The Junior (College Years 3)

“Were you sleeping?” she asks as she takes me in.

“Trying to,” I admit. May as well keep it honest between us.

“Oh.” She leans against the doorjamb, still watching me. Making me feel a little weird having her stare at me while I’m sitting in bed with just my boxers on. At least my comforter is draped over my lap so she can’t see anything. Not that I’m ashamed or whatever, but I gotta keep the mystery going, ya know? “Can I talk to you? It can wait if you’re too tired.”

“No, come in. Sit down.” I wave a hand toward my empty desk chair before I lean over and click on the lamp on my bedside table.

She glances around my room when the light switches on, curiosity all over her pretty face. She’s taking it all in while I sit up in bed with a yawn, covering my mouth at the last second when I feel her gaze land on me.

“Your room is clean,” she says, sounding surprised.

“I’m not a complete slob.”

“No, you’re not.” She settles into the chair, her gaze never straying from mine. It’s like she’s looking into my eyes on purpose. As if she can’t look at anything else for fear of being distracted. Or maybe that’s me being hopeful that my bare chest gets her going. “I need to talk to you about something.”

I brace myself, prepared for the worst. Girls make statements like that, and it always brings bad news. Something I don’t want or need. “What is it?” I ask warily.

“Well, I got a job.” She leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and my gaze drops—directly to her tits. Not that they’re hanging out, but she does have a tank top on, and I can see the smooth skin of her chest, the pale pink lace of her bra, and the swell of her breasts against the lace.

Jerking my gaze from her chest, I stare into her eyes, checking for anger.

She doesn’t look angry. Nope, she looks…nervous?

Huh.

“Where at?” I ask, my imagination going wild. Maybe she’s going to work at a dispensary and has to warn me she can’t give her friends discounts no matter how much I beg—because that would be cool, having a dispensary discount for weed.

Or fuck, maybe it’s something worse. Maybe she’s going to become a drug runner or some shit. Talk about risky—Gracie wouldn’t do that. Oh wait, what if she’s about to drop the bomb that she’s gonna be a stripper? Girl could totally pull it off. I can only imagine her strutting out on a little stage in fuck me shoes with crystal stars covering her titties—

“Mitchell’s Landing,” she answers, ruining all the crazy possibilities running through my head.

“What? Get out of here. You’re going to work at the fountain, huh

?” Looks like she’s coming over to my turf, and I don’t have a problem with it. My first couple of summers working at Mitchell’s, I messed around with a lot of the fountain girls that worked there at the time. Too many of them, really.

After the end of my second summer—and an epic blowup between me and one of the girls, who just so happened to be a year older and taught me everything I needed to know about going down on a girl—I vowed to never mess around with someone I work with ever again. Even though there’s quite a bit of distance between the dock and the restaurant, it’s not enough when you got a pissed-off girl gunning for you every chance she gets.

Yeah. No more work hookups. They end in disaster.

“No, not the fountain.” Gracie slowly shakes her head, her gaze dropping to my chest. “On the dock,” she tells my abs.

Oh shit. “You’re going to be a dock girl?”

She rolls her eyes. “That is such an antiquated term. Isn’t there something better you can call my position?”

See how fired up she gets when I just make a simple statement? She’s got it out for me, I swear. Having her work with me is even more of a deterrent to not get with her. I don’t need Gracie going into ferocious beast-mode and come gunning for me. “That’s what we call all the girls who work on the dock.”

“And what do they call you guys? The dock boys?” She lifts a brow and crosses her arms, on the defensive.

“Well…yeah.”

She drops her arms to her sides, her face falling. Reminding me of a deflated balloon. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” I scratch my chest, Gracie’s eyes following every movement of my hand. Hmm. “That’s cool, though. I can help you out with anything you need to know.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks,” she says, and I can tell she means it. I mean it too. I may give her endless shit, but I also like her. Gracie’s cool. She’s a straight up G—that’s what we like to call her, and she acts like it annoys her when we say that, but I don’t believe it. She has a good attitude and tolerates all of us, and we’re not easy. “I just—I wanted to tell you before you found out by me just showing up in a few days without warning.”

“That would’ve been a trip,” I say in agreement.