“Oddly enough, I didn’t imagine fucking you in an empty classroom when I boarded the plane,” Beck replies.

Oh, good. He’s lucid enough to employ sarcasm, while I’m a panting mess risking suspension or expulsion by fucking an internationally renowned athlete in what is, and I hope will remain, an empty classroom.

I fight through the Adler Beck haze. “Right. Because we never have sex. You tend to ask permission before giving me a goodnight kiss and use phrases like ‘Gosh darn, dear,’ too.”

Beck wrestles with a grin. His lips win. “‘Gosh darn, dear’?”

“I grew up in the South,” I snap. Heat is still racing through my veins with no other outlet. I yank my shirt down, and Beck makes himself presentable as well.

But we remain against that wall, just staring at each other. I re-memorize the way his face looks this close and in person.

The freckles scattered on his cheeks.

The faint scar slashing the edge of his left eyebrow.

The way the blue of his eyes grows lighter closer to the pupil.

It’s only when I recall the fact that I slept on the living room floor last night and got ready this morning in approximately five minutes that I jerk away from the wall to end his perusal of my appearance. It’s stupid. He knows what I look like, but I care what Adler Beck thinks of me, whether he finds me attractive.

I care a lot.

“We should keep going,” I tell him.

“Ja,” Beck agrees.

But he doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

“Okay,” I finally manage. “Let’s go.”

We head through the building, ending up back outside. This morning’s wind has dissipated, allowing for a little more warmth to permeate the air. I guide Beck through the rest of campus, and then we end up at the parking lot where I left my car.

Neither of us says anything on the drive. The tour served as some sort of unspoken truce between us. Now, I’m not sure how to bring up any of the heavier subjects hovering in the air.

The driveway is empty when I park in it, suggesting no one else is home. Beck trails me up the path and inside.

“Wow,” he remarks when we step inside the kitchen. The remnants of last night’s drunken slumber party combined with this morning’s hurried departure have made it a sight to behold. He picks up the half-empty tequila bottle. “Wild night?”

“Not by your standards.” I grab a few dirty glasses and set them in the sink to clear some counter space.

“You might be surprised,” Beck replies, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. “I haven’t been going out much.”