I’ve heard it all before.
I roll my eyes at his ridiculous statement. “No. It’s short for Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” His brows rise. “Charlotte.” He says it twice—first as a question, then as a statement—in his Southern burr, momentarily causing my insides to twist in the most inconvenient way. He isn’t just saying it. He’s saying it, hard, like it’s interesting and sexy—as if he’s never heard the name before, as if he loves it and is assigning it to me.
I ignore the spark shooting to my heart, tempted to swat it away as it lingers in the air, Savannah caught in the crossfire of our barbs.
He says it again. “Charlotte.”
“Yes, but no one calls me that.” Not anymore. Not since I was ten, when I went through my tomboy phase and hated everything feminine, including the color pink, doing my hair, cute clothes—and my own name.
That’s changed now that I’m grown, but the nickname has stuck.
“It’s pretty—way prettier than Charlie. Or Chuck.”
“Gee, thanks.”
His smile is patronizing. “My pleasure.”
Is he not picking up on my sarcasm? If he is, he’s damn good at hiding it. My eyes shift around him to the platinum blonde sitting in her car, waiting for him to return. Good. She can have him.
“Your harem awaits. Please don’t stand here in the road on my account, blocking more traffic while you try to bag another unsuspecting victim.”
“Charlie!” Savannah gasps, unused to any hostility from me. “Don’t be rude!”
Yeah, she’s definitely siding with the devil on this one, which surprises me. Savannah is single because she’s too picky; she wants a gentleman and a scholar, and those don’t seem to exist anymore. This guy? He doesn’t look like either, yet here she is, falling all over herself.
Drool is practically dripping from the side of her mouth.
“What!” I look to the guy for support; surely he’ll back me up since we do not like each other. “A little help here—tell her we don’t get along.”
“I think we’d get along just fine if you minded your manners.”
Oh no he did not just insult my manners.
“Stealing is minding your manners?”
His grin is wolf-like, bright white teeth vibrant in the dim light.
“Like taking candy from a baby.” With that, he saunters away.
I do want to apologize for the crap that’s flying out of my mouth, but not to Biff—no. I want to apologize to Savannah. I hate that she’s horrified by my behavior. Her jaw couldn’t have fallen any farther—she’s going to have to pick it up off the floor.
Honestly—what’s gotten into me? I’m not usually this big of an asshole. I guess seeing guys act like total scumbags pisses me off more than I ever thought it would. And now he’s trying to schmooze me? I don’t think so, pal.
What a dickhead.
“That was JJ Jennings.”
I do not care what his name is, but Savannah wants to prattle on about it.
“He’s one of the wide receivers on the football team.”
Yup. Don’t care.
“They call him Triple J,” she drones on.
“Is now a good time to point out that his name sounds like a dude ranch in Wyoming?”
“Can you be nice for five seconds?”
“Meh—don’t think so. That guy is a total ass.”
“You haven’t told me a damn thing, so I wouldn’t know—I only know what I’ve heard about him.”
“Which is what?”
“Let me google him, too.”
“He’s google-able?”
Savannah looks at me like I’m nuts. “Have you been under a rock? We go to a Big Ten school and he’s on the football team—of course you can google him. He’s probably going to enter the draft. They all do if they’re good enough.”
“Is he?”
“Jesus, Charlie. Get with the program.”
Sorry, but my eye tends to slide toward baseball players and guys who aren’t as bulky and huge. Less Hulk-like and more…intellectual. Funny and cute but smart.
JJ Jennings looks like he could bust through a wall in an action movie as a stunt double for The Rock.
“What does JJ stand for?”
Savannah’s head dips as she checks her phone. “Let me check.” She pauses for a brief second as her fingers fly over the screen of her cell phone. “Jackson Jennings Junior.” Another pause. “Well. That’s certainly a mouthful.”
“That’s certainly Southern.”
“Bless his heart.” Savannah laughs, and suddenly I find myself defending him.
“Hey, it’s not his fault he’s stuck with a terrible name.”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that,” Savannah demurs, shooting me side-eye. “For someone who hates the guy, you sure are—”
“Don’t say it.”
Savannah laughs, smacking me in the arm then reaching for the radio. “I can’t believe your radio has dials. This is so weird.”
Yeah—my radio has actual dials and only gets a grand total of eight FM stations, and it drives my friend crazy that she can’t connect her phone to my car. If I hear her bitch about it once a week, I hear it twice, but I’m the only one of us with a car, and beggars can’t be choosers.