Greek (Palm South University)

Adam covers his mouth to keep from laughing, meanwhile looking around him for something to clean up.

“I just came back to change real quick. Some stupid freshman spilled her rum punch all over me.” Lindsey rolls her eyes, strips off her shirt and quickly replaces it with another. Her eyes find me then. “You coming?”

I swallow, hoping like hell I don’t have I just had phone sex with my boyfriend written all over my red face. “I’ll catch up, just finishing up some studying.”

Lindsey rolls her eyes. “You already got into your dream school, remember?” She checks the time on her phone. “If you’re not there in twenty minutes, I’m coming back and dragging your ass out of that bed.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before she flies out the door, and Adam howls with laughter as soon as she’s gone.

“That’s not funny, Adam! What if she would have been even sixty seconds earlier!”

“She would have had quite the view, and would have understood why I’m so obsessed with you.”

I narrow my eyes and flick him off, but then I’m laughing, too, relaxing back against the headboard again. My eyes soften, and Adam’s smile turns sad, too.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

“Miss you more.”

ANYONE WHO KNOWS ANYTHING about me knows that I don’t get nervous.

That word, that state of being? It doesn’t exist for me. Put me in the game with thirty seconds left and an impossible play to make. I’m your guy. Put me in front of a room full of angry fraternity brothers with the mission to get us all on the same page again. I’m your guy. Put me in front of the most drop-dead gorgeous and unobtainable woman in the world and watch me woo the panties right off her.

I’m. Your. Guy.

Nothing phases me — there’s no amount of pressure you could put on me that would make me feel anything but completely confident that I can do whatever the fuck I want to do or need to do to get the job done.

But they say when you graduate college, things change.

And boy, are they a changin’.

My palms are so slick I can barely hold onto the handle of the pan as I sauté the mushrooms for the recipe I picked out, and I can’t count the times I’ve double-checked that every candle is lit, that the flowers are in the perfect place, that my tie is on correctly, that the music is just the right volume. I also may or may not have restarted the album three times now, because the song I want playing when Erin gets here keeps coming on before she’s arrived.

There’s no denying it, no faking like I’m calm, cool, and collected.

Because Erin wants to have sex tonight.

And I have absolutely zero fucking chill about it.

It’s not like it will be our first time. No, our first time together consisted of entirely too much alcohol and a sorority formal that neither of us remembers. That night has a black ink smudge over it, and if you asked either of us what positions we were in or who came first, we’d have no answer.

All we know is we woke up naked in bed together, and not too long after, Erin found out she was pregnant.

So, clearly, we didn’t use protection.

My hand pauses mid-stir over the mushrooms, heart thrumming in my ears as I remember the choice Erin had to make. I can’t imagine what I would have done if I’d been in her shoes, and as much as it angered and upset me for a long time, now, all I have in my heart is respect for her.

And love.

God, I love that woman so much it burns me.

So no, it’s not our first time, but it’s the first time since mountains and mountains of shit piled up between us — pain and longing and miscommunication.

Plus, I’ll be the first man inside her since the ones who violated her, who took something from her she’ll never get back.

The memory of walking in on that scene, on seeing Erin with mascara marring her cheeks and her dress hiked up over her hips, those monsters prowling out of the room like they were kings instead of scum…

I nearly break the spatula in my hand, but shake off the thought before it can sweep me under, tapping the spatula on the edge of the pan. I set it to the side and mix in the heavy whipping cream and melty mozzarella cheese.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

Wiping my hands on the kitchen towel hanging from the stove, I fidget with my hair and my tie one last time, and then I swing my front door open, losing my breath at the sight of Erin on the other side of it.

She’s always beautiful. She’s always poised and classy, always naturally glowing — even in her worst moments. But tonight, there’s a sparkle behind that glow, a magnetic light in her eyes, a sensual smile on her soft pink lips that makes my rib cage squeeze tight around my lungs. Her hair is down and curled, the dark blonde tendrils flowing over her shoulders, and a pastel yellow sundress hugs her breasts, her waist, her hips, cutting off mid-thigh to reveal her tan legs and the nude heels strapped to her feet.