellent idea, thank you!” I grab a mug from the cabinet and place it in front of him, then dance off back to my door.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Back to bed!” I call over my shoulder. “Dude, it’s Saturday.”

• • •

“Now it’s my turn to admit being surprised by you,” Samara says as I roll up my yoga mat the next afternoon, “I did not picture you being into fitness.”

“Is that a comment on my butt?” I ask, frowning as I glance behind me.

She laughs and whacks me on the arm. “Of course not. I just didn’t think you were into this stuff—first the run last night, and now yoga… Just not what I’d have expected you wanna do together.”

It’s not exactly the kind of exercise I dream of us doing, per se, but it does have a few things going for it. For one, it’s free at the student center. For another, it’s a supremely innocent way to spend time together, and actually forces me to keep my hands to myself. Plus, she actually
does
like this stuff, and I quite enjoy watching her do it. So this way, she stays comfortable, we stay under the radar, and it doesn’t feel too date-y for either of us.

Only problem?

I am fucking
dying
. This is maybe the least conducive thing to fooling around ever, and while I’m sure she’s perfectly cool with that, my libido is turning into a sentient being that’s threatening to burst out of my body like fucking
Alien
.

“So what does one generally do after yoga?” I ask brightly, tucking away the urge to ask if she’s feeling extra limber.

“Well, I’m usually in my room, so.” She rolls up her yoga mat and slings it over her shoulder, leaving me to wonder what to say to that. I silently return my loaner mat, and then we walk into the hallway to help ourselves to water from the cooler.

She goes first, but rather than drink, she passes the full cup to me. Our fingers brush, and I don’t know if it’s how long I’ve gone without getting some or the memory of her body being incredibly bendy in that class, but it sends a prickle of heat all through my body.

Being in her room sounds damn good right about now.

Think date-y, Francesca.
What do Cait and Mase do after they exercise or play basketball together? Then I see the cart out front. “Smoothies! Do you want one?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” she says. “Truthfully, I should probably get back. I have a ton of work to do.”

My stomach sinks. There’s a blow-off if I’ve ever heard one. What am I doing wrong here?

Out loud, I play it light. “Work, huh? What’s the book about?”

She smiles. “No, actual homework this time. I still have a hangover from the book I finished yesterday afternoon and I haven’t picked up anything since.”

“A book hangover? God, that’s so cute.”

She blushes and ducks her head into her cup to sip at her water, and then we walk toward the exit. “It’s a real thing,” she insists. “If you haven’t gotten drunk on a beautiful book, you haven’t lived.”

“Would I like this one?”

“I think so, yeah. The writing is gorgeous, and it feels so artistic, I can totally see you loving it. It’s magical realism, and it has the most beautiful forbidden love story.” As she continues to gush about the book, I realize this is the most animated—maybe the most comfortable—I’ve seen her all weekend. Is it possible she’s more into books than me? Is booksexuality a thing?

This feels like another question for Connor.

Too quickly, we’re back at her dorm, and I already know there’s no invitation to come up in my future. I can’t exactly kiss her goodbye on the street or in the lobby, so I settle for a quick hug/kiss on the cheek combo and turn to go on my way, disappointment settling on my shoulders like an ugly hand-knit afghan.

“Frankie?”

I turn back. “Yeah?”

Whatever she’d been about to say, she decides against it. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At the Psych building.”

The Psych building. It feels almost poetic, with how jumbled and confused I feel. “Yup, 9:00 a.m. See you then.”