3
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to a small townhouse just off campus. There’s a porch light on and a Butler University baseball flag hanging out front. The ride here wasn’t too bad. Had to keep a steady pace and roll through a few stop signs, but otherwise, it was doable. Definitely not taking this breathing hunk of muscle onto any highways, though.
Alex unlocks the front door and walks us into the house. There is a pile of shoes just to the left of the door, and when he kicks off his camo freaking Crocs, I bend down and unlace my Docs. We bypass a staircase, walk down a short hallway, and enter a small living room. It’s pretty much what I was expecting. There’s a black couch and two recliners, and on the wall behind them is a Colts flag, a Bears flag, and another BU flag. A giant flat-screen TV is mounted on the opposite wall, and aside from a pop can, a few notebooks, and a laptop sitting on the coffee table, the place is clean.
“This way,” he says, and leads me around a corner into a tidy kitchen. There’s a blender and a few huge jars of protein powder on the counter next to the fridge, and several shaker bottles in the dish drying rack on the sink.
“You guys athletes?” I ask as he sets the grocery bag on the kitchen table.
“Oh, um, yeah,” he says, following my gaze to the supplement stuff on the counter, then pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “I have two roommates. They play baseball.”
“Where are they tonight? It’s a Sunday. Classes tomorrow.”
“They’re at the baseball house on campus. Sometimes they stay there.” He grabs a cupcake pan out of a lower cabinet and sets it on the counter, then bends back down and pulls out a KitchenAid stand mixer. I force myself to shut my gaping mouth.
It’s beautiful. Cobalt blue and shiny chrome. Probably new, from the looks of it. That’s like a four hundred dollar machine, right there. I was using a hand mixer I got at the Goodwill until like three weeks ago when I finally broke down and bought a cheap stand mixer from the Wal-Mart. I reach out and brush my hand over the mixer’s cool, blue surface.
“Nice, right?” Alex says, setting out a bottle of vegetable oil. “I just got it.”
“I’m so jealous right now,” I confess. “I could come just from touching it.”
He barks out a surprised laugh, and I flick my eyes to his.
“I’m not kidding. The one I have gets overheated if I use it for more than ten minutes at a time, and I can’t double recipes because the motor whines and jams up. This right here,” I pet the mixer again, “is fucking luxury.”
“Well then, I’m glad you came over tonight.” He slides the box of cake mix toward me. “What’s first?”
I crack the eggs in the mixing bowl, and Alex adds the vegetable oil. When he goes to measure out the water, I stop him.
“Let me,” I say, and take the measuring cup from him. I pour the juice from my jar of cherries into the measuring cup first, then fill it the rest of the way with water before dumping it in the bowl. “Now it’s better.” I smirk at him.
“I never would have thought to do that.”
I shrug. “I like to experiment.”
His smile grows wicked, and he steps toward me, so I’m pressed against the kitchen counter, before asking, “Do you like to experiment with other things too?”
Goosebumps prickle on my skin. I hold his eyes, bite my lower lip, and give him another shrug. “Maybe.” Then I brush past him and start opening cabinets. “I need a cutting board, a chef’s knife, a spoon, and a mixing bowl.”
He chuckles behind me. “Sure,” he says, and he gathers the items I requested.
While Alex sets the cupcake batter up on the beautiful KitchenAid mixer, I dump the jar of cherries on the cutting board, pop two in my mouth, and chop the rest. Then, I dump the chopped cherries into the other mixing bowl and add the jar of fudge frosting. I stir the cherries in until they’re perfectly blended.
“There,” I say, “now that’s better, too.”
“What if I’m allergic to cherries?” His voice is light, playful, and I scrunch up my nose.
“Are you?”
He shrugs, and I laugh. He’s full of shit.
After putting the cupcake pan in the oven and setting the timer, Alex turns to me and does that stupid thing with his hand on his neck that makes my tummy jump.
“Sooo, Sundance,” he drags out, “you wanna hang in my room while these bake?”
My lips twitch at the corners. I want so badly to laugh, but I manage to tame it to a small smile. How is this gorgeous, Thor-clone of a man adorably bashful right now? Confident in his Crocs, but shy as shit when trying to get a girl in his bedroom. So pure.