Page 10 of False Catch

"Protective?"

The word hangs between us for a moment. There's something in his tone I can't quite read.

"Something like that."

He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder with fluid grace. "Well, I'll let you get to them. See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," I confirm.

He leaves first, and I take a moment to check my phone. Seventeen messages. The last one is from Bo: I'm outside your building.

Sure enough, when I exit onto the main quad, Bo is leaning against a tree about twenty feet from the door. He straightens when he sees me, that Southern sunshine smile warming his features.

"Hey, sunshine. Thought you might want company to lunch."

"You didn't have to come get me."

"Wanted to." He falls into step beside me, close enough that our arms brush. "How was class?"

"Fine. Got assigned a semester project."

"Yeah? Who's your partner?"

I hesitate for a fraction of a second. "Quinton Whitmore."

Bo's expression doesn't change, but I feel him tense slightly. "The lacrosse guy?"

"You know him?"

"Of him. Gray's mentioned him a few times." Bo's voice is carefully neutral, but I've learned to read the subtle shifts in his tone. "You'll be working together a lot?"

"It's a major assignment, so yeah."

"Hmm."

We walk in silence for a moment. Around us, campus life continues as normal. Students sprawled on the grass studying, a frisbee game happening on the lawn, the distant sound of someone practicing violin. It all seems so separate from the bubble of complexity the team and I exist in now.

"You don't have to worry," I say quietly. "He's just a project partner."

Bo looks down at me, and something in his expression makes my chest tight. "I know. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Come on, Zane made pasta. Claims it's a family recipe, but I'm pretty sure he got it off the internet."

As we head toward the team house, I glance back toward the business building. For just a moment, I could swear I see someone watching from one of the upper windows. But when I look again, there's no one there.

My phone buzzes one more time. A text from an unknown number: Hey, this is Quinton. Got your number from the class roster. Looking forward to working together.

It's perfectly professional. Totally appropriate. So why does something about it make the hair on the back of my neck stand up?

I delete the notification and follow Bo inside, where the chaos of eight Alphas attempting to serve lunch drowns out the quiet unease settling in my stomach.

"Who made garlic bread?" Tyler asks, examining a somewhat charred piece of bread.

"That would be Jackson's contribution," Eli says dryly.

Jackson grunts from where he's slouched against the counter. "It's rustic."