by Faye, Amy
She had let them down, no doubt. She wasn't a good teacher. She was a great student, but she didn't really know how to make sure that they understood it the way she understood it.
So she did her best. But if her best wasn't good enough, then whose fault was that?
Hers. Obviously.
Starting at the top, she clicked the messages open.
'I felt so confident, thanks.' Emma swallowed. 'Worth every penny.' Two more texts, basically saying the same thing, again. She texted back that she was glad the exam went well.
Jane, on the other hand, was a gossip hound, and when Emma had been spotted at the game, she needed to know exactly what brought on this change. Emma wasn't sure how to answer truthfully.
So she told the best lie she could. Nothing really caused it. She'd never been to a football game before. It was nothing special, but it could be fun—she guessed.
The rest were about the same. They smoked the exam, no problem.
No message from Craig, though. Nothing at all. Her thumb hovered over the button to send him something. Everyone else had thought that it was a good idea to send her an update with how things had gone.
If he hadn't wanted to send something like that, if he hadn't wanted to update her, why would that be? Because he'd done well, and didn't think she would care? Or because he'd done poorly and didn't want to talk about it?
Grades weren't back yet, but most of the time, people know how they did. Sometimes you do better than you thought—you weren't confident, but you thought you knew, and you should have been more confident because you were right.
But usually, if you do well, you'll know, and if you do bad, you'll know.
Which was it for Weston? He was so perfect at everything else, it was almost impossible to imagine that he would do badly in school. That went double for him after she was done with him.
For all his concerns about being stupid… she pushed the thought away as best she could. Her father didn't raise her to be judgmental.
It came back, snuck in before she could stop it. He was smarter than some of those folks. Way smarter. Just didn't apply himself to classwork as much as he should have. There's nothing holding him back but the number of hours in the day and how he chooses to spend them.
Which makes it all that much stranger that he worries so much about it. He could be just as prepared, just as capable, as anyone that Emma knows. More than most. But he's just focused on other things.
It's understandable. With his looks, and his talents, he won't have any sort of shortage for attention, not for the rest of his life. If he chose to, he could probably skip college.
He could have been taking blow-off classes and ignoring everything. Classes that would have been easy for a high-school student. But he's not. Which says a lot, all by itself. Nothing else really needs to be said.
Her thumb falls right on the 'New Message' button. She types in Craig's name to the recipient slot before she can decide not to do any of this.
'Everything OK? How'd mid-terms go?'
Emma presses send and tosses the phone away. Onto the bed. Because she sure as hell can't afford to sit there and look at it, because looking will lead to regretting. She should've just waited to see him again.
She looked back at the computer screen, scrolling through the notes one last time to make sure she hasn't missed anything big. Then she can send the files to the printer's and pick them up in an hour or two.
She already knows she hasn't. This is the third time she's proofed it. But if you don't triple-check, how can you be absolutely certain?
The phone buzzes, and the scroll stops. Is that him? Did he text her back? She starts the slow scroll again. Don't worry about it. Get the notes finished, send the files, and then she can worry about it.
She takes a breath. Looks good. She drags-and-drops, clicks 'send.' Thirty dollars automatically come off her debit card, and the order begins to process.
They'll call her in an hour or two, and she'll be able to pick it up in the afternoon, then drop off as much as she can tonight and the rest tomorrow. Same as every week.
The light on her phone blinks. Just like it's been doing for the past day. Text message. Emma takes a deep breath. Did he text her back? Or is this someone else, responding to her follow-ups?
She doesn't dare to hope. Not even a little bit. Deep breath. She picks up the phone and presses the button. One missed message.
From Craig Weston.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A knock at the door brings Craig out of his reverie. It's rare that he gets a long days' rest, it seems like. Sundays are looking to be that day, though, for the foreseeable future.
The day after games means that players get a little time to relax and heal up. No classes on Sunday, at least not for Craig.
So it's a little surprising that someone would be coming by, to say the least. He pushes himself up from the bed and takes a step towards the door.
"It's open," he says.
The door opens, and a pretty little thing, barely five feet tall, stands on the other side. Emma's got a box of papers in her hands that look as if they weigh as much as she does all by themselves.
As she tries to shift the weight back off her knee and into her hand, it starts to slip. A quick, lunging step from Craig and he grabs them before she can lose the weight, and stands back up with them.
"Sorry, I just thought I'd come and deliver—"
She stops. Why, Craig doesn't really know, until he recalls that he isn't really wearing a shirt. Or sort-of wearing a shirt. Not wearing a shirt at all, that is.
"I'm sorry," she repeats.
Craig sets the stack down on the floor.
"What's wrong?"
She's staring at him. Craig fights not to smile at it. She's not the first girl to stare like that, but she's the first one he's been amused by it in a long time. The way that every thought in her head shows on her face just gets more true.
"Nothing. I'm—I just thought I'd come deliver your notes for next week."
