The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(15)
Yep, I do know that, and I’m sure that’s why all his students love him so much. Dad teaches graduate-level molecular biology at Briar, a course you wouldn’t think would be all that popular, and yet there’s actually a waiting list to get into his class. I’ve sat in on a few of his lectures over the years, and I have to admit, he does have a way of making the ridiculously boring material seem interesting.
Dad sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. “So, I made reservations at Ferro’s for Friday at six-thirty. Does that work for the birthday girl?”
I roll my eyes. I am so not a birthday person. I prefer low-key celebrations, or—in a perfect world—no celebrations at all, but my mom is a birthday fiend. Surprise parties, gag gifts, forcing waiters to sing in restaurants…she’s all about inflicting the greatest amount of torture possible. I think she gets a kick out of embarrassing her only daughter. But since she moved to Paris three years ago, I haven’t been able to spend my birthday with her, so she’s recruited my dad into taking over humiliation duties.
“The birthday girl will only agree to go if you can promise nobody will sing to her.”
He blanches. “Lord, do you think I want to sit through that? No way, honey. We’ll have a nice, quiet dinner, and when you talk to your mom about it afterward, you can tell her a mariachi band came over to the table and sang for you.”
“Deal.”
“Are you sure you’re okay that we’re not having dinner on your actual birthday? If you want to celebrate on Wednesday night, I can cancel office hours.”
“Friday is fine,” I assure him.
“All right, then it’s a date. Oh, and I spoke to your mom again last night,” he adds. “She asked if you’ve reconsidered changing your flight to May. She’d love to see you for three months instead of two.”
I hesitate. I’m excited to visit Mom this summer, but for three months? Even two is pushing it—that’s why I insisted on coming back the first week of August, even though the semester doesn’t start until the end of the month. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my mother. She’s fun and spontaneous, and so bubbly and encouraging it’s like having your own personal cheerleader following you around waving her pom-poms. But she’s also…exhausting. She’s a little girl in a grown woman’s body, acting on her every whim without stopping to consider the consequences.
“Let me think about it,” I answer. “I need to decide if I have the energy to keep up with her.”
Dad chuckles. “Well, we both know the answer to that is no. Nobody has the energy to keep up with your mom, honey.”
He certainly hadn’t, but luckily, their divorce had been one hundred percent amicable. I think when Mom told him she wanted out, Dad was more relieved than upset. And when she decided to move to Paris in order to “find herself” and “reconnect with her art”, he’d been nothing but supportive.
“I’ll let you know this weekend, okay?” I reach for my tea, but my hand freezes when the bell rings again.
A dark-haired guy in a Briar hockey jacket strolls in, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think it’s Logan.
But nope. It’s someone else. Shorter, bulkier, and not as devastatingly gorgeous.
Disappointment flutters through me, but I force it away. Even if Logan had walked through that door, what would I really expect to happen? He’d come over and kiss me? Ask me out?
Riiiight. I made the guy come last night and he didn’t even stick around long enough to kiss me goodbye. So yeah, I have to face the facts: I’m just another girl on a long list of John Logan’s conquests.
And honestly? I’m totally cool with that. As underwhelming as it may have been, getting, um…conquered by Logan is hands-down the highlight of my freshman year.
*
Logan
“Has a girl ever faked an orgasm with you?” I blurt out. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, and I nervously tap my fingers on the kitchen counter as I look at my roommate.
Dean, who was on his way to the fridge, stops in his tracks so abruptly that if he’d been on skates, I would be wiping ice shavings off my face right now.
“I’m sorry, didn’t hear you. What was that?”
His expression is the epitome of innocence, so it’s not until after I repeat myself that I realize I’m being played. Dean doubles over, honest-to-God tears streaming down his cheeks as he shudders with laughter.
“I totally heard you the first time,” he croaks. “I just wanted to hear you ask it again…oh shit…I think I might piss myself…” Another howl rips out of his throat. “You tapped a girl and she faked it?”
I clench my teeth so hard my molars hurt. What on earth had made me think confiding in Dean was a good idea?
“No,” I mutter.
He’s still laughing like a maniac. “How do you know she faked it? Did she tell you afterward? Oh God, please say yes!”
I stare into my coffee cup. “She didn’t tell me anything. I just got a feeling, okay?”
Dean opens the fridge and grabs a carton of OJ, still chuckling to himself. “This is priceless. Big stud on campus couldn’t make a girl come. You’ve officially given me enough ammo to rag on you for years.”
Yup, I sure did. Nobody ever said I was smart.