I expect him to laugh, but instead he nods encouragingly. “I can see you doing that.”
“What’s that mean?”
He shrugs and pops a queso-laden chip into his mouth. “You just seem the type. Like you’d enjoy helping people.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask, taking a chip for myself. “Oh my God. This is... whoa.”
“Right? Told you.”
We eat in silence for a few moments, my question seemingly forgotten. Or so I thought, until Sterling says, “No, it’s not a bad thing. It’s refreshing, if I’m honest. It’s rare to see such selflessness.”
Even though his words are most likely nothing more than spoon-fed bullshit, I still feel my cheeks heat all the same.
I only thought my brain and body were at war before, but that was merely a battle. This, him treating me with kindness, this is the war—and I’m going to have to be extra careful spending time with him if I want to emerge the victor.
We exchange silly, inconsequential stories as we eat, and the entire time, I’m struck by how absolutely normal it feels. Then again, he’s probably playing me for all I’m worth. Though, joke’s on him there, because after the abuse I suffered at his best friend’s hands, I’m not worth all that much.
Much to my surprise, and despite my protests to cover my portion, Sterling insists on footing the bill for our meal. “It’s the least I owe you after the way I’ve treated you,” he says, sounding so sincere I find myself wanting to believe he really is capable of kindness.
But I know better.
“Can’t argue with that,” I concede, because a free meal is a free meal.
Even though I have a sizeable inheritance from my father, I try to live frugally, preferring to squirrel most of my funds away for my future. Lord knows my mother doesn’t offer support of any kind to me, especially financial support.
I was prepared to pay out of pocket for an in-state school, but then I was offered a full-ride here, and I leaped at the chance to escape.
So, yeah, I’ll take a free meal.
“Ready to head back?” he asks as he signs the receipt with a flourish.
“I guess so.” I push back from the table. “After all, I have some reading to catch up on.”
For a split second, he looks taken aback by my casual joking over his deception. But in the blink of an eye, he schools his features. “I suppose you do. C’mon.” He gestures for me to walk ahead of him, but as I pass him, he presses a hand to the small of my back and falls in step beside me.
His palm may as well be a brand on my skin, painfully hot, singeing my skin through the material of my sweater. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to acknowledge that his touch is affecting me.
He keeps his hand on me the entire walk back to his car, and even opens the door for me, waiting patiently while I buckle before rounding the hood to the driver’s side.
This gentleman act of his is so convincing, it’s a miracle he’s not majoring in acting. The thought gives me pause, because what is Sterling majoring in?
“That’s a complicated question,” he says, shocking me out of my musings.
“What is?”
“What I’m majoring in.” He presses the start button and checks his mirrors before smoothly reversing out of our parking spot.
“I asked that out loud?”
He chuckles under his breath. “Sure did.”
“Oh.” I duck my head. “Well, tell me.”
“I’m finishing B school right now.” At my blank stare he continues, “Getting an MBA.”
“And you’re TA-ing my psych class why?”
He shoots me a cocky grin as he expertly navigates the winding mountain roads. “Simple. I’m the best student the department ever had.”
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. Bet you didn’t know there was more to me than good looks, huh?”
I snort out a laugh. “Actually, I never realized there was more to you than sharp barbs.”
“Funny girl.”
“I think so.” I lean back against the seat and roll my head to the left to look at him. His profile is so stupidly handsome it sends a rush of flutters through me. “What are you doing with your degrees?”
He sighs. “I’ll join dear old mom and dad in the family business.”
I blanch at the mention of his parents. Rob lawyered up when I came forward against him, and Mr. Abbot ruthlessly represented him.
Thank God we never went before any kind of judge, mostly because my mom told everyone I was a liar with an overactive imagination. But I don’t doubt for a second that he would have annihilated me in a courtroom.
“Right. Why aren’t you in law school then?”
“That’s a good question,” is all he says before changing the subject. “Are you going to the football game this weekend?”
I want to poke and prod him for a truthful answer, but I let it go. “Yeah, we’re going to watch Gabe.”