"You want something to drink? Beer? Soda?"
Her face is still beet red.
"Um."
Craig's already turned and reaches down to grab an ice-cold Coke from the fridge. He turns and holds it out to her.
"Here you go."
She pops the top, and it hisses in her hand for an instant.
"Um, how did the test go?"
"I told you, Emma, I'm fine." His face hardens a little.
Tests aren't Craig's strongest suit. He's heard plenty of stories of people freezing up, and that's never been his problem. So it could be a hell of a lot worse.
But it's always hard to say if he did well, because it always seems like they're not quite what he studied, no matter what the subject. So he's taking guesses as best he can, and sometimes they're right. Most of the time, even. But sometimes he's just damn wrong and it's hard to say when that's going to happen.
Emma chews her lip a little and steps further into the room a little.
"You didn't sound like it went that well."
"Sound, nothin'. I just said it was fine."
"That's not great, Craig. You're smart enough, you can do tests."
"Don't patronize me."
His skin can practically feel her closeness. A temptation that he hasn't given into in a long time starts to unbury itself inside him.
"I didn't—I'm not patronizing you, Craig. You're as smart as anyone."
"Sure. Whatever."
"Do you need to see me more often?"
Yes. "You're not going to do any better than you're already doing."
"Are you sure?"
About that? Sure. "Emma, don't mother me."
The look in her eyes as they trace the lines of his body tell Craig that she's not thinking of him like his mother at all.
"You're sure, then?"
"I told you I was."
She swallows hard.
"Alright, then. Thanks for the soda, I guess."
She
sets it down.
"Emma, look—"
"I get it. See you in a couple days."
Craig sits down on his bed. It's the only place in the whole room to sit, not that he needs to sit very often.
"Emma, don't be upset."
"I'm not upset."
She turns to leave, and Craig's stomach does a flip. It's a short reach to grab her hand. She stops when he touches her.
"What?"
Don't go. "Don't go."
He swallows hard. The feeling of her skin on his is electric. The feeling of her soft fingers, her small hands. It reminds him of her, at her deepest level. At the core of who she is.
"Why not?"
"I want you to stay."
She turns, chewing her lip.
"I'm not that kind of girl, Craig."
She's thinking about it, though. He can see it on her face.
He swallows, and it goes down harder than he expected. "Finish your drink, at least."
"It's fine, you can have the rest."
"I can at least help you get the papers to your car."
"Oh, I don't, uh."
"Then I can give you a ride, or at least carry them for you."
"Oh, you don't have to—"
"I want to."
Her hand falls free of his, but she doesn't move to leave.
"I don't know if this is some sort of game to you, but—"
She's angry. She's got this image in her head of who Craig is supposed to be, and this isn't it. Which means that there must be some funny business going on.
"I'm just offering to help you. That looks heavy."
"What about it?"
"Well, I'm bigger than you."
It's her turn to swallow hard. He can see it. The way she winces. Her face flushes anew.
"It wouldn't be any trouble?"
"Not a bit."
"This better not be some sort of trick, Weston."
"No trick."
His entire body begs him to turn it into some kind of trick. As if there might be some sort of pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The parts beneath his waist want it the most.
That's not what he's planning on, though.
"You should put a shirt on, though."
"You don't like me without a shirt on?"
It's the first time that she's noticed him flirting, and her face gets redder, if that was even possible.
"I—"
"Alright, if you insist," he teases. He pulls open a drawer and pulls a rolled-up tee shirt out, unfurls it and pulls it on.
Emma seems to suddenly feel as if there might be air in the room after all and lets out a long-held breath.
"Better?"
"Much better."
He leans down and picks up the box. It's heavier than it looks, for something so small. Still, Emma had carried it for who knows how long. His fingers dig into the cardboard a little. No problem.
"Alright, you first. Just close this door behind me."
"You have your keys?"
"Sure," he says. He can't reach for them right now, but he can feel them in his pocket. Right next to something else he can feel. It's getting a little painful, and he hopes to hell she hasn't noticed it. Or maybe he hopes that she has.
The route only takes another hour or so, and a lot of that gives him the opportunity to set the box down. Just a few trips across campus. It might have been faster in the convertible, but he's not going to press her about it.
"That it? Any more?"
"Just at the sorority house. Thanks for all your help."
"What do you mean? We've got another stop to make. I'm not done yet."
Emma chews her lip nervously.
"I couldn't. I'm going there anyways, I can take it."
"Sure, you can take it. But I'm gonna take it. See the difference?" Her eyes flick off to the side. To say she's unsure is an understatement. She's extremely unsure. "I'm not letting go of this box, Emma, so you're going to have to fight me if you want to take it, and then I'm still going with you."
"Craig, I'm serious."
"I am, too. You're not carrying it."
She pulls her lip in between her teeth. It's sexy when she does it. Makes him think of kisses, of her lips between a different pair of teeth.
"Alright," she says finally. "Fine. Come on."
