Page 32 of Betting on the Bad Boy
That was the main reason I’d chosen a college in the Midwest for my undergrad degree. Clem’s life revolved around the church. Not only was he a pastor, he was a bona fide local Christian celebrity and the story of how he and the single mother had found a new chance at love propelled them both into a new stratosphere of fame.
Mom’s writing career had taken off several years before that, but when she took the new last name Kepner, the shit hit the fan and she hit all the bestseller lists. Her inspirational romance novels and women’s devotionals flew off the shelves. Mom was an international Christian superstar, and I was an unwilling bystander. I was happy for her, of course. But I didn’t want any part of her new world, especially since I’d found a way to finance my education writing borderline erotica.
Mom would really flip if she knew about my secret part-time job. I’d fled a thousand miles away where I thought I’d besafe from the reach of Reverend and Mrs. Kepner. Evidently, it hadn’t been far enough. Clem’s celebrity was fairly localized, and he wasn’t very well known outside of California. Mom, on the other hand, had hit a niche market when she started writing Christian inspirational romance novels and with thirty-five published romances and a handful of non-fiction books under her belt, she was the one I worried about.
Once my classmates found out who my mother was, I might as well throw in the towel. They’d never be able to look at me the same. It wasn’t their fault. Mom’s golden aura eclipsed my efforts at normalcy.
A few of my friends in the undergrad program in Illinois made the connection. Before, it had been all about football games, sunbathing on the quad, and checking out the guy’s sand volleyball league. After, it was all about students trying to engage me in a Bible-quoting contest, apologizing for dropping a swear word, and invitations from complete strangers to join them at worship.
I shook my head, dislodging the memories and depositing my brain right smack dab into the present. With the immediate threat of exposure held at bay, I pushed away from the high-top table and picked up my bag, my eye on joining the line at the coffee bar. An afternoon jolt of caffeine would keep me going all night. As I whipped around, I smacked into something, sending my phone and bag skidding across the high gloss wooden floor.
“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry!”
I looked down onto a head full of thick, dark hair. Whoever he was gathered my items and shoved them back into my bag. I rubbed my arm where he’d bumped me, then squatted down and picked up my phone. We stood up at the same time and I cracked the top of my head on his very hard chin.
I grabbed my forehead and looked up. “You!”
A sheepish grin spread across Dante’s face. “Sorry. It was an accident.” He handed me the bag.
“What is it with you?” I asked, slinging the bag over my shoulder.
“Just luck that I keep running into you, I guess.” He noticed a few more of my items under the table next to us and bent down to retrieve them. “You don’t want to lose these.” He handed me a lipstick and my case of birth control pills.
My face could have blistered from the heat flooding my cheeks. I snatched my pills and lipstick out of his hands and shoved them in my bag.
“Relax, it’s not like I’ve never seen lipstick before.” His smile proved he knew exactly what the little round case contained.
I gulped for air in an effort to steady my thundering heart and shaky hands. “I’ve got to get to a class.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to get to my real job. I haven’t seen you around lately.”
“No, I’ve been tied up with stuff.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh yeah? Get many ideas from that BDSM book?”
I swatted at his biceps. “Is that all you can think about?”
He grabbed my hand mid-strike and looked down into my eyes. I swallowed the nervous lump rising in my throat and met his gaze. My heart increased its tempo and my knees knocked together.
“It’s notallI can think about. I do have some experience rock climbing though and am pretty good at a French bowline. You want to get together later?” He turned my wrist over in his hand.
I pictured him securing my wrist to a bedpost with a piece of climbing rope. I took in a deep breath and yanked my arm away. “I can’t. I have to figure out where I can go to get my monthly volunteer hours covered.” As a Christian university with a commitment to social service, Tempest required studentsand staff to put in a minimum number of volunteer hours each month.
“You’re running out of time, aren’t you?”
“It’s fine. I should be able to find somewhere in town to serve Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Uh, no you won’t. Those slots have been filled for months. But I know somewhere that would gladly take the help if you don’t mind a bit of a drive.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Check with the Hinkley Senior Center. It’s about an hour and a half away. I know they’d be grateful for the help.”
“If I can’t find someplace closer, I’ll look into it.”
Dante shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Think about it.”
Think about it? I’d been doing nothingbutthink about him since our encounter in the elevator last week. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. The only part of me not suffering from Dante withdrawal was my imagination. My fingers couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with the mental images playing through my mind. I’d sent some samples to Steph, who couldn’t wait to get her hands on the whole thing.
