Page 26 of Bad Little Puck Bunny
I flinch. “Damn, that’s cold.”
“That’s the point.” She sits down, still holding the can against my hand. “Girl trouble?”
“Yeah,” I say, lying straight through my teeth.
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything more. Her eyes flick to the books she placed on the table. Psychology textbooks.
“You a psych major?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“I took psych once,” I say. “Kicked my ass.”
She laughs, and it’s this soft, quiet sound that makes me forget about the pain in my hand. “What’re you studying?” she asks.
“Pre-law,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift. “Wow. Impressive.”
I watch her carefully. Her face softens like she misread me.
She pulls back the soda can and studies my hand. “You’re lucky you didn’t break it, Mr. Anger Problem.”
I smirk, loving that the teasing feels like flirting.
“So,” I say, nodding at the books, “you working on a project or something?”
“I’m new here. I just transferred, and the professors need me to catch up.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. Not that I’m looking. Okay, maybe I’m looking.
“You’re new here?” I ask, gesturing toward the Ravens hoodie.
She glances down and nods. “I was in college in California but transferred here. You’re new, too, right?”
I break our eye contact, glancing around the library. “California, huh?” I ask, not wanting to talk about me. “What’s that like?”
“It’s different. Sunny. Expensive.” She shrugs.
I nod, pretending I know anything about California.
“Where’d you transfer from?” she asks.
My eyes meet hers again, and I hesitate. I could lie. Make something up. But instead, I mutter, “New York.”
She tilts her head. “What brought you to Blackridge?”
I lean back, folding my arms. “You should mind your own business.”
She winces. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.” She presses the soda against my hand again, and then she stands.
I reach out, catching her fingers.
Her eyes meet mine, confused.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the coke.”
“Anytime.” She grabs her books and bag and then heads for the door, pausing to look back. “Try not to punch any more walls, okay?”
“No promises,” I say, grinning.
