Smirking, I don’t bother correcting the “Gramma” thing. “And you would know that because…?”
“Because I have eyes and ears.”
I can’t argue with that. That fraternity is this close to getting shut down by its national organization because of some of its stunts. Their president, Ethan Giles, was the one who approached me about partnering with a fundraiser to improve their image.
“Be that as it may. I’ve committed. But thank you for the offer.”
Crosby shrugs. “Take me as your guest.”
Wouldn’t that be just peachy? Taking a known drug dealer to a party at Zeta Gamma Nu?
“It’s not the kind of fundraiser you take dates to,” I say. I could further explain that it’s an auction that involves people bidding on volunteers to act as their personal assistants for an entire weekend. But we’re trying to keep the party’s theme under wraps, as some people think it’s a fucked-up way to raise money and might cause a stink. Oh, it is fucked up, but these types of auctions raise insane amounts of money.
As blithely as can be, Crosby offers, “So, skip it. Sounds dull anyway.”
“Thanks. I’m the event organizer.”
The man doesn’t even wince at the realization that he’s just insulted me. Instead, he takes another step up, joining me on the porch. With a loud, obscenely sexy sigh, he stretches out his arms to the side, cracks his neck, then plants one hand high up on the column next to me.
I am caged where I stand as he towers over me, blocking out my view of the street.
“Why am I not surprised to learn that?”
I exhale a dismissive kind of noise. “Because you’ve been stalking me, clearly.”
Again, he laughs. This close, I feel it in my chest. “Don’t have to stalk you to know things about you, Leela Gamble. Your name is in the online student newspaper enough to make everyone on campus think you’re their best friend. Shit, I think you were in my Yahoo news feed.”
“Yahoo? How old are you?”
He laughs and rubs an imaginary spot on his ribs where that remark hits home. “Ouch.”
“Guess I’d better stop giving phone interviews to every news outlet that calls me to chat about the country’s first-ever plus-size-only sorority. It’s putting my safety at risk.”
This mild joke doesn’t land. Instead, Crosby seems to bristle at a hypothetical dangerous scenario. A scenario he caused by tracking me down at home, I might add.
His voice drops lower, and he rumbles. “Now, you don’t gotta worry about anything like that, baby girl.”
This is the wrong thing to say and, strangely, the right thing to say.
His lips are too close to my forehead. His shoulders, too big. His chest, too broad. Everything about him stands out in all the wrong ways, and I have to get this man and his giant peen off my damn porch as soon as possible.
“I’m not your baby girl,” I say, teeth gritted. And I won’t ever be. Not for someone with manners like that. Not with a—what would my grandmother call him?—a ruffian. Driving a loud motorcycle and easing his way onto my porch like he belongs here. Which he most certainly does not.
Crosby touches his index finger to the bottom of my chin. For one panicked second, I think he might try to tip my face up for an unwelcome kiss.
“Yet.”
He turns away and clomps lazily down the steps, stopping to finger the pink azaleas that line the walkway. I am frozen in place as I watch this. One thick finger brushes over the delicate pink petals, and I am horrified at how my body reacts to this. So help me god, if he plucks one of those flowers off that bush, I will personally tan his hide.
Crosby doesn’t pick the flower, but grins, glances back at me, and nods deeply. His way of saying goodbye. For now. His expression is like the cat who ate the canary, but I can’t think why he’s so proud of himself. Finally, he meanders back toward his monstrosity of a bike, looks up at the sky, and inhales deeply, patting his chest.
“It’s a beautiful day. Gonna be a real nice weekend, I think.”
“As long as you don’t die of a head injury without a helmet. Dummy.”
Again, that aggravating laughter pricks at my armor. “You’re right,” he says. Without looking back at me, he picks up the helmet that’s mounted at the back of the bike and ties it on.
Crosby’s boot punches the kickstart, and he winks when he catches me staring.