Summer's Temptation (5 page)

The door opens, and Josh walks in wearing soccer pants and a sweaty T-shirt. His gaze fans across the room before resting on me. He smiles. “Hi, Cassie.”

“Hi,” I say, but I don’t smile back. I don’t want to give him any ideas in case he really does have a crush on me.

When Tyler walks in, I feel as if the breath has been knocked from my lungs by a baseball bat. He’s shirtless, wearing gray jersey shorts, and carrying a basketball. He’s got a T-shirt draped over one shoulder, and I’m hoping he doesn’t put it on anytime soon. I’d like to enjoy the view of his lean muscles for as long as possible.

While I’m admiring the black tattoos on his arms—a cross on one thick bicep and tribal art on the other—Liz writes another name on the board. She holds it at an angle only I can see. She’s written Tyler’s name with a big smiley face
.
I panic but mange to stay in control, slowly reaching for the board so the boys don’t notice. If I draw attention to it and one of them sees the names, I’ll never survive their torments. Liz pulls it back and swipes it clean with a wine-soaked paper towel.
Thank God.
I let out a long sigh of relief.

Dylan walks in last, dressed like Josh and just as sweaty. He’s half Irish, half Native American, and the combination’s exotic. He has dark skin, brown eyes, and the muscular physique of a boxer. “What’s up, ladies? We just got back from the courts, and I’ve come to see my woman.”

Hannah’s face lights up like a football stadium on game night. “Hi, baby.”

Liz crinkles her nose. “Shouldn’t you have showered first?”

“Naw. My girl likes me sweaty.”

“Eww. Liz’s right,” Hannah says. “Go shower and come back.”

“I’ve only got twenty minutes before we meet the guys at Billy Bob’s.”

“Rangers playing tonight?” Liz asks.

He nods, and Hannah stands so Dylan can take her spot, then she makes herself comfortable in his lap. Josh perches on the arm of the couch next to me. He’s so huge, I’m afraid the frame will collapse. Tyler sits on the loveseat next to Emma and sprawls his arms across the top of the couch as if he owns the place. He smiles at her, and the poor girl turns the color of an overripe beet.

When he gets his fill of Emma, his gaze goes to the TV. “Nice place to pause.” On the screen is a still-picture of Blake Lively bending over and flashing a whole lot of cleavage.

“She’s the perfect girl,” Liz mutters. “Right?”

“Nah. I like brunettes,” Josh says.

I can feel him staring at me. I do my best not to inch away.

“She’s hot,” Dylan says, “but not as pretty as my girl.” He brushes Hannah’s hair aside and kisses her behind the ear.

She giggles, leaning into him. They have to be the cutest couple on the planet with her all-American beauty and his rugged, earthy handsomeness.

Liz clears her throat, and we all turn our attention to her. “Since y’all are here, I have a question.” She sits up straighter, legs crossed and looking prim, but her question is anything but proper. “Have any of you had a fuck buddy?”

I feel the blood draining from my face, and I hide behind my hair, hoping no one will notice. Did she really have to go there? Yes, of course she did, because she’s Liz, and she has no qualms about talking sex with anyone. She’s not breaking the secret sorority code either—thou shalt not allude to being a slut—because she’s not talking about
her
sex life.

Tyler tilts his head back and laughs. I’m not sure Emma heard the question since she’s busy staring at Tyler and looking dazed.

Dylan doesn’t hesitate to answer, and of all the people in the room, he was the last person I expected to speak up. “I had a friend with benefits. Is that the same thing?”

I watch Hannah closely, hoping she doesn’t get pissed. Dylan has a long list of past partners, and even though Hannah knows he loves her, it’s a sore spot. She swipes her blond bangs away from her temple and goes still. I can’t tell if a storm is brewing behind her blue eyes or not, but I think we’re in the clear.

“Not the same thing,” Tyler says. “A fuck buddy isn’t a friend, just someone you hook up with a lot.”

