Page 5 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“Seriously,” Tyler added, shaking his head in amazement. “That coordination was epic. You two must be insane in bed.”
And there it was. The assumption that made both of us freeze for just a second too long before we started talking over each other.
“We're just friends,” Artie said quickly.
“Yep, just friends,” I added, maybe a little too forcefully.
“Right. Good friends. Nothing romantic.”
“Exactly. Just teamwork. Friend teamwork. Friendwork.”
Too many faces in the crowd around us exchanged those knowing looks that said they weren't buying our denials for a second. Which was ridiculous, because we were friends. Best friends. That's all we'd ever been.
“We should get this little escape artist back to his class,” Artie said, obviously eager to change the subject.
“Good idea,” I agreed, grateful for the distraction.
“I'm keeping him,” Artie announced as we approached the sanctuary's truck where the volunteers were trying to corral the rest of the baby goats back into their transport home.
“You can't keep a goat in your dorm room.”
“I'll figure something out. Look how calm he is with me.” She held up the goat, who was indeed perfectly content, though that might have had more to do with the fact that he was currently chewing on her hair tie than any special bond.
“Your roommate is allergic to everything that moves, breathes, or has fur.”
“Details,” she said dismissively, but she handed the goat over to the sanctuary volunteer with obvious reluctance. “Don't be surprised if you find a baby goat in a temporary pen of textbooks eating my notes later.”
“Don't let finals swallow you whole this time or next time I'm bringing in the big guns.” I wagged a finger at her.
Artie rolled her eyes and rocked her shoulders with hands raised as she sing-songed, “Ooh, oh no. What are you gonna do, bring tea-cup piglets to class next time?”
My phone buzzed with a text.
X
Library. Twenty minutes?
“Nope. I'll call your dad and have him give you the work-smarter-not-harder speech. Again.” He gave it to us both before our first semester at DSU in his once-a-semester phone call to her from his oh-so-fancy coaching job in Scotland.
Artie slugged me in the arm. Hard. “Don't you dare.”
“I'm hitting the library. Wanna come so I don't have to extract you from accounting practice test hell again?” I already knew she'd say no. Artie might be an amazing team player, but she had an I-can-do-it-myself, independent-woman streak that was gold medal worthy.
The stink eye she gave me called me on my bullshit. “You're not going to the library to study.”
Shit. Artie knew me too well. But there was something careful about the way she said it, not quite as teasing as I expected from her.
I might hit the library a lot, but it was never to study. I'd figured out my freshman year that the long dark rows of the school's little used top floor were better used for other more fun activities than studying.
“Hey, I have finals too.” That were all going to be a piece of cake.
My phone buzzed with another text.
X
Third floor stacks. Usual spot. Don't let anyone see you.
Right. I hated this secretive hook-up shit. And all I really wanted to do was talk through whatever this not-a-relationship was with Artie or Flynn. But my definitely-not-a-study buddy was complicated, hot as fuck, and great with his mouth.
