SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers 1)

“Come on, follow me,” the guy says, nodding his head in a direction that indicates a more private area.

I want to point out the fact that I asked him to go get me a shirt, not to take me to get one— but he’s already moving away, leaving me exposed and alone at the door. I chew my lip for a second— if I stay here, the rest of the partygoers are bound to remember me. Whatever, I think, as I hurry behind the stranger, up the steps, and into whatever fate awaits me on the second floor.

2

“This one is mine,” the guy says as he approaches a door. He didn’t look back at me once as he walked us to his room— he was totally confident I’d follow him.

I’d roll my eyes at his football-player-ness again, but I have to admit, I’m grateful to be away from the rest of the partygoers. It’s quiet up here, and the low lighting makes my head stop spinning. I hurry a few steps to catch up to the guy, who is opening the door to what I presume to be his bedroom. I pause at the door, wondering what my mom would say about me going into an upperclassman’s bedroom three weeks into my freshman year— and then actually laugh aloud at the idea that this guy would have any interest in me, the pizza-covered Papa Pig’s delivery girl.

“What?” the guy says, spinning around to face me. I’m in the doorway of his room, and his sudden concern startles me— he almost looks like he actually cares what I think.

And that is surprising.

“Nothing,” I say, “it’s nothing.”

“Okay…” he says, unconvinced. He walks over to a dresser and begins digging. I look around his room. It’s massive, and surprisingly tidy for a guy’s room. The bed isn’t made, but there aren’t piles of clothes laying around or ancient plates crusted with food— both of which, in my short time as a college student and delivery girl, I know are the norm for guys’ bedrooms. He’s got a handful of framed photos on his dresser, a pretty bare desk, and a Berkfield-colors rug on the floor. There’s a door that I suspect leads to a shared restroom, and tiny closet that has no door.

As my shock and embarrassment wears off slightly, I’m once again reminded that this guy isn’t just a big, tall, muscular football player.

He’s also objectively gorgeous. My mouth goes slightly dry and I tell myself I’m just overheating from my pig getup.

“Here you go,” he says, and pulls something from the drawer. “Take this one. It’ll be long enough to cover your shorts.” I think he’s going to toss me the green garment he’s pulled from the drawer, but instead he walks toward me and places it in my hands. I look down at it— it’s a football jersey.

“Don’t you need this for…football playing?” I ask.

“It’s not a real jersey. It’s one of the replicas for appearances and photoshoots and stuff.”

“Right,” I say, like I knew this was a thing.

“I’m Sebastian,” he says, as if I’d asked. I can tell he’s not entirely sure he needs to give me this information— most of the football players at Berkfield need no introduction, after all.

And I know I’ve heard that name somewhere. Sebastian.

But I don’t remember exactly how or why. I think he might be sort of a big deal here, but then again, I’m not really a sports fanatic like most of the other students around these parts.

“Ashlynn,” I say, and hold out my hand to shake his. It’s only once I’ve thrust my hand toward him that I realize it’s still pizza-covered. I flinch, but Sebastian simply looks amused, then takes my hand in his. His palm is so big my hand practically vanishes inside his.

As we touch, I notice a jolt of heat and electricity shooting directly up my palm and through my arm. It travels down my spine and suddenly I’m feeling a distinct tightening in my lower belly.

Like, very, very low down.

A tightening and a clenching.

I take a deep, steadying breath and swallow, licking my parched lips.

“The bathroom’s right there,” he says, motioning to the door I’d suspected was the restroom. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Thanks,” I say. Except, my hand is still in his, and for whatever reason, I’m not pulling away. It might be because his eyes are on mine, and they’re making me feel a little…hypnotized. It might be because he has such insanely piercing eyes, or that they’re so dark, or maybe it’s just because this guy— Sebastian— is the only seemingly decent person in this entire house— but I’m suddenly finding myself shaky with gratitude. The tears that had been threatening to fall due to the spiciness of pizza sauce are now actual tears over the fact that I’m covered in now-freezing pizza, that my boss is going to be furious, that I humiliated myself in front of two dozen beautiful people—