False Assumptions (Players of Marycliff University Book 6)

by Jerica MacMillan

  Once out in the car, Layla twisted around to set her purse in the backseat like she usually did with her backpack. It was small enough that she could’ve held it, but it’d become a habit to put her things on the floor in the back over the last couple of weeks. As she was turning back to face the front, something caught her eye.

  Stretching a bit more, she pulled the familiar book off the backseat. “What’s this?”

  It could just be the reflection of pink from the sunset, but it looked like Evan was blushing. He glanced at the book in her hands out of the corner of his eyes as he started the car.

  “You were talking about how much you loved those books, so I thought I’d check them out. See what all the fuss was about.”

  She ran her fingers over the illustration of a golden dragon on the cover of Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey. “And?”

  “I’m only about halfway through. It’s not my usual thing, but I can see the appeal.”

  “Yeah, well, you like The Great Gatsby, so …”

  He shook his head, his amusement clear on his face. “It’s a classic. I can’t believe you don’t like it. It’s a great slice-of-life look at the roaring twenties.”

  “You mean it’s a snooze-fest about rich people banging each other. If I wanted that, I’d watch one of the Real Housewives shows.”

  He laughed, the sound filling the car. She couldn’t help smiling in response, enjoying making him laugh, having someone share her sense of humor.

  Stopped at a light, he reached over and retrieved the book, placing it in the back again. “We could have Real Housewives marathon later if you want.”

  She shuddered and made a gagging sound. “Only if you want to torture me.”

  His blue eyes heated as they dragged over her. “No. Torture is the last thing I want to do to you.”

  Her mouth opened, but she had no response to that. He gave her that sexy smirk again. They pulled into the parking lot of The Cellar, a local restaurant known for its wine list, good food, and live music on the weekends. As they walked through the parking lot, he moved close to her, his hand running down her arm until his fingers tangled with hers. She looked at him in surprise, but he only smiled, his face the picture of happiness. He held the door open for her, ushering her in with a hand on the small of her back, and those little touches did more to endear him to her than all the flirty banter or hot kisses ever could.

  Layla was surprised to discover that Evan had made them reservations, so they were seated right away, the sound of a blues combo drifting over them as they reached their table. They perused the menus and discussed what they wanted to order. Once the waitress had taken their order—a chicken Caesar salad for Layla and steak for Evan—Evan sat back in his chair, taking a sip of his glass of water and studying her.

  She squirmed under his scrutiny, pushing her hair behind her ears. It was unnecessary, since she’d put her hair in a little half-updo with soft curls falling around her shoulders. But it was a nervous habit. “What?”

  Running his thumb across his lower lip again, he shook his head slowly. “Nothing. I’m just—“ He waved away whatever he’d been about to say. “How are your other classes going?”

  She blinked at the random topic change. “Um, good. I have a paper due next week, plus our presentation in World Lit. Some poems due in my poetry workshop. And I have to come up with something to submit to the Falconry Review. Since Dr. Moore is in charge of the school’s literary magazine, submitting to it is part of our grade.”

  “You still haven’t let me read any of your poetry.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but a smile pulled on her lips. “Ha. Nice try. Somehow I don’t remember saying I would.”

  “No, you didn’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though. Can I sometime?”

  “Um, maybe?”

  His jaw set and he tilted his head like he might argue more, but instead he said, “Fine. I’ll take it. For now. But don’t think I’m going to just let this go.” He paused, still running his thumb along his lower lip. “What are you going to do with an English degree with a Creative Writing focus?”

  She couldn’t help rolling her eyes at him. “Write. I should think that would be obvious.”

  He rolled his eyes back, finally dropping his hand away from his mouth. “Ha ha. I mean what are you going to do for money. You’ve already mentioned that you’ll graduate in May, so you’re obviously not going to be a teacher.”

  “Wait. Why is that obvious? Are you saying I’d make a bad teacher?” She sat back in a pretend huff, one hand pressed over her heart. “I’m hurt, Evan. You wound me.”

  Chuckling, he shook his head at her antics. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. In order to graduate in May with a teaching certificate, you’d have to be student teaching this semester. You’re not, therefore …” He rolled his hand to indicate the obvious conclusion from that statement. “So, do you already have a mega book deal lined up?” He gave a cheeky grin, all white teeth. “Or maybe you’ll recite slam poetry downtown with a bucket for tips.” His hand went back to his mouth, but this time he tapped his lips with his fingers, his eyes narrowed as if in deep thought. “Maybe live in a van down by the river?”

  She snorted at the old school SNL reference. “Chris Farley fan?”

  He shrugged. “Who isn’t? No, but seriously. I’m curious.”

  Taking a drink of water, she gave him a sidelong look. “Not that those ideas aren’t without merit, I figured I’d just get a job and write on the side until I can make a living with it. Maybe in a few years I’ll get a master’s degree.” She shrugged. “We’ll have to see.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?” That wow didn’t sound entirely complimentary.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I guess I figured you had more of a plan than that. Most of the people I know do. But you’re okay with getting whatever boring job to pay the bills so you can do what you really want in your free time?”

