Page 26 of I Wanna Text You Up

I glance around, surprised he’d make that suggestion. “We’re sitting in a Frankie’s parking lot at eight thirty on a Tuesday. I don’t think anything is going to happen in the forty seconds it’ll take you to toss thisout.”

“Are you always so argumentative? The entire time in the store, you were the sameway.”

“I don’targue. I tactfully sway your opinions in myfavor.”

“So you argue until you get yourway.”

“Sure, if that’s how you want to seeit.”

He lifts his eyes skyward and sighs. “Just doit.”

He pushes the door open and steps out, slams it closed, andwaits.

I glare at his form through the window as he stands there. He won’t budge until I lock the damndoor.

After what feels like several minutes, I give in and click thebutton.

He scurries away, and I watch him move effortlessly. His walk is determined and sure—and I feel like a damn moron for noticing, especially in thismoment.

Before I know it, he’s knocking on the window, I’m unlocking the door, and we’re back on the road, heading to theapartment.

We’re quiet, and as much as I’m enjoying the calmness, there’s something weighing on my mind that I want to talkabout.

Hishand.

I’ve known who Caleb Mills was since the moment I stepped foot on campus.Everyoneknows who he is: star third baseman for the Hawks. He’s always been popular, known throughout the university as the guy who’s always there, the one you can counton.

Being so easy on the eyes has brought him attention too. I think every girl on campus has crushed on him at some point in her time here, but not once has he earned a reputation as anything other than a gentleman. Until Delia, there were always jokes flying that he was the only virgin Hawk on the team. I don’t think anyone actually thought that was true, butstill.

No one has ever said a bad thing about Caleb, so him getting into a scuffle? I want to know what the hellhappened.

“Can I ask yousomething?”

“Shoot.”

“Yourhand…”

He groans at my words, I’m sure because he knows what’s comingnext.

“Yeah?” The word is gruff, full of contempt—not at me though; at thesituation.

“You said it happened during afight?”

“Yep.”

“Withwho?”

“No one important.” His words are almost whispered, and I can hear the regret inthem.

“You broke your hand over no oneimportant?”

He sighs loudly and gives me a clipped nod. “Yep.”

“How bad isit?”

“It’s bad. I’m probablydone.”

I peek over at him. He’s staring out the passenger window, angular scruff-covered jaw clenched tight. I can feel the heat coming off him, and I wish I hadn’t broached the subject atall.

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