Page 51 of Duke

“Did you understand it? Because, I’m completely lost.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll give you extra ‘tutoring,’ ” he says wiggling his eyebrows.

“Stop,” I bat his arm playfully.

“Kidding, I swear it,” he replies with a twinkle in his eyes. When I touched his arm, I felt the hard muscle flex underneath, but Spence wasn’t meant for me.

“You missed homecoming on Saturday. It was epic.”

I smile, “I’m sure it was.”

He frowns down at me stopping, “It’s not right.”

“What?” I hesitate, hoping he’s not going to bring up Duke.

“That you're missing out on everything. Frat parties, football games… dorm life. It’s your senior year. Live a little.”

I shrug, “I never felt like I was missing out. I guess I’ve been too busy taking care of my dad and the business.”

“Exactly. Come out with me this weekend.”

I laugh, “Nice try.”

“You’ll regret it.” He smiles with a raised brow. “Come on, the bar and your dad will survive for one night without you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

With a smile and a wave, I cut across the lawn towards the library. Finding a quiet spot on the top floor, I pull out my laptop, setting my coffee beside me.

My love letter to Duke fills the screen and on a whim—I hit print, stuffing it into my coat pocket.

I live for salted-caramel macchiatos these days. The creamy liquid warms me through the damp chill of the rain.

Spence’s party is tonight. I half talked myself into going, but I’m punishing myself by putting in extra time at the library before going over.

Duke’s been silent. Not one text or missed call has come from him. I know he dropped everything when his father died. The hornet’s nest he walked back to in California was hardly a homecoming.

But he’s my drug and I’m in withdrawal with no plans to check-in to rehab. I’ve called twice, leaving one voicemail. I’ve never hungered for someone until now, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna turn into some clingy, whiney, pathetic girl starving for a crumb from her man.

He knows where I am, and if he wants me as badly as I think he does—there’s no way he’s gonna be able to wait.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I wake-up to the low hum of his engine pulling into my drive or better yet—his hands and tongue between my thighs.

“Pops? I’m home!”

Huh? The house is silent. His coffee mug still on the kitchen table. I drop my backpack to the floor, anxious to find him. What if he fell or had another stroke?

“POPS?”

Still no answer.

My feet race up the stairs, but all the bedrooms are empty. He doesn’t drive much and the old truck is parked out front. I call his cell hearing it ring. It’s plugged into a charger in his room.

With my heart racing, I fly down the stairs and out the front door.

“POPS!” I call out with my hands around my mouth.

“Shanna.” He says my name so softly; I only hear it because the wind picked it up, carrying it to me.

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