“You must be more than a pretty face if you’re studying that.” I had taken microeconomics last spring as part of my breadth requirement for journalism, and it was like a full-on foreign language to me. Production and pricing decisions, market outcomes, consumer theory. I had barely maintained my 4.0 that semester.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I barely knew what economics was when I chose it. I did an internet search for the top five majors with the fewest papers, and here we are.”

“Shut up. You did not.” He probably did.

“Sure did,” he said. “Math isn’t hard. It’s all the reading and writing crap that gets me.”

“Crap?” I gasped, placing a hand on my chest. “Blasphemy. You’re talking to a writer, you know. That’s my bread and butter.”

“It just doesn’t come easily for me, and I have a low tolerance for frustration.”

“You don’t say.”

He grabbed a new pencil from cup on his desk and tossed it in the air before catching it easily. “Lucky for me, I have you to help me with that stuff now.”

“Oh, this isn’t a permanent tutoring arrangement.”

“Of course it is.” He shot me a lopsided smile. The room got ten degrees warmer, and my heart picked up speed.

“Finish the essay, Carter.” Fighting a smile, I shook my head and returned my attention to my notes. Or tried to, anyway, because the tension in the room had suddenly grown heavy. Palpable. Suggestive.

Instead, he stood and came to sit beside me, the bed sinking under his weight. I could smell the fresh mint on his breath, feel the warmth of his body. His cologne, mingled with soap and laundry detergent, formed some kind of heavenly mixture that should have also fallen into the controlled weapon category.

“So when are you going to come see me play?” His arm brushed against mine, skin against skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

I glanced up at him, finding his dark eyes serious and watchful. “What are you talking about? I’ve seen you play plenty of times.”

“Yeah, but when are you going to come and cheer for me?” His mouth tugged into a boyish grin.

Who could say no to that? Not a single straight woman alive.

It was the flirting equivalent of a trick shot.

“You could sit with Shiv,” he added softly, nudging me with his elbow. “You know, on a night we’re playing someone else.”

It would have to be. Watching Chase play against Callingwood would be way too uncomfortable; imagining it brought up all sorts of mixed feelings. I was loyal to a fault, but after everything that had happened lately, maybe my loyalty had been misguided.

Everything I thought I’d known was slowly unraveling. Or not so slowly, when it came to him.