Even though I no longer think that’s precisely true, I don’t bother correcting him. I’m kind of wondering what his problem with Roan is anyway. It’s clear they don’t care for each other. I could sense it at that party a few weeks ago.
But I don’t want to talk about Roan King any more tonight. I’d rather have a nice evening with Finn and see where it takes us.
Chapter Eleven
Apparently someone enjoyed a pomegranate and berry smoothie today… thanks for the update Chad ;) We can always count on you to keep us in the know! KingOfCampus.com
Roan
“Hi,” I give the older woman sitting behind the front desk a full wattage smile, “is Ivy around?”
She blinks a few times before a cheeky grin pulls up the corners of her mouth. “Well, hello there, handsome.”
I can’t help but laugh in response.
Apparently wanting to get a better look at me, she leans across the front desk. Unabashedly her eyes take a leisure tour before coming back to rest on my face. “I know who you are.”
For just one ridiculous moment I wonder if Ivy has mentioned me to this woman. Don’t ask me why the notion of her talking about me sends a little thrill slicing clean through me, but it does.
“You’re Roan King. Wide receiver for the Barnett Bulldogs. I just read an article about you in the newspaper. First game of the season yesterday and you all but crushed Ohio.”
I smile even though something that feels suspiciously like disappointment careens through me. “Yep, the team is really gelling right now. Got ours eyes focused on winning games and working towards a championship.”
Still smiling, she shakes her head. “Can’t remember the last time there’s been so much buzz about the football team. You’ve got the whole city talking.”
Right… no pressure there. I continue smiling before clearing my throat. “So, Ivy…”
“Ah, yes, Ivy,” her mouth stretches into an even bigger grin, “she’s just finishing up with a ballet class.” She points towards a hallway with several doors. “Last studio on the left.”
Giving her another smile, I thank her before taking off down the hall. We agreed to meet at the library around one o’clock, but when I stopped over at the girls’ apartment this morning with Dylan, Lexie told me Ivy was teaching a few classes at the studio downtown. Apparently she usually walks to and from her job and since it’s about a mile from the apartment, I decided to swing by and pick her up so we can get right to work.
Because I know Ivy would shoot down any overtures I made, I didn’t bother asking.
That seems to be her usual MO where I’m concerned.
She clearly couldn’t care less that I’m Roan King. Barnett University’s very own golden boy. The wide receiver who’s looking to turn pro at the end of the year and has a damn good shot at going as a first round draft pick.
At least that’s what my agent keeps telling me.
So far, this girl has spilled her drink on me, tried to ditch me as a partner because she thinks I’m a complete dumbass, and shot down all my hook up attempts.
If I had any brains what so ever, I’d steer clear of Ivy Kaster. Unfortunately, I already know that’s not going to happen. As much as I hate to admit it, the girl totally intrigues me. The mere fact I’m standing right outside the studio she’s teaching in because I started feeling impatient to see her only slams that point home with a ruthlessness I wasn’t expecting.
I mean, what the hell is up with that?
Peeking in, I watch her leading class at the front of a mirrored room. Her fingers are wrapped around a wooden barre that sits about waist high and spans the entire wall. There are six little girls in pink leotards and tights standing alongside her. It’s apparent to even me that each and every one of them is trying to mimic exactly what she’s doing. And while they’re all wearing sheer little skirts, Ivy is wearing a black leotard without any skirt.
My mouth instantly dries as my eyes skim down her long lean length.
God… did I really think she wasn’t my type?
That she didn’t have any curves to speak of?
Because standing there in nothing but lycra and tights, with her hair pulled up into a tight bun on the top of her head, she couldn’t look any sexier if she tried. I listen intently as she instructs the class to follow her movements. The heels of her feet are pressed together as she bends at the knees and sinks gracefully to the floor. One arm is still holding the barre while the other is stretched out perfectly straight. The girls standing alongside her in a neat little row try to copy what she’s doing.