He looks up at me with a questioning expression. He doesn’t even know who I am. But I know him.

Austin Jacobs, hot jock and sex god.

I’ve been sort of stalking him for a week now. There are no voodoo dolls or Photoshopped wedding photos in my apartment. I’m a little nuts and a lot weird, but I’m not full-on Fatal Attraction crazy. I trolled his social media and watched him studying here a couple of times. Nothing restraining-order-worthy. I might have also read every one of his scoreyourscore.com reviews. A few times. Maybe more than a few times. The boy’s got skills and he’s not shy about using them.

It was all data collection. For science. Or so I keep telling myself now that Austin stars in all my personal fantasies. Tedious hours spent poring over what Jackie has dubbed my ‘devirginizer’ spreadsheet all point to him as the ideal candidate. He’s gorgeous, chronically single, selfless in bed, doesn’t kiss and tell and is financially anemic. He’s on a football scholarship, but has to work a couple nights a week too.

Five minutes ago, positive he’s the one, I dove headfirst into the deep-end of my own stupidity. Now, with his inquisitive eyes staring back at me like I have a giant rhinestone dildo sticking out of my forehead, I’m drowning. I wish I were back in the shallow end of the social pool with the rest of the rejects, stupid yellow floaties on my arms and all.

This has got to be the worst idea I’ve ever had. And that’s really saying something. I once cut my own bangs after watching a YouTube video. Lots of hats that summer.

My brain shouts at me to say something and I wonder how long it’s actually been since I sat down. I think it’s just a few seconds, but I space out when I get nervous. And sitting across from Austin is more than enough to make me as edgy as a frat boy at a DUI checkpoint on a Friday night.

Austin is six feet two inches of the all-American dream. Dirty-blond hair, crystal-blue eyes, pearly-white smile, lean muscles and a deep tan across his athletic body from all those football practices in the sun. He could have given Mother Teresa impure thoughts.

“Strategic Management Sixth Edition.” At a loss for my own words, I read out the title of his textbook. “Good choice. I hear the first five editions were garbage. All strategy and no management,” I deadpan, hoping to break the ice.

He doesn’t appreciate the joke. He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even move, but he’s staring at me. Those baby blues are filled with wonder.

Wonder is too benevolent a word.

Not curiosity either.

Confusion.

Yep. That’s it.

Maybe a bit of annoyance too.

I certainly know how to make a great first impression.

“That was a joke.” I try to talk my way out of the discomfort his constant gaze and my continued idiocy are causing. “You know? Ha ha?”