“So their function’s sex only?” Dylan asks.

“Yep,” Tyler says.

“Okay, then yes, I’ve had a fuck buddy,” Dylan says.

Oh, hell. Dylan needs a lobotomy.

“Then what’s a booty call?” Josh asks.

Hannah stands up and does a smashing job of looking hurt, pissed, and annoyed all at the same time. She doesn’t say anything; she just grabs her purse from under the coffee table and turns toward the front door.

“A booty call is a late-night phone call to get laid,” Tyler answers.

“So I could ‘booty call’ a ‘fuck buddy’ or a ‘friend with benefits’?” Josh asks.

“Exactly,” Tyler answers. He’s obviously the resident subject expert.

“Do you need a ride home?” Hannah asks Emma.

I debate pulling Hannah into my room and letting her vent, but sometimes Dylan’s a dumbass, and Hannah leaving is probably the wakeup call he needs.

Emma’s still staring at Tyler. “Um, sure.” She grabs her purse. With an extra swing in her hips I’m sure is meant to impress Tyler, she takes off after Hannah.

Dylan seems to come out of his stupidity daze. His gaze goes from Hannah to her purse. “You leaving, baby?”

Without answering, Hannah steps outside. Emma peers over her shoulder to make sure Tyler’s watching. He winks at her, and she giggles as she closes the door. I wouldn’t be surprised if Emma gushes about Tyler all the way home, oblivious to Hannah’s mini-drama. I’ll call Hannah in fifteen minutes to let her rant to someone who isn’t under the spell of the university god.

Liz turns a severe glare on Dylan. “You’re an idiot.” She took the words right out of my mouth. “When I asked if anyone had had a fuck buddy, I didn’t expect
you
to chime in.”

Dylan rubs both hands down his face. “Me and my big mouth.”

“Dude, you don’t tell your girlfriend you’ve had a fuck buddy,” Josh says. “Even
I
know that.”

Dylan sighs. “It was three years ago.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tyler says. “She’ll hold that over your head
forever
.”

“Shit.” He hops off the couch and darts for the door. “Gotta go.”

“What about the game?” Josh asks.

“I’ll meet you there later.”

“Get flowers,” Tyler calls. “Twenty bucks at Wal-Mart for a dozen roses, and not the shitty white or yellow ones. That’ll just piss her off more.”

Liz, Josh, and I stare at Tyler as if he’s grown boobs.

“How do
you
know what to get a pissed-off woman?” Liz asks. “I thought you left your girls spewing obscenities.”

He smirks, and it’s so cocky it’s almost endearing. “I do. Dad screws up a lot and my stepmom likes roses.”

Liz stands and grabs Emma and Hannah’s wine glasses. “Y’all want some wine?” She tilts her head at the magnum on the coffee table.

“No, thanks,” Tyler says. “We have a game to watch.” He stands and stretches his arms over his head. The waistband of his shorts rides low over his chiseled hips and shows off a smattering of dark hair trailing downward.

“Then get your stinky asses out of here,” she says.

Josh stands and opens his arms wide, wet sweat-stains darkening his armpits. “Not until I get a hug.”

Liz scowls. “If you value your balls, you won’t touch me.”

Tyler feigns a punch to Josh’s gut. “Come on, asshole.” He shoves him toward the door.

Liz and I watch them go, and I can’t help but think Tyler looks as good leaving as he does walking in. His lean back muscles push against his tan skin in all the right places.

Before he shuts the door, he turns and looks straight at me with those piercing eyes of his. “Do you two have class on Thursday?”

“Nope,” Liz replies.

“We’re wake-boarding. You ladies are welcome to join us.”

I know he said
ladies
, but the way he’s staring at me makes me feel as though the invitation’s directed solely at me.

“We’ll be there,” Liz says before ambling into the kitchen.

“Bye, Cassie,” Josh calls.

