He’s always somehow totally put together and still manages to exude masculinity and panty melting prowess. It’s not fair for a guy to look so effortlessly handsome.

Joel Moreno. Valley basketball player – actually, scratch the first two words – he’s just an all-around player. And I can’t even blame him. If I were a guy and I looked like that, I’d be sleeping my way through coeds too.

What I wouldn’t give. I resist making that “mm-hmm” noise guys make when they see a girl that they think is super hot. That noise is exactly how I feel.

Look, I haven’t had sex in four years.

That’s right. Four years. Oh, and the last time I had sex, I got pregnant. Good times. That’ll make you trigger happy. And leave you with a present that scares off guys in their twenties forever after.

I give in and meet his gaze which I regret immediately because his grin grows impossibly wider and mocking. I don’t have to look around to know every eye in University Hall has turned in his direction. He’s a magnet.

I straighten behind the counter of the university café and busy my hands by retying the blue apron around my waist. My body overheats as he walks closer. Even if I were blind, I think his presence would fire every neuron in my brain and alert me to the danger. Because that’s exactly what this guy is – dangerous.

He doesn’t say a word as he steps up to the register and places a hand on the counter.

Looking at his chin, I say, “Hi, what can I get for you?”

“Ah, don’t be like that Kitty, you know how I like it.”

Always Kitty, never Katrina or even Kat. The nickname should rankle. It should, but it doesn’t. There’s something about the way he says it like he knows it’s ridiculous and he just wants to get a rise out of me.

When I don’t acknowledge his comment – and yes, I know exactly how he likes it – tall, cream, two sugars, and a side of tits and ass to go, he speaks his order, “Tall house roast with cream and two sugars.”

Wordlessly I grab a cup and fill it with coffee, leaving an inch for the creamer and sugar I add next. I know he’s staring at me as I complete the task and I know when I turn around it’ll be appreciation I see in his eyes. That look gets me through the week.

When I turn, his dark eyes lift slowly until he’s studying my face.

“Anything else?”

“How about dinner tonight, Kitty?”

Direct and to the point. Interesting approach. I’ve gotta give it to him he’s been far more persistent than I ever predicted. My heart thumps rapidly against my brain’s better judgment. My body sings, but I lift one shoulder noncommittally. “Sorry, not interested.”

We play this game every week. He hits on me and I turn him down. He thinks we’re playing the longest game of hard-to-get ever.