Plus, the sooner I finished with Shell, the sooner I could . . .
I frowned. What? Finish with Blake? Is that what I wanted? My teeth chewed the straw in my smoothie until it was useless.
“Can I get you guys anything else?” Tom referenced both of us. He used plural references and all, but he was completely ignoring my existence, his lazy-ass brown eyes fully focused in on Shell.
“Actually”—Shell yawned, stretching her arms above her neck and, like instructed, starting to massage the back of her neck—“I don’t suppose you moonlight as a massage therapist?”
Well done. The line was delivered perfectly, like it had been rehearsed, which it was, considering the first four times she repeated it back to me she’d stuttered and nearly shouted “massage therapist,” then snorted with a nervous laugh. I hid my smile behind my pen as I scribbled down more nonsense about business ethics. The irony wasn’t lost on me, believe me.
Tom smiled brightly. “No, but I’m still good with my hands.”
I glanced up at his weak-looking hands. Doubtful, very doubtful, man. I was pretty sure, given the chance to rock her world with said hands, she’d most likely cross things off her grocery list while he still fumbled to get a rise out of her.
Tom moved his hands to her neck and started massaging while Shell glanced up at me behind her long bangs and mouthed Yay!
I pretended to be too immersed in my studying to care.
Tom inched his way closer to her body, his chest pressed against her back. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “I’m clearing your schedule.”
“You’re clearing it?” Shell said, sounding surprised. “I don’t understand.”
“Look at him.” I knew I was the “him” he was referencing. “I’m all over you, and he doesn’t even care.”
He was right. I cared more about the cramp in my hand from writing and the ache in my back from hunching over my book.
“Shh.” Shell shushed him. “He’s really great when you get to know him, and—”
Showtime.
“Shell,” I barked. “Let’s go.”
I stood and started gathering my stuff.
“What if she doesn’t wanna go with you?” Tom crossed his arms, just as expected, and his protective stance said it all: Touch her and I’m going to rip your head off. Or in his case, he’d conduct a poetry slam and use his words, because violence was so uncool. World peace. Save the whales. Soy milk. The end.
“Shell”—I furrowed my brows—“what’s going on here?”
She stood on wobbly legs. “Ian, it’s fine, we should go and—”
“Shell!” Tom grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her protectively into his embrace. “He’s your study partner, not your boyfriend.”
“Actually . . .” I smirked.
Tom’s face turned a funny shade of purple. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore what?” Damn, my back ached. Why did it always take the guys this long to stake their claim? To finally plow the land, plant the flag, and sing the victory song.
His eyes darted between Shell’s and mine.
And then the anger disappeared. There we go. In, three, two, one.
“Shell.” Tom grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward him. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”
Thank God, a confession!
“Remember when you used to always order coffee but never tried it with a splash of milk and honey?”
And there’s my exit. Someone save me from the “I’ve finally discovered it’s been you all along” speech.
She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes.
“And when you stayed really late, fell asleep on your book, and I woke you up and you said—”
“Just one more cup!”
They laughed in unison.
Holy shit, pretending to be pissed was hard when I was on the verge of getting a headache as they traveled down courtship memory lane.
“He doesn’t even know you like I do.” He pulled her closer to his chest, his hands twisting around hers like his fingers were trying to mate with her palms. “Leave him.”
Yes. Please. For the love of God. Leave me.
To her credit, Shell pretended to look torn as she lowered her head and then very slowly said, “Ian, I think you should go.”
Triumph crossed Tom’s features.
Victory pounded in my chest.
And so the last round went to Tom . . . The last round always went to the guy unless the computer program said the guy was a complete douche. But the program, so far, had been flawless in helping us separate the winners from the losers. And as much as Tom irritated me, I knew deep down he really cared for Shell, and that if they made it through the next few months, they’d most likely get married in a year or so. They were both immature freshmen, both selfish, and it made sense that it took a while for them to actually get over their own insecurities before they could be good together.
Six days in.
And Shell had her man.
“If this is what you want,” I said to Shell, picking up my books and stuffing them in my shoulder bag, “then I won’t stand in your way. Just remember, I’ll be here when this douche drops you, which”—I eyed him up and down in challenge—“he will.”
“You need to leave.” He gripped her harder, tighter, his eyes possessive, furious. “Now.”
And sealed.