The Mistake
Page 7
“Junior.”
“Oh. Well, then he definitely doesn’t live here. This is a freshman dorm.” As she speaks, she plays with the bottom of her braid and not once does she look me in the eye.
“Shit,” I mumble again.
“Are you sure your friend said it was Fairview House?”
I falter. I was sure, but now…not so much. Danny and I don’t hang out too often, at least not on our own. Usually I see him at post-game parties, or he comes over to my place with our other teammates.
“I have no idea anymore,” I answer with a sigh.
“Why don’t you call him?” She’s still not meeting my gaze. Now she’s staring down at her striped wool socks as if they’re the most fascinating things she’s ever seen.
“I left my phone at home.” Fuck. As I mull over my options, I run a hand through my hair. It’s growing out and I desperately need to get it buzzed, but I keep forgetting to do it. “Is it cool if I use yours?”
“Um…sure.”
Even though she looks hesitant, she opens the door wider and gestures for me to come in. Her room is a typical double with two of everything, but while one side is neat as a pin, the other is slob central. Clearly this girl and her roommate have very different philosophies about tidiness.
For some reason, I’m not surprised when she walks over to the tidy side. She definitely seems like she’d be the neat one. She goes to the desk and unplugs a cell phone from its charger, then holds it out to me. “Here.”
The second the phone exchanges hands, she creeps back toward the door.
“You don’t have to stand all the way over there,” I say dryly. “Unless you’re debating making a run for it?”
Her cheeks turn pink.
Grinning, I swipe the phone screen and pull up the keypad. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’m just using your phone. I’m not going to murder you.”
“Oh, I know that. Or at least I think I know that,” she stammers. “I mean, you seem like a decent guy, but then again, lots of serial killers probably seem decent too when you first meet them. Did you know that Ted Bundy was actually really charming?” Her eyes widen. “How messed up is that? Imagine you’re walking along one day and you meet this really cute, charming guy, and you’re like, oh my God, he’s perfect, and then you’re over at his place and you find a trophy dungeon in the basement with skin suits and Barbie dolls with the eyes ripped out and—”
“Jesus,” I cut in. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?”
Her cheeks are even redder now. “Sorry. Sometimes I babble when I’m nervous.”
I shoot her another grin. “I make you nervous?”
“No. Well, maybe a little. I mean, I don’t know you, and…yeah. Stranger danger and all that, though I’m sure you’re not dangerous,” she adds hastily. “But…you know…”
“Right. Ted Bundy,” I supply, fighting hard not to laugh.
She fidgets with her braid again, and her averted gaze gives me the opportunity to study her more closely. Man, she really is pretty. Not drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but she has a fresh-faced, girl-next-door look that’s seriously appealing. Freckles on her nose, delicate features, and smooth, creamy skin right out of a makeup commercial.
“Are you going to call?”
I blink, suddenly remembering why I came inside in the first place. I look down at the phone in my hand, and now I’m examining the number pad as intently as I was examining her moments before.
“Here’s a tip—you use your fingers to dial, and then you press send.”
I lift my head, and her barely restrained grin summons a laugh from my throat. “Great tip,” I agree. “But…” I let out a glum breath. “I just realized I don’t know his number. It’s saved in my phone.”
Shit. Is this my punishment for inappropriately fantasizing about Garrett’s girlfriend? Getting stranded on a Friday night with no phone or ride home? I guess I deserve it.
“Fuck it. I’ll call a cab,” I finally decide. Luckily, I know the number for the campus taxi service, so I dial that instead, only to be placed on hold immediately. As elevator music chirps in my ear, I smother a groan.
“You’re on hold, huh?”
“Yup.” I glance over at her again. “I’m Logan, by the way. Thanks for letting me use your phone.”
“No problem.” She pauses. “I’m Grace.”
A click sounds in my ear, but instead of the dispatcher’s voice coming on the line, there’s another click followed by another swell of music. I’m not surprised, though. It’s Friday night, the busiest night for the campus taxis. Who knows how long I’ll have to wait.
I sink down on the edge of one of the beds—the one that’s perfectly made—and try to remember the number for the cab service in Hastings, the town where most of the off-campus housing is, including my townhouse. But I’m drawing a blank, so I sigh and endure some more elevator music. My gaze drifts to the open laptop on the other side of the bed, and when I notice what’s on the screen, I look at Grace in surprise.
“Are you watching Die Hard?”
“Die Hard Two, actually.” She looks embarrassed. “I’m having a Die Hard night. I just finished the first one.”
“Do you have a thing for Bruce Willis or something?”
