Page 3 of Triple Play
This is going to be fine. I’m twenty-one years old. Pre-med. I’ve dissected cadavers and aced organic chemistry and pulled all-nighters that would make normal people weep. I can handle living with my brother’s best friend who kissed me once and then ghosted me for two years.
I can absolutely handle this.
A door slams. Grant’s room, I’m guessing. The wall between us is thin enough that I can hear him moving around. Hear the sound of drawers opening and closing with more force than necessary.
My stomach twists.
I grab my toiletry bag and head to the bathroom. I need to brush my teeth, wash my face, and pretend today didn’t happen.
The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Shared by all four of us, apparently. Joy. There are already three toothbrushes in the holder, shampoo bottles crowding the shower, and a wet towel on the floor. There’s also a bottle of lube sitting on the counter that at least one of the guys is using to jack off with. Fantastic.
I don’t know which one of them uses it. Don’t want to know. Could be all three for all I care.
Not my business what they do behind closed doors.
And I’m not the type to yuck on someone’s yum.
I brush my teeth quickly, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror because I know what I’ll see—the same girl who was stupid enough to think that kiss with Grant meant something.
When I come out, Grant is standing in the hallway.
We’re three feet apart. He’s wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips and nothing else. I can see the scar on his collarbone now. It’s new. Raised and pink.
I don’t ask about it. Don’t ask about anything.
“Bathroom’s free,” I say.
He doesn’t move. Just looks at me with those ice-blue eyes that used to be warm when they landed on me.
“Why are you really here?” His voice is quiet now. Tired.
“I told you—”
“And I heard you.” He takes a step closer. “But why Crestmont specifically? You had options.”
“This was the best offer.”
“Bullshit.”
My pulse is hammering. He’s close enough now that I can smell him—cedar and something sharp, exactly how I remember.
“Not everything is about you, Wilder.”
His jaw ticks again. That muscle jumping.
“Keep telling yourself that, Hart.”
Then he moves past me into the bathroom, close enough that his arm brushes mine. The contact lasts half a second, but my skin burns where we touched.
The door closes.
I stand there like an idiot for three full seconds before I force myself to move.
Back in my room, I lock the door and lean against it.
This was a mistake. Coming here, thinking I could handle this, believing I was over it.
I’m not over it.