Tyler throws me a lopsided grin before closing the door. I’m left alone in the living room, wondering if anyone noticed I haven’t said a word since Liz brought up the topic of fuck buddies.

Chapter 5

P
hilosopher Dan stands in his usual spot, leaning against a light pole with a cup by his feet for passersby. His grin’s as bright as always when I sidle up next to him.

I hold out a brown paper sack. “Croissant sandwich with ham.”

“Did you remember mustard?” he asks, taking the bag.

“Hard to forget since you yelled at me the
one
time I did.”

He chuckles, digging into the sack. “I like my mustard.”

“Believe me, I know.” I sip my coffee while watching him pull out a plastic-wrapped sandwich.

I had been giving him change and any dollars hanging out in my wallet, but every time I visited the vending machine while I tutored at the Math Learning Resource Center, I never had any money. So on mornings I have class, I stop by the campus bakery to get him breakfast. We’re both happy because neither of us go hungry.

I eye him as he bites into the croissant. “Where’re my words of wisdom, Mr. Philosopher?”

For everyone else, he philosophizes about friends, family, and school. For me, it’s all about love.

Monday, he’d told me, “Love is like luck. You have to go all the way to find it.”

I’d told him, “My luck is shitty, so I’ll just stay where I am, thank you very much.” I heard his laughter all the way into the building.

Wednesday, he’d told me, “Love makes time pass; time makes love pass.”

I’d told him I was holding him to that. So far, time hasn’t done a darn thing to ease my feelings for Wyatt; I kept that part to myself.

Between mouthfuls, Dan says, “Sometimes the best person for you is the one you don’t want.”

“Say what?”

He wipes a dab of mustard from the corner of his mouth and scowls. “You heard me.”

“I don’t
want
anyone. Does that mean everyone’s best for me?”

He reaches into the sack and pulls out an apple. “You ain’t listening right.”

“You’re not making sense.”

The apple crunches when he takes a bite. After swallowing, he asks, “Who you want?” He takes another bite and waits for my answer.

I’ll never say this, but I still fantasize that Wyatt will come to his senses and beg for me back. Of course in my fictional world, I tell him to go to hell. I want to believe I’m strong, that I’m better off without him. But sometimes I’m afraid if he showed up on my doorstep with a contrite expression and a dozen roses, I might just say yes. Even after all the pain he’s caused, a part of me still wants him.

As if he knows I’ve answered the question, Dan asks, “Who you don’t want?”

For some godforsaken reason, Tyler’s impish grin dances in my mind. I grimace. There’s no way in hell Tyler Mason is best for anyone, especially me.

Dan chuckles. “Listen to what I say, pretty girl, and it’ll all come together.”

Not likely.
I shrug and take off toward class. For being omniscient with everyone else, he sure is off his game with me.

“See you Monday,” I call over my shoulder.

“Don’t forget my mustard!”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.” I head through Murral Hall’s double doors and down the hallway to class. When I walk into the room, dreamy Mr. Westbrook is standing behind the podium, sorting through papers.

He turns his head toward me and smiles. “Good morning, Miss Faye. Excellent report you did last week.”

My cheeks heat, but I think it’s more from the way his green eyes sparkle than from his compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Westbrook.”

“No, thank you. Your use of a donut chart in your economic forecasting was brilliant. It’s not common. Why did you decide on that method?”

I’m about to head toward my desk and answer on the way, but I think better of it and walk to his side instead. Anytime a student can stand out from the crowd is good for grades. “It was the most effective way to convey the information to the audience. Since I needed to show multiple series, the donut chart made the most sense.”

“I concur.” He pulls off his glasses, and for the first time, I notice his eyes aren’t just green. They have a sprinkling of gold flecks that make them absolutely stunning. “I’m co-authoring a book on the use of graphs and spreadsheets in technical writing. I’ve seen professional economists use donut charts before, but never in a succinct way that’s easily understood or explained. I’d like to use your example as a case study.”