She starts off back towards her dorm, and he follows. It's a lucky thing the box is mostly empty, because after all this time it would be real damn heavy.
But Craig Weston's not going to leave a job half-finished, regardless of how heavy the box is or isn't. Especially not when it's helping out a girl like her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Why in the hell couldn't he take a hint? Emma wanted nothing more than to be away from him.
No, that wasn't true. There was one thing that she wanted more than to be away. One thing she wanted much more. She wasn't going to get that. She certainly wasn't going to let herself even consider it. Not for a moment.
But if she were going to, then… then there was one thing she wanted more than she wanted for him to leave. A little voice in the back of her head told Emma the words that she hadn't wanted to hear, hadn't wanted to think, hadn't wanted to imagine.
She'd be right across the hall, and he'd be right there… it wouldn't even be difficult. They'd be right there. Just step inside, close the door, and pretend that it would all go away in the morning.
Once she scratched that itch, it would go away. Because that was how it worked.
Except that Emma wasn't an idiot, and that was never how it worked in any circumstances. If she let herself think about it for more than a second, she already knew better than to imagine that it would end there.
No, once she'd let herself go that far, it would only be a short step to scratching that itch any time that it, well… itched.
Her body ached at the sheer closeness. At the gentle scent of Craig Weston, a scent which could drive anyone wild.
The house wasn't far, which was great, because that meant that they'd be there all that much sooner. They'd get there, she'd get some funny looks, she'd have a lot of explaining to do…
But that didn't change anything. They already thought that. It didn't change anything at all. Except that then, she could take her empty cardboard box and Craig would leave and she could finally have a clear head and think about something other than what all those other girls must have felt when he was…
Emma blinked. No. Not thinking about it. Not imagining it. Not even a little bit. Her entire body tingled. She kept walking, pretending that it wasn't happening, because it wasn't.
She wasn't thinking anything. She wasn't imagining anything. She didn't want anything. She wasn't being tempted.
The sorority house was right around the corner. Five minutes, tops, and she'd have a clear head.
She took the steps two at a time. Craig came up behind a little slower. Then everything came crashing down in Emma's head at once.
What the fuck was she thinking?
"Okay, I'm here," she said. Her voice sounded strained. About as strained as she felt.
"I said I was carrying it, and I'm carrying it."
His hand touched her back and gave her a little push. The feeling of his hand, only a few small inches above her ass, sent a shiver through Emma like a bolt of lightning. It did nothing to help her relax, though, not even for an instant.
Instead, she only felt worse, only felt tighter and more stressed.
"No, I don't want anything weird to happen."
"It won't." He pushes a little harder, and Emma decides, like it or not, that he's not going to listen.
So. Deep breath, and pretend it's not all going to blow up in your face. Easy. She turns the handle and steps through.
"Hey, Em." It's Erin. Emma's face goes hotter than the time she got drunk on cider on her 21st birthday.
"Hi, Erin," she says. Emma can hear Craig step inside behind her, and she can see it on the faces of all the girls there.
"I got yo
ur notes for this week." Emma turns robotically and reaches into the box, pulls out a copy of the history notes. Just one more left. Jane's. She's not in the den, though, which means either she's out, or she's upstairs. The one place that Emma has no interest in going.
Or all of the interest in the world, which she's got no intention of following through on. One of those.
Erin's got a smile and a cocked eyebrow that's intended to send a message to everyone in the room.
"Hey, Craig," she says, softly.
"Hey yourself." Somehow, if it's even possible, Emma's blood pressure shoots higher still.
"Our Emma's a good girl, now. You watch yourself."
"I'll let her decide," he says. He doesn't seem to be feeling any of the pressure in the room, which is just about impossible to imagine. Because there's no way that anyone could possibly miss it.
Emma walks stiffly towards the stairs.
"Jane up here?"
"I think so," someone says. Emma walks upstairs. Craig, against Emma's better judgment, follows.
There's nothing unusual about the way that he's walking, but Emma seems extra-conscious of the sound of the stairs creaking beneath his feet as he comes up behind her.
The end of the hall. Just down to the end of the hall, and then he can leave. That's all she's ever wanted. Just a little bit of time to herself. A bit of time to herself, and then she can just. Disappear from the face of the earth, never to be seen again.
So that she doesn't have to answer any questions about what's just happened. Or why. Or face Erin's wry smile again. Or any of them.
She reaches into the box and pulls out the last packet, knocks on the door. Jane takes a second to open the door.
"I got your notes back from the printer," Emma says. Her voice is strained, but that only makes sense because she's about the most nervous she's ever been.
In spite of her hopes, Jane's eyes flick over to the side. Emma doesn't need to know what she's looking at, particularly when the same wry, knowing smile splits her face.
"Have fun, you two. And stay safe."
Emma's blood rushes to her face again. It feels like she's been blushing for most of the day at this point, and it's past the point where it hurts.