“Oh. Well, then he definitely doesn’t live here. This is a freshman dorm.” As she speaks, she plays with the bottom of her braid and not once does she look me in the eye.
“Shit,” I mumble again.
“Are you sure your friend said it was Fairview House?”
I falter. I was sure, but now…not so much. Danny and I don’t hang out too often, at least not on our own. Usually I see him at post-game parties, or he comes over to my place with our other teammates.
“I have no idea anymore,” I answer with a sigh.
“Why don’t you call him?” She’s still not meeting my gaze. Now she’s staring down at her striped wool socks as if they’re the most fascinating things she’s ever seen.
“I left my phone at home.” Fuck. As I mull over my options, I run a hand through my hair. It’s growing out and I desperately need to get it buzzed, but I keep forgetting to do it. “Is it cool if I use yours?”
“Um…sure.”
Even though she looks hesitant, she opens the door wider and gestures for me to come in. Her room is a typical double with two of everything, but while one side is neat as a pin, the other is slob central. Clearly this girl and her roommate have very different philosophies about tidiness.
For some reason, I’m not surprised when she walks over to the tidy side. She definitely seems like she’d be the neat one. She goes to the desk and unplugs a cell phone from its charger, then holds it out to me. “Here.”
The second the phone exchanges hands, she creeps back toward the door.
“You don’t have to stand all the way over there,” I say dryly. “Unless you’re debating making a run for it?”
Her cheeks turn pink.
Grinning, I swipe the phone screen and pull up the keypad. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’m just using your phone. I’m not going to murder you.”
“Oh, I know that. Or at least I think I know that,” she stammers. “I mean, you seem like a decent guy, but then again, lots of serial killers probably seem decent too when you first meet them. Did you know that Ted Bundy was actually really charming?” Her eyes widen. “How messed up is that? Imagine you’re walking along one day and you meet this really cute, charming guy, and you’re like, oh my God, he’s perfect, and then you’re over at his place and you find a trophy dungeon in the basement with skin suits and Barbie dolls with the eyes ripped out and—”
“Jesus,” I cut in. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?”
Her cheeks are even redder now. “Sorry. Sometimes I babble when I’m nervous.”
I shoot her another grin. “I make you nervous?”
“No. Well, maybe a little. I mean, I don’t know you, and…yeah. Stranger danger and all that, though I’m sure you’re not dangerous,” she adds hastily. “But…you know…”
“Right. Ted Bundy,” I supply, fighting hard not to laugh.
She fidgets with her braid again, and her averted gaze gives me the opportunity to study her more closely. Man, she really is pretty. Not drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but she has a fresh-faced, girl-next-door look that’s seriously appealing. Freckles on her nose, delicate features, and smooth, creamy skin right out of a makeup commercial.
“Are you going to call?”
I blink, suddenly remembering why I came inside in the first place. I look down at the phone in my hand, and now I’m examining the number pad as intently as I was examining her moments before.
“Here’s a tip—you use your fingers to dial, and then you press send.”
I lift my head, and her barely restrained grin summons a laugh from my throat. “Great tip,” I agree. “But…” I let out a glum breath. “I just realized I don’t know his number. It’s saved in my phone.”
Shit. Is this my punishment for inappropriately fantasizing about Garrett’s girlfriend? Getting stranded on a Friday night with no phone or ride home? I guess I deserve it.
“Fuck it. I’ll call a cab,” I finally decide. Luckily, I know the number for the campus taxi service, so I dial that instead, only to be placed on hold immediately. As elevator music chirps in my ear, I smother a groan.
“You’re on hold, huh?”
“Yup.” I glance over at her again. “I’m Logan, by the way. Thanks for letting me use your phone.”
“No problem.” She pauses. “I’m Grace.”
A click sounds in my ear, but instead of the dispatcher’s voice coming on the line, there’s another click followed by another swell of music. I’m not surprised, though. It’s Friday night, the busiest night for the campus taxis. Who knows how long I’ll have to wait.
I sink down on the edge of one of the beds—the one that’s perfectly made—and try to remember the number for the cab service in Hastings, the town where most of the off-campus housing is, including my townhouse. But I’m drawing a blank, so I sigh and endure some more elevator music. My gaze drifts to the open laptop on the other side of the bed, and when I notice what’s on the screen, I look at Grace in surprise.
“Are you watching Die Hard?”
“Die Hard Two, actually.” She looks embarrassed. “I’m having a Die Hard night. I just finished the first one.”
“Do you have a thing for Bruce Willis or something?”