I stare at him, a little dumbfounded. “Like, seriously?”

He chuckles. “Like, yes, seriously.”

I realize he’s making fun of my vernacular, but I’m too flabbergasted to care. “Uh… yeah… I mean, yes. Of course you can use it.”

“Wonderful. We can discuss the details further when I finish outlining the book.”

“Um… okay.” Like an idiot, I keep standing there, staring at the beautiful Brit in a fedora.

He has black lashes as long as a doe’s, and they frame his eyes beautifully, making the green irises even brighter. He has a very kissable mouth with a bottom lip that protrudes a little more than the top. For a brief moment, I wonder what it’d be like to suck on it, and then I heat furiously. I’m not allowed to think that way about my teacher.

He tilts his head toward the chairs. “You may have a seat now.”

I nod once and hurry away to where Freddy is smacking his gum and tapping his pen on his desktop. “Hey, girl. Could you be any more obvious?”

I sit down, place my coffee on the desk, and open my book bag. “What are you talking about?”

He bats his eyelashes and pretends to flip long hair. “You’re so dreamy, Mr. Westbrook. I can’t believe you want to use a graph that little ol’ me came up with.” He brings his hand to his mouth and titters girlishly. “You think I’m smart?” He bats his dark eyelashes even faster and taps my forearm in a flirty manner. “Stop. You’re making me blush, Mr. Westbrook.”

I slap him on the shoulder with my book. “I did not sound like that!”

“Whatever. It’s obvious you have a crush on him. I’ve never seen so much hair flipping and eyelash batting in my life.”

I glance at Mr. Westbrook, who’s thumbing through our homework with a goofy smile. I really hope Freddy’s kidding, and Mr. Westbrook’s oblivious to how hot I think he is.

“Don’t worry about it, girl. I’m sure he’s used to his female students throwing puppy love his way.”

Great. I’m probably the reason for Mr. Westbrook’s amused grin. He must eat up the way students stare at him. I slump into my seat and study my hands, annoyed by how transparent I am. If he didn’t wear those studious glasses or the gangster hat or the adorable sweater vests, I wouldn’t find him so irresistible.

I glance back up at the front of the room. He’s cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. On the podium rests his hat. No fedora or glasses, and he’s still gorgeous. I squint, trying to picture him without the vest. That’s when I realize the man could wear a gunny sack and still be attractive. Ugh. Must. Get. Mind. Off. Hot. Teacher.

Freddy’s still tapping his pen against the table, so I ask, “Is something wrong?”

“I went home this weekend,” he grumbles.

“Was your bed replaced by dumbbells?”

“No,” he says. “My mom nixed my dad’s weight room plans. She thought I’d never come home if my room was full of workout stuff and smelled like a gym locker. She’s probably right.”

“Well then, what’s wrong?” I sip my coffee, waiting for his answer.

He sighs as if there isn’t enough air in the whole room to breathe in then blows the air out and turns his dark eyes on me. “My sisters think I’m gay.”

I picked the wrong time to take a drink. I cough and sputter on the hot coffee.

He pats my back, not looking too worried about my wellbeing. “Can you believe that? Me gay? Do you know how many girls I’ve dated?” He shakes his head. “My sisters are losing their everlovin’ minds.”

I’m still coughing, and Mr. Westbrook looks up, his brow crinkled with concern.

He slides his wire-rim glasses down his nose and peers at me. “Miss Faye, are you quite all right?”

“Fine,” I choke out. I hold up my coffee cup. “Went down…” A few more coughs burst free. “The wrong… pipe.”

He smiles, but it’s impish, the way Tyler grins. “Might I suggest you drink more slowly next time?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

His eyebrows lower as he raises his glasses back up, and his shoulders tighten. I swear he’s bristling as though he doesn’t like being called sir. I’ll make sure not to do that in the future since pissing off my teacher is a guaranteed way to flunk. He keeps watching me, his eyes a little stormy. I wish I had time to figure out what his problem is, but Freddy is staring at me expectantly.

