All those stares and mutterings began to make sense but didn’t make me feel better.
Who wrote this? Why?It couldn’t possibly be the most newsworthy thing that happened this week.
And yet that was exactly what it was.
I skimmed back to the top of the article, and just under the title, a name in black ink popped out.
Sterling Weston.
Motherf—
The prick wrote an article about shoving me into the fountain.
Who does that?
Okay, fine. He hadn’t actually shoved me, but still, the point was why write about the incident at all? Was this some cry for attention? If so, what a shitty way to gain a girl’s interest. Was he trying to ask me out or destroy me?
What he did manage to accomplish by his cheeky antics had been to further embarrass me.
Fuming, I spun and burst through the café door with only one thought on my mind.I’m going to murder Sterling Weston.
That would be the headline tomorrow for theKingsley Informer. Nothing like getting my name in the press two days in a row.
Striding through campus, my cheeks warmed not from the sun but anger, I headed to Greek Row with no idea if Sterling would be home. My feet moved of their own accord as my mind stewed over the photo.
I made it across campus in record time, storming up the porch of Chi Sigma. It had only been two nights since the fraternity hosted its first party of the year. Two days since I first laid eyes on Sterling that night. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted from him, an apology perhaps, but I had to confront him.
Without hesitating, I rapped my fists on the door, growing louder and faster with each passing second, much like my outrage. It felt like a full minute of pounding before the front door swung open with an almost inaudible grumble from the person standing on the other side. It became clear I had woken them up. The person wore just a pair of gray sweatpants that hung low over their hips as if they had mindlessly tugged them on before coming to the door. Fingers forked through their dark, disheveled hair, further disrupting the strands as half-lidded amber eyes lifted to mine. When they registered who I was, his lips curved.
Just the man I’d been looking to see… except preferably with a shirt on.
I hoisted my gaze away from his chest, which I hated to admit wasn’t bad to look at, just not as impressive as Micah’s.
Who the fuck answers the door shirtless?
Sterling lazily crossed his arms, leaning against the door with a smirk that riled my composure. What was it about this guy that could make me feel so uncertain about… everything?
“Splash. Miss me already?”
Oooh. My hand, already sore from knocking so long, itched to connect with his guy’s cheek, and I might have given in to the urge if his chest were covered. I did not want any flesh-to-flesh contact with him. “You wish, dickhead.” I thrust my phone in front of his eyes. Too close. He had to back up a step to see what filled the screen. “Explain this.”
Those sleepy eyes blinked twice before focusing on the phone. Was it just me or did that shit-eating grin grow wider? “What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” he countered.
“I don’t know, your name on the article,” I snapped, nearly baring my teeth.
“I wrote the article, but the pic isn’t mine, doll,” he responded flippantly.
“I’m not your doll. And I don’t give a shit if the fucking boogeyman took the photo. You’re the one who stuck it online.”
“Guilty as charged. Do you want to handcuff me now?” He held out his wrists like this whole thing was nothing but a joke. And maybe it was to him. But to me… not so much.
“Take it down. Now,” I demanded.
“Have a drink with me,” he said instead, throwing me for a loop.
Had we not just been talking about the ridiculous article. How did we go from that to a drink?
“I haven’t had any coffee yet,” he explained, “seeing as someone rudely pulled me out of bed with the incessant knocking.”