Page 22 of Easy Out

“Hart,” Morelli calls out. Please tell me there is at least one person between Hart and me. I don’t want to be partnered with him. You are such a little liar. “Hickman.” I raise my hand because I’m a rule follower.

I feel the heat of Hart’s stare on me. It’s something I’m starting to recognize, and unfortunately, I like it. I like it way too much.

Last weekend I felt him looking at me as soon as I walked out of my room. He soaked up my body like a sponge. Absorbing every detail of me. Not that I didn’t do the same to him. The man is really nice to look at it.

I don’t move from my seat. I can’t seem to make my legs work. He is sitting beside all those girls. If he were to send me away.... I’ll just wait until Morelli is finished calling names. Those girls should be with their partners by then.

A muscular thigh with a hint of a tattoo hidden by gym shorts enters my peripheral. Tess makes a tiny squeak noise. “Move.” The voice thunders from above. The guy, whom I didn’t really notice sitting beside me, starts shuffling his things into his backpack.

“Hi, brujita,“ Hart murmurs as he takes over the seat next to me. I don’t know why, but the fact he came to me melts a small piece of my icy, abandoned heart.

“Hi,” I say back. Hart eyes my notebook, and I quickly flip it closed. Suddenly, wanting to write about a taboo topic doesn’t seem like such a good idea. Not with Hart as my partner.

He doesn’t comment if he happened to read what I have written down. Hart passes me his phone. A blank text message opened up on the screen.

“Text yourself,” he demands. I hesitate before typing in my phone number and sending myself a quick message.

Hart stands back up. “Let’s go,” he says, pocketing his phone.

“Where?” I question him because I’m curious, but some part of me knows that I would follow him no matter where we’re going. I pack up my backpack, offer Tess a tiny wave, and follow him out the door.

“Shouldn’t we stay until Morelli dismisses us?” Hart shakes his head. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Lunch. I’m hungry.” Hart lifts my backpack off my shoulder when he notices I struggle to keep it there. “Maldito. What do you have in here?”

“If it’s too heavy for you, I can carry it myself,” I tease him. He flexes his bicep in response. Basically, telling me he could carry a thousand backpacks if I had to guess by the size and definition of his arm. No doubt hard earned in the gym along with hours swinging a baseball bat.

“How do you know I don’t already have lunch plans or other things to do?” He raises an eyebrow. Do you? “Yes.” I was going to eat something at home before my last class, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Ignoring me, Hart’s palm finds the small of my back, and he ushers me forward across the quad. We pass students walking to and from classes. Some are sprawled out on the lawn under towering trees. Why, I don’t know. It’s insanely hot today. Or maybe that’s just the heat radiating off Hart.

“Do people always stare at you when you walk around on campus?” Hart grunts. Does he not like being famous? That is surprising. Most athletes soak up that kind of attention.

Straight ahead is a tiny strip mall of shops. One of which is The Round Table. A popular cafe that offers sandwiches, soups, and salads. I don’t eat here. It’s expensive compared to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or grabbing something at the cafeteria on campus. My scholarship came with a small allowance for food. I don’t waste a penny of it.

Hart opens the door for me. I've noticed it's something it does every time. Whoever raised him did it right.

I’m instantly hit with the blessing that is air conditioning. My entire body sags in appreciation.

Then I remember I don’t have the money to pay for this. I might have a dollar and some change, but that’s it. Almost everything I won last Saturday went to Carter. The rest I’ve saved for groceries and other necessities. Not ten-dollar cafe sandwiches.

If it isn’t awkward enough, I have to dig into my backpack while it hangs off Hart’s shoulder to find my wallet. Thankfully it’s in the front pocket, and I don’t need to stand on my tippy toes to get it. Just as I suspected. A dollar, a few quarters, and dimes, but mostly pennies.

We move up a few spaces in the line. The Round Table might be busy, but they are efficient in getting sandwiches into the hands of hungry students. I eye the menu looking for anything under two dollars. There isn’t much except for a bag of chips. That will have to do until I can get back to the dorm.

“Welcome to The Round Table. What can I get you?” The employee looks at me expectantly.

I chew on my lip, contemplating how it will look ordering a single bag of chips while, in truth, I’m so hungry I could probably eat two of their sandwich combos.

“Number five,” Hart orders as he crowds me from behind.

“To drink?”

“Water.” A meaty palm lands on my shoulder. His other hand reaches in front of me and takes my wallet from me. “My treat brujita," he whispers in my ear. "Order.” Hart gives me a quick squeeze, then takes a step back, giving me space.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him. The guy at the register huffs a breath. We are wasting his time.

“Order,” Hart commands again.

---