Page 49 of Ruthless Court

“Yeah. A tragedy for both of us.”

She’s small.

Or she looks small beneath the sweater hanging from one shoulder. Jean shorts. Birkenstocks in one hand. Thick tortoiseshell glasses covering half her face. Dark hair blowing wild around them.

The glasses remind me of Aunt Gina, who reads birth charts at Thanksgiving and keeps polished rocks inside her bra because she claims they balance her energy.

I must stare too long.

The girl folds her arms.

“I’m the designated driver.”

“What?”

“I’m not an athlete. You don’t have to keep looking at me like you’re trying to figure out what sport I play.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was looking at your glasses.”

Her eyebrows rise behind them.

“Much better.”

“They’re intense.”

“They help me see men walking into me.”

I almost laugh, but the image of Stella leaving with Vale kills it.

“So you crashed the mixer.”

“My roommates crashed it. I drove.”

“And now you’re wandering the beach hoping to lock down an athlete?”

Her face twists like I suggested she drink from the ocean.

“Please. A man is the last thing I’m trying to lock down.”

Maybe she doesn’t like men.

Fine by me.

At least she isn’t going to ask for a picture, post it with a loaded caption, and spend the next month hinting that we hooked up because we stood near the same bonfire.

“First night?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Freshman?”

“Yep.”

Silence stretches between us.