“Why would they ever say that?” I ask as casually as I can after a coughing attack.

He sighs again. “Briana says she catches me checking out guys all the time. Sienna says only gay guys go shopping all day with their sisters.”

“What did you say?”

“I told them that’s all hogwash. I need new clothes as much as they do. I can’t be lookin’ like this—” He makes a show of pointing at his outfit, and I have to admit he looks sharp in a baby blue polo that contrasts nicely with his chocolate skin and black chinos. “Without keeping up my wardrobe. Trends are changing every day, you know.”

Most heterosexual males don’t care much about keeping up with trends, but I keep that to myself. “What about the ‘checking out other guys’ comment? Did you let that slide?”

“Hell to the no. I told little Miss Briana dudes check each other out like girls. We gotta make sure we’re the sharpest dressed guy in the vicinity. It’s a pride thing.”

Riiiight
, I want to say, but I stay quiet. If Freddy’s not ready to admit he’s gay, I’m not going to push him. He’ll figure it out in his own time. I’m sure he already knows, and he’s just trying to keep up appearances until he can wrap his mind around what being attracted to men means to him. It may take him a lifetime to be comfortable with an identity that could make him an outcast in his family and his church.

I chew on my bottom lip and make a mental note to check out which churches in the area allow gay members. As I’m pondering this, I glance toward the front of the room. Mr. Westbrook’s staring at where I’m nibbling my lip. Startled, I suck my entire bottom lip into my mouth and sit up straighter. His gaze goes from my mouth to my eyes, and he blushes.

“Oh, girrrl,” Freddy says. “I think you just gave Mr. Westbrook a woody.”

The guy who sits behind us chuckles.

I slap Freddy on the arm. “You’re a dumbass.”

Freddy leans in close so the guy behind us can’t eavesdrop. “I bet you could skip the rest of the summer and still get an A if you brought a lollipop to class on Wednesday.”

“All right, class. Let’s begin,” Mr. Westbrook says, his fair cheeks ruddy.

I nudge Freddy away and pull out my notebook and pen. There’s no way Mr. Westbrook is attracted to me. I’m his student, and that’s just wrong… and a little titillating. I mean, he’s not
that
much older than me, so it’s not a big deal if he finds me interesting as more than a student. Right?

Wrong. The last thing I need is Mr. Hotter-Than-Hell Westbrook staring at my lips during class. That’s a recipe for losing focus. My heart beats double time at the thought of his mouth on mine, our tongues intertwined, his arms wrapped around my waist while I tangle my hands in his curly dark hair. I’m missing the lecture, but I can’t break away from my fantasy.

Arg! Who knew crushes could be as bad for my grades as a breakup?

I blink hard and grab my pencil to take notes. Mr. Westbrook’s saying something about an extra credit assignment, but I missed the first part. His eyes are on me, and it’s my turn to blush. Could he tell I was lost with him in another world? I know the idea’s ridiculous, but the way he’s watching makes me wonder.

Freddy snickers. When Mr. Westbrook looks away, Freddy leans close and whispers, “I think our teacher’s found a pet.”

“I am not his pet.”

Mr. Westbrook glances at us, and I brace myself for an admonishment. Inside, I’m smug. Teacher’s pets don’t get into trouble for talking during class. That’ll show Freddy.

Mr. Westbrook smiles at me. “Since Miss Faye was kind enough to supply material for the book I’m currently working on, I’d like to extend extra credit to her or anyone else who writes a case study of publishable quality.”

I’m sure I’m red from my hairline down to my soles. When I shift uncomfortably in my seat, Mr. Westbrook goes back to lecturing.

Freddy snickers again and leans in. “Told you so.”

Denying it won’t do any good. Worst of all, I’m not sure I mind being his pet. Or his anything else for that matter, and that could be a problem. For my sanity, my scholarship, and my heart.