“I’m Brandon,” the lead guy says when I don’t provide my name. “Chemical engineering. My dad’s got a job waiting for me at a big oil company, which means I’m not worried about my grades. The only thing I need to do is spend the next four years having the time of my life.”

I know better than to respond to him. He’s trolling me. Even if he’s also telling the truth, he wants a reaction. And unfortunately, I give it to him. “What a waste. Do you know some people would kill for your chance to attend college?”

He grins. “I know, I know. I’m a lucky bastard.”

I shake my head. As annoying as he is, there is something actually charming about his oversized confidence. I find myself reluctantly amused. “Well, I can only hope that the chemical engineering professors make your life hell.”

He leans forward. Challenge bright in his eyes. “Maybe you can make my life hell, sweetheart. I have an opening for a girlfriend and it looks like you have an opening for a boyfriend.”

“She doesn’t,” comes a low voice. Beau strides up to the table. He doesn’t pause.

He’s taller than Brandon, wider, stronger, but I’m not sure that’s really why Brandon scoots off the chair. It’s more about the fierceness of his expression, the certainty that he would win in a fight, even with Brandon’s friends to help him.

Beau takes his seat with ease, a look of warning for each of the guys. “She’s taken,” he says. “Now get the hell away from her.”

The other guys scatter faster than I can blink. Brandon gives Beau a fake salute before heading out. I watch them jostle people at the bar, muscling other guys out of their way.

Bullies, basically. That’s what they are.

“Sorry about that,” Beau says. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

“I handled myself,” I tell him. “But you don’t want to drink out of that beer bottle.” I slide over mine. “You can have this one. I can’t stand the taste.”

The corner of his mouth flicks up. “I have no doubt that you can handle yourself, but you shouldn’t have to.”

“Because I have you to protect me? I should be able to protect myself. You can’t be around me every second of every day.”

“Can’t I?” he asks as if it was a challenge I threw down.

“No,” I say. “You can’t. I’m not going to go to in-person classes. I’m going to do correspondence classes, but even so I’ll have to come here sometimes for meetings, for labs, for study groups. And you can’t follow me around as if you don’t trust me.”