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Nicole shows me the clipboard. “I’ve signed up almost thirty already.”
I dart my gaze from the sign-up page to the line now snaking around the building. “Thirty?”
She nods. “Almost.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Half an hour.”
“Let me see that.” I grab the clipboard and skim down the list. Both Tyler and Caleb signed up. So did Elijah, Trey, and much to my disappointment . . . “You let Aaron sign up? And Lucas?”
“Hey, they qualified based on your stringent criteria.”
Which means they’re both of legal age and enrolled at Springer University. So far those are the only qualifiers we included for round one. I groan. Why did I agree to this? And why do I suddenly feel like the virgin sacrifice? All we need now is a volcano.
She takes the clipboard and waves me aside so the next person in line can step forward. Despite my personal preferences, he’s another bulky blond football player with a buzz cut. When we discussed everything last night, Nicole assured me I’d have an opportunity to pare down the list after the first round, but I can’t help thinking it’ll be torture even pretending to consider guys I’m not remotely interested in.
While Nicole signs up prospective gardeners, someone clears their throat behind me. I glance over my shoulder, and my mouth drops open. Wearing a pair of tight red leather pants and the same black Sex Pistols T-shirt he wore Saturday—sparkly pink nail tracks and all—Jordan Keller narrows his eyes, studying me without saying a word.
“What?”
His mask slips for half a second, and his expression goes from deeply offended to something I can’t quite interpret. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was sad. “You’re actually going through with it?”
“Going through with what?” I follow his gaze to Nicole’s clipboard. “You mean that?” I know exactly what he means, but I can’t say the words.
“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “That.”
Somehow, he shoves his hands into his front pockets without completely cutting off his circulation.
“I’m guessing that look means you didn’t sign up.” My eyes dart to his zipper before I can stop myself.
Jordan laughs, but judging by the sound, he’s anything but amused. “Sorry, princess, I don’t want any part of your stupid game.”
“It’s not a game.” I glance to where Nicole signs up another prospective sexual partner for me and . . . Did she just give him a name tag? “It wasn’t supposed to be a game. But either way, how is that any of your business?”
“I guess it isn’t.” He shakes his head, hiding behind his mask again before turning and stalking toward the quad.
Fifteen minutes later, Nicole passes me off to two guys I’ve never spoken to before—Jake and Eric, according to their name tags—to walk me to my first class. Below their name, Nicole has scrawled out a number. I’m assuming that represents their spot on the sign-up sheet. If that’s true, a hell of a lot more than thirty guys are on that list now.
The two boys flank me as we stroll at a leisurely pace toward Spangler Hall.
“So, Kennedy.” Jake flashes a sly grin. “Can I call you Kenny?”
“No.” I bark out a laugh, making Eric snort and Jake’s face fall. “Sorry. I don’t like nicknames.”
You don’t mind “princess.” My subconscious calls me out on my hypocrisy, and I mentally roll my eyes.
“Okay, no nicknames.” Eric shoots Jake a smirk. “What about music? You have a favorite band?”
“Uh . . .” I draw a blank until an image of Jordan’s T-shirt pops into my head. “The Sex Pistols?”
Jake snickers. “You sure about that?”
It takes a second for the question to sink in, but when it does, I realize I’m telling the truth. It never occurred to me before, but I do like a lot of the same music as Jordan. “I am.”
Eric nods his appreciation. “Old school, huh?”
Humming in the affirmative, as if paying attention to a word Eric’s saying, I replay my last interaction with Jordan. He said he wanted nothing to do with my stupid game. If he hates me that much, why did he keep the ruined shirt? Was it to mock me? Or did he have some other mysterious motive?
