that she’s up for slaughtering me for the greasy fry offensive. Okay, so it was most likely the lousy foreshadowing of all things matrimonial, but in my defense, I could swear on a stack of Bibles that I was right. Mrs. Axel Collins is alive and well in Hollow Brook, and she just so happens to be seated right across from me. “Three cheesy pick-up lines in a span of thirty seconds. Are you going for a record?” She gives a forced blink, so sharp it has the power to slice my balls off. “Let me guess. There’s a frat brat lurking out there with a stopwatch.” She glares accusingly at the crowd as if determined to confirm the stopwatch theory.
“Axel Collins.” I hold my hand out over the fries like a cholesterol-based peace offering. “And there’s not a single frat brat trained on us, I promise.”
She openly glowers at my hand as if it personally offended her, and judging by the track record I’ve accrued in this short span of time, it might have.
But then she relents, and her tiny hand is in mine for less than a moment. Tight, quick shake, nothing weak about it or her. She’s warm and soft, and like a pervert I memorize the feel of her skin.
She scowls at me as if I’ve just skinned a cat, then slides the fries back my way. “The only reason I’m not flipping this oil spill into your face is because you have an X in your name. We’re an exclusive club. Lex Ximena Maxfield. Triple X.” She pins a proud smile on her face that lasts less than a moment.
“Triple X.” I won’t lie—about a dozen triple X ideas just ran through my mind. “So Lex, huh? Short for Lexy?”
Her attention drifts back down to her laptop. “Short for Alexa. Go ahead and call me Lexy—see what happens.” It comes out like a threat, and in the few minutes I’ve known her I’d bet she’s more than capable of making good on those. I don’t dare test the waters. I opt for changing the subject instead.
“So whatcha doing? Working on a paper? Let me guess. 101? The English department at Briggs is a killer.” It’s a familiar move I’m employing, sizing her up. Is she cerebral? Obviously. My gut says English major, maybe liberal arts. But a Briggs girl? It’s up in the air. However, statistics tells me I’m about to find out. It’s an icebreaker I’ve used more than once, and more than once it’s unleashed a dam of information I wasn’t even trolling for. If it’s one thing I’ve discovered in my years of manipulating girls onto my mattress, it’s that they love to talk about themselves. Show an inch of interest, gain a world of knowledge, and most likely a bed partner for the next few hours.
“Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Her fingers continue to dance across her keyboard. “It’s research for a nutrition class. And I wouldn’t know about the English department at Whitney Briggs because I don’t go there. I’m at Barnes.” She collapses her laptop shut before leaning in just a hair, that rife anger still set in her eyes. A pulse of electricity bounces between us, boiling rage on her part, boiling lust on mine. “You know—the all-girls’ school down the road? The one where people of your genetic makeup aren’t wanted nor desired?”
A dull laugh rumbles through me. “Oh, sweetie, I’ve been desired and needed by a Barnes girl or two.” Something tells me I won’t be by this one, and in the mother of all ironies, I’ve never wanted a girl more.
Her shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Why are you still here?” She’s openly glaring with enough hostility you’d think I ran over her grandmother. “You’re not getting lucky, so scat,” she hisses it out as if trying to ward off a stray.
“So, you’re the infamous blue baller at Barnes,” I tease, taking a long swig of my beer, never once taking my eyes off hers, and the level of rage I’ve incited in her only makes me wrap a smile around the lip of the bottle. Her eyes enlarge the size of quarters, her cheeks slap pink, and that mouth. I’d love nothing more than to take a quick bite of those hot pink lips.
“Leave the table,” she seethes. “Walk out the door. Keep walking into the woods behind this dump and never come out.”
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Sorry this went sideways.