A small nod.
“You have friends?”
She nodded vigorously.
“They live on campus?”
Another nod that had me feeling like I was pulling teeth.
“Great . . . Are you poor?”
Frowning, she finally lifted her head so I could see her deep-green eyes. “No.”
Thank God. It spoke.
“Good.” I stood but quickly backed away, since she literally only came up to the middle of my chest. “Your first assignment is to tell the parents you’re moving out. The next is to find housing on campus or near campus. Cut the apron strings . . .” I tilted my head. “What’s your name?”
“Who are you?” She frowned. “I’m supposed to meet—” And she clammed up again.
I held out my hand. “Name’s Ian Hunter. I’m your new wingman.”
She stared at my hand, then placed hers across it, shaking it in such a wimpy, weird way that I shivered a bit.
“Assignment number two.” I gripped her hand hard. “Guys like soft bodies, not soft handshakes. Shake my hand the way you’d”—I coughed—“shake my hand.”
“What?”
“To quote a popular song, guys want ‘a lady in the streets but a freak in the bed.’ Judging by your shaking skills, I’m assuming you wouldn’t know the first thing about handling any part of me in bed. Firm grip, always important. Guys read into shit like that. I’ll send you the schedule later. Look over the information packet Lex sent you, and be sure to fill out the questionnaire. No calling. Only texting and e-mailing. Gotta run.”
“But—”
“Nice meeting you . . . ?”
“Vivian,” she yelled, a smile curving her lips.
I saluted and jogged off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“It can’t be that bad,” I said through the door. My forehead was about to get a splinter if Blake didn’t hurry up.
“It is.” Her words were muffled. “It’s . . . very bad.”
“Bad as in so bad I may keep you locked in your room with me inside? Or bad as in the guy who works at Asian Fusion, the one with the unibrow, would reject your V card?”
“Bert?”
“His name is Bert?” I laughed.
“He’s supernice,” Blake said loudly, and then she cursed. Something hit the door, and it creaked open, revealing one hand, with fuchsia nail polish painted flawlessly across the nails.
Rolling my eyes, I pushed the door open. Blake stumbled back. The first thing I saw was hair. Tons of thick, wavy, glorious I-may-actually-sell-Lex-so-Blake-can-move-in-with-me hair.
“Damn,” I muttered, reaching out for her. “You wore it down.” It was a statement of appreciation.
Blake took another cautious step back. Her eyes were smoky, not overdone, just perfect, her lips, a pale shade of pink.
The dress was black.
And to her credit, it was tight.
I’d never been a fan of knit dresses; they reminded me of grandmothers who crocheted on the porch, and that visual was enough to make sure nobody ended the night on a satisfied note.
But on Blake?
This knit dress was . . . stunning.
The dress hugged every curve of her body, just barely covering her ass. It was sleeveless, with a higher neck than I usually like to see, but when she turned, I saw that it was completely open in the back. Have mercy, I loved the girl’s back.
I braced myself against the door. “Are you sure you wanna go out tonight?”
Blake stopped midturn, pressing her hands down the fabric currently mating with her thighs. “Is it that bad?”
“Yes,” I growled, closing the distance between us. “It’s . . . horrific. Ugly, terrible. Gross. How could you possibly attract men in this”—my hands roamed from her arms all the way down to her hips, and then I couldn’t help it and just pulled her against me—“monstrosity?”
“Monstrosity, huh?” She let out a breathy laugh. “Is that why you keep staring at it? It’s like a car accident you can’t look away from?”
“You’ve got one thing right.” I massaged her hips with the pads of my thumbs. “I literally can’t look away. Not sure if I’m even capable of it.”
“Date.” She stepped out of my embrace. “Remember? This is a fake date so I don’t make a complete fool out of myself when David and I go out this Thursday.
“Who dates on a Thursday?” I griped. “Dating on a Thursday’s like ordering from the early-bird menu or bringing a coupon.”
“Ian”—Blake waved in front of my face—“that’s why you’re upset? Because I’m going out with him on a Thursday?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, blinking even slower, trying to come up with a better reason why she shouldn’t go out with him, one that didn’t include me being twisted in jealous knots or possibly falling head over heels onto my ass for the girl. “I hate Thursdays the way Lex hates mornings. Nothing good ever happens on Thursdays.”
“Oh, really?” Blake grabbed a small, slinky black clutch and put it under her arm. It looked perfect there, way better than the giant Caboodle-looking thing I noticed lurking in the corner. Holy shit. Was that a sticker?
I pointed at the Caboodle.
“Ignore that.” She smacked my hand, but I couldn’t help it. Like a tractor beam, it pulled me toward it.
“This is amazing,” I whispered reverently. “Almost better than the shoes.”