  “Sure. I mean, it’d be great if I could make enough money to live from my writing straight out of school, but that’s not the way it works. Especially as a poet.”

  “What would you get your master’s in? MFA in Creative Writing?”

  “Maybe. Or Library Science.”

  His eyes widened. “Library Science?”

  The waitress came then and set their food down. Layla waited for her to leave, continuing as she picked up her fork. “Yeah. I work in the library at school part time and like it pretty well. It’d be a nice gig—I’d be around books all day, and it wouldn’t be the kind of job that takes over your whole life, you know? I’d still have all my non-work time for having a life and writing. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  He nodded, chewing and swallowing before responding. “Why not do that next year?”

  She dropped her eyes to her plate, carefully spearing chicken and lettuce with her fork. “Money. I’d need to save up for a few years, pay off some of my student loan debt before taking on more.”

  “Right. Makes sense.”

  Glancing up at him, Layla thought it looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he took another bite.

  “How is everything?” The waitress was back at their table. Layla had been so wrapped up in their conversation that she hadn’t even heard her come up.

  She gave the waitress a polite smile. “Very good. Thank you.”

  Evan nodded his agreement, his mouth still full.

  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  They both nodded again, and the waitress left. Silence stretched between them while they both ate, but for some reason a weird tension hung between them. Wanting to dispel it, Layla turned Evan’s question back on him.

  “What about you?”

  His head jerked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

  “What do you plan on doing after graduation?”

  “Oh. Uh, I don’t graduate until this summer. Football, you know. Most of us don’t graduate on time.”

 
; “So you’ll be taking summer classes?”

  He nodded, reaching for his glass, his eyes looking … wary? That was odd. He was the one to start talking about post-graduation plans. Why did he look so cornered?

  “Good for you. What about after that?”

  Glancing back at his food, he shrugged while cutting another bite. “Like you said, get a job. Gotta pay for stuff, y’know?”

  He seemed … off. But she pressed on. “Yeah. Do you think you’ll stick around here? Or move back home?”

  He shrugged, placing another bite in his mouth.

  His caginess caught Layla off guard, and she didn’t know what to make of it. So she decided to lighten the mood. “Don’t tell me—you secretly make tons of money writing tentacle porn under a pen name. You’re just throwing my answers back at me because you’re too embarrassed to tell me the truth. Right?”

  A laugh rumbled out of him, growing in volume as he processed her words. A wide smile pulled her lips up too. He really had a great laugh.

  After several minutes of laughing, he wiped his eyes and shook his head. “No. Tentacle porn? Seriously?”

  She shrugged, her smile smaller now, but still in place. “You don’t get off on sentient plants having their way with women? Or men. It can go either way, you know.”

  Evan spluttered with more laughter. “No. I did not know. And, yeah, that’s definitely not my thing. Christ. I can’t even.” He shook his head again, drawing in a deep breath. “No. Sorry. I’m not sure what to do after graduation. I’d thought about trying for the NFL. One of the guys from the team went through the Combines last year and got drafted. But …” He trailed off, his eyes drifting to the table.

  “But?”

  Sighing, his blue eyes found hers. “But, Elena—you remember Carter’s girlfriend?” He waited for Layla’s nod before continuing. “Well, she made Carter and I watch that movie Concussion last month. Have you seen it?”

  Layla shook her head, her eyes never leaving his.

  “It’s pretty intense. It’s about the guy who discovered chronic traumatic encephalopathy and how the NFL has basically covered up what they know about it and how bad it is. They’ve paid off the players with the stipulation that they never have to divulge how much they know or for how long. They estimate that something like ninety-eight percent of professional football players have CTE. And seeing some of those guys losing their minds in that movie?” He shook his head slowly. “It made the thought of having my brains scrambled on a daily basis lose its appeal. I mean, I love football, but …” He lifted one shoulder, looking down at the table, his fingers toying with his fork.

  “But you don’t want to lose your mind,” Layla filled in for him.

  He looked up, the pain in his eyes turning them into fractured crystals. “Yeah. Exactly.” He sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “My fallback plan was to go back home after graduation and work with my parents if I didn’t get drafted. My mom’s a realtor, and my dad’s a contractor. They started flipping houses when I was in high school, and I’ve spent the summers working with them ever since. I could keep doing that. It’d pay well.”

  The unspoken “but” hung in the air between them. Once again, Layla filled in the blank. “But it would feel like taking a giant step backward.”

  “Pretty much.”

  She nodded her understanding, knowing exactly how he felt. Well, not about giving up something she loved so her brain didn’t get scrambled, but about not wanting to go back home. She didn’t want to do that either, even though she knew she could. It might even be smart, especially if she wanted to save money for grad school. But she liked living on her own, and giving up her independence, even to save money, sounded awful.

  “Wait a second.” Layla narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought you said your dad was a physical therapist?”

  Evan cocked his head, his brows drawn together, his face a picture of confusion. “What? No. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “No,” she said slowly, pointing at him. “I distinctly remember. When I hurt my ankle, and you wanted to look at it. You asked if it would help if you said your dad was a physical therapist.”

