Page 5 of Stroke of Fate

Peering down, I see he’s right. The only thing left is a giant fuzzy checkered blanket folded into a lopsided square.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes still glued to his screen. “You good with packing this backup? I need to meet someone.”

“The same someone who kept you so busy in the summer you couldn’t answer half my texts?” I ask, raising a brow at him.

While I drove the two hours back home, Mack—who grew up here—happily stayed at my apartment over the summer break.

His answering smile is one I’ve seen countless times though it’s rarely directed at me. It’s the perfect mix of sweetness and arrogance, and the female population at Huska falls for it every damn time.

“What can I say? It’s difficult to get away when everyone wants a piece of you.”

I roll my eyes. “Keep it up, and I won’t stop the next girl who wants to slap you for sleeping with her best friend.”

“To be fair, I never even knew they were friends,” he says, rubbing his jaw like he can still feel the sting of her slap. “So, you good?”

I wave him off. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Sweet. I’m going to go hop in the shower.” He claps me on the shoulder as he walks toward the bathroom. “If I’m taking too long, don’t bother me. I’m rubbing one out.”

“Not in my shower, asshole.” I holler after him, but he just laughs, shutting the door behind him.

Shaking my head, I grab whatever’s closest to me. I’m about to drop it back in the box when my hand brushes against something hard.

“What the…” I mutter.

I ditch my plans to repack everything and grab the blanket with both hands, unfolding it. It falls to the floor, revealing a photo frame that I quickly turn around.

It’s a picture of two girls dressed in graduation caps and gowns, holding rolled-up diplomas and smiling widely for the camera. But I hardly notice the one on the right because it’s the one on the left who has all my attention.

She’s tall, at least a foot taller than her friend. I swear my heart rate picks up the longer I stare at the sliver of long, tanned legs peeking out from the front of her gown.

My gaze travels further up her body, and I silently curse whoever designed these graduation gowns. It’s too flowy and hides too much.

My train of thought should freak me out. I sound like a creep, ogling a photo of a girl I don’t know. Tell that to my eyeballs because I can’t seem to tear them away. Nor do I want to because, fuck me, she’s stunning.

Straight, white teeth peek out from behind full, pink lips. And she has the cutest nose.

Shit, did I seriously just think that?

Either I’m dehydrated from practice, or starvation is setting in because when have I ever described someone’s nose as cute? Never. Yet, the word is so fitting.

Tracing a finger over her long, blonde hair, I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks. Wonder how the strands would feel as I run my fingers through them.

Christ, this is so messed up.

I grip the frame tighter and continue taking stock of every feature. Big, ocean-blue eyes stare straight back at me. They’re the type of eyes you willingly get lost in. The world could fall apart around you, but one look at her piercing gaze, and you’ll find a moment of peace and serenity before nothingness takes over.

Mack would call her hot. But that would be an insult to someone like her. She’s beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous. No, fuckingcaptivating. Her looks draw you in, but there’s a brightness around her. She almost glows with it. If you’d have told me she was an angel sans halo and wings, I’d believe you.

It’s when my dick stirs in my sweatpants that I pump the brakes on this…this…whatever this is. It’s officially gotten too fucking weird. She’s just a girl. There are hundreds of them on campus.

I swallow hard, knowing what a lie that is. I don’t believe that. No one on campus could hold a candle to this girl.

I drop my gaze back over the photo again one last time, I tell myself. And when my dick twitches, I grab the blanket and shove the picture frame back between the folds, haphazardly dumping it—and the rest of the box’s contents—back where they belong. In my haste, I don’t even bother to re-tape it in a way that looks like it hasn’t been tampered with.

When I’m done, my heart hammers in my chest like I've swum ten laps. I drop onto the couch, forcing myself to get a grip. Once I finally feel like I can breathe normally again, my thoughts drift to why I even have that photo in the first place.

That might be Bear.

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