Living at the Frat House - A College Romance

Another good reason not to drink.

As I slowly make my way through people dancing and making out and playing various drinking games, I also keep an eye out for the proof that I’m supposed to collect. So far I don’t see anything that would qualify, but I’ll find something.

Nearing the back of the house, there’s a huge kitchen that’s exploded in bags of chips, cases of beer, and some hard liquor too. I barely hold off rolling my eyes. You would think these people were trying to drown themselves in alcohol.

There’s another guy who looks too comfortable not to live here, stuffing his face with Doritos. “I’m looking for Malcolm,” I say.

He turns and looks at me, and his eyes drop along my body. “Why?”

“That’s my business,” I say, plastering on that smile again.

He points to the left. “In there.”

I walk toward a set of closed double doors, and I ignore the guys sputtering protests behind me as I walk straight through into a room that is far, far quieter than the rest of the house. Six guys sit around a table, playing cards. They look up at me as one when I come through.

“Party is back out there,” one of them says.

“I’m looking for Malcolm,” I say, holding my ground. I didn’t expect for this room to be this intimidating. But for some reason, the sudden quiet from the music and their casual ease makes them seem less like college students and more like the mafia. Especially with the pile of money in the center of the table.

One guy—though “guy” doesn’t begin to describe the tall dark and handsomely chiseled man seated directly across from me—meets my eyes. “I’m Malcolm, and if you can’t tell, I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“I came to talk to you.”

He flips his cards over. “Pair of aces.”

“Dammit,” another one says. “Every time.”

Malcolm grins. “You have a tell.” Then he looks at me. “This is a private game. What do you want?”

“I came to pledge to Granite House.”

Immediately it feels like all air has been sucked out of the room. I expected… I don’t know what. Protests, maybe. Outrage, shock? Some of the guys look shocked, true. But Malcom? His face is unreadable.

They might have a tell in poker, but he sure doesn’t.

Malcolm glances around the table. “Give us a minute.”

The rest of the guys around the table get up and slip past me without another word. While they all file out, I get a chance to look at Malcolm. He’s a walking cologne ad. The kind that’s filmed in black and white while a perfectly chiseled shirtless man jumps into the ocean and comes up soaking and you’re left wondering what the hell he smells like.

He has sharp features and dark blue eyes that pierce me from across the room. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off powerful forearms, lined with veins that I want to trace. Run my fingers over. What would it feel like to touch him? I wonder. Which is crazy.

Get your head back in the game, Juno.

It takes a minute for all the guys to get out of the room, and that entire time Malcolm is watching me, unblinking. I can feel his gaze in an entirely different way than the other guys that have already looked me up and down. His eyes are sharp, at once looking like he wants to tear me apart and devour me. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing but seeing the intensity there makes me lose my breath.

When the door finally shuts behind me, he leans back in his chair, the perfect picture of feline grace. The position tightens his shirt and shows off the fact that the rest of his body matches those forearms.

“Run that by me again,” he says.

I clear my throat. “I want to pledge to Granite House. Join you all.”

“You want to live with a bunch of guys?”

“I want to be at the center of the action,” I lie. It’s a line I came up with beforehand because I’m a terrible liar if I’m not prepared. This one took some in-mirror reciting before my big entrance tonight.

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “This is a male-only house.”

I swallow, crossing my arms. “You’re not a fraternity. You can’t uphold that restriction, otherwise it’s discrimination against women.”

One eyebrow raises and with it my stomach clenches. I dig my own fingers into my arms to stop myself from shaking. A single lift of an eyebrow shouldn’t make me want to reach out and trace it. What the hell is wrong with me right now? “It’s for your own good,” he says.

I raise my chin. “I think I can decide for myself what’s good for me.”

He stands abruptly. “Can you?” He comes around the table. “You have to be a freshman, because you came to Granite House dressed like that. If you made that decision, you clearly don’t know what’s good for you.”