  He was silent for a second, then his face cleared, and a loud guffaw came out of him. “Oh, God. No. I was trying to get you to let me help you.” He leaned his elbows on the table, angling his body toward her. “I worded it carefully and asked if it would help if I said that. But I never actually said that.” She tried to scowl, but it was ruined by her suppressed laughter. His grin grew wider, dispelling the gloom that had descended over them when they’d discussed the future. “I’d apologize, but it worked, so I’m not actually sorry.”

  The waitress’s reappearance to ask about dessert interrupted Layla before she could respond. Evan raised a questioning brow at her, but she shook her head. “I’m stuffed already. You can have something if you want.”

  He shook his head too. “I’m good. Just the check, please.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Do you want to go back to my place or yours?” Evan started the car and looked over at Layla, waiting for her decision.

  She looked at him as she finished buckling her seatbelt, her expression unreadable in the shadows of the parking lot. “Um, are your roommates home?”

  “Maybe. I can check if you want. Would you rather they were or weren’t?” He didn’t like that he couldn’t see her to figure out what she might be thinking. The date had gone well, and he’d been congratulating himself on doing things right with her, but he couldn’t read her hesitation.

  “No. Don’t bother them. Let’s just go to my place.”

  “Perfect.” He’d hoped she would choose that so they could pick up where they left off last night and see where things went. He knew where he’d like them to go.

  Anticipation had nervous energy crackling through his body as he followed Layla up the stairs to her apartment, his eyes glued to her ass that looked fantastic in the dark wash skinny jeans she’d paired with bright pink flats and a sparkly top for their date.

  Once inside, she glanced at him, her eyes darting away as she set down her purse and took off her jacket. “Um, would you like some water?”

  Is she nervous? The thought made him smile. Layla was usually so pulled together and self-contained that the thought of knocking her off-kilter by being in her apartment right now—where he’d been nearly every day for the last two weeks—seemed a little funny. And proved that he affected her. That made his chest swell and his blood run south. Because she affected him every bit as much. But nerves were not a problem for him.

  He followed her into the kitchen and decided to dispense with this little nervous game she was playing where she offered him water and hid in the kitchen. She stood in front of the sink, filling a glass with water, a second glass already full on the counter next to her. Brushing her hair out of his way, he placed a kiss where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered. So he kissed her again, working his way up to the point of her jaw, placing a kiss behind her ear, then taking her earlobe gently between his teeth.

  “Evan!” His name came out on a gasp, and she leaned into him, as though she couldn’t keep herself upright anymore.

  Reaching around her, he shut off the water and took the glass out of her hand, turning her to face him so he could kiss her mouth, his hands braced on the counter behind her. God, he couldn’t get enough of kissing her. Her lips, the slight hesitation that was there every time before she capitulated and kept up with him, the way her hands gripped him. Yesterday it was his hair. Tonight her hands had made their way inside his jacket, and she clutched his shirt like she might drown if she let go.

  He could make out with her, just like this, all night long. Except there were other places he wanted to kiss, to taste, to feel. To see how she reacted to his hands and his mouth elsewhere, when just this had her pupils dilating and her lids heavy, her breath coming fast and shallow, complete with little gasps and moans of pleasure.

&nb
sp; What would she sound like when she came?

  He pressed his hips into hers, letting her feel how much he wanted her. Letting go of the counter, his hands went to her back, pressing her closer to him, his fingers slipping under her shirt, skating across her bare skin. He wanted to see that silky expanse, watch his hands run over it and see the goosebumps he raised with his touch before kissing them away. Did she get darker in the summer? The thought of her in a bikini had him grinding his hips into hers even harder. He had to see her. All of her. Now.

  His hands lifted, running up her sides, forcing her arms up as the fabric bunched. She broke the kiss, her eyes sharp now, focused on his face. He met her eyes, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “I want to see you. Please.”

  After what felt like an eternity, but was really no more than a breath, she nodded and lifted her arms. Her shirt slipped off over her head, leaving her in a black satin bra, holding her breasts like an offering just for him. He ran his fingers over the tops of them, teasing along the edge of the cups, before caressing them fully, his mouth finding hers again.

  Getting braver, her hands found their way under his shirt, and the graze of her cool fingers on his skin made him shiver. His hands roamed over her bare skin, wishing her bra was gone, and his shirt was gone, to feel her skin to skin, but he didn’t want to break the kiss or take his hands off her to take care of those things.

  Layla seemed to have the same idea. Her hands came out from under his shirt, pushing the jacket off his shoulders, forcing his hands away from her for long enough to get it off. Then her fingers went to work on his buttons, and the only reason he didn’t intervene to hurry the process along was because he got to keep kissing her and touching her while she undressed him. He cradled her face in one hand, tilting her head so he could have access to her neck and jawline once more. When he would nip at her skin, her fingers faltered, fumbling with the buttons.

  She finally managed to get them undone and pushed his shirt away from his shoulders, once again forcing his hands away from her. He broke the kiss this time, watching her as he peeled the shirt off his arms, enjoying the way her eyes roamed over his chest, taking in his arms, the tattoo of a compass rose on his left pec. Her fingers brushed over it, and he groaned when her lips followed, starting on his tattoo and moving over his chest.