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He laughs, slowly kissing his way across my cheek and down my throat. “Come on, princess. I’m not taking your virginity in a closet.”
His words burst through the fog like a giant fireball, bringing me back to earth. Mortified, I drop my hands and step back. For a few blissful minutes, I’d let myself forget about the stakes in this messed-up competition.
He clearly hasn’t.
“Right.” My mouth goes dry. “Still a few rounds to go before that. I-I should check on Nicole. If she isn’t passed out in a corner, she’ll be wondering where I am.” I push past him and hurry down the hall, fleeing before the tears fall.
“Kennedy, wait.” He catches up, pulling me to a stop. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
I gaze up at him, blinking back tears. “What way did you mean it, then?”
“I don’t know.” Jordan stares at the ceiling for a long moment before locking his gaze on mine. “I like you. A lot. But . . .”
“But you still don’t want anything to do with the ‘get laid’ plan.”
Jordan lets out a breath, his shoulders deflating as he shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”
“I get it.” I will not cry. I will not cry. I. Will. Not. Cry. I force a smile before turning my back on him so I can breathe again. “I have to go.”
“But, princess”—Jordan’s determined voice freezes me in place—“if you insist on continuing with your mission, what choice do I have?”
17
Monday morning, Nicole summons me to the main dining hall, where I discover a giant hot-pink poster taped to the wall in the center of the food court, with Round Two Results scrawled across the top in black Sharpie and the remaining eight names—Elijah, Seth, Tyler, Caleb, David, Trey, Grant, and Jordan—listed directly beneath it. And the freaking betting odds for each of them down the side.
I snatch the ridiculous sign from the wall, crumpling it into a thick ball.
“Hey!” Nicole comes charging toward me, wielding a cream-cheese-slathered bagel. “I worked hard on that!”
“You put that up?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course.”
I drop the wadded poster board into the nearest trash can. “Why?”
“For everyone playing at home,” she says so casually, it almost seems normal.
“What does that even mean?” I narrow my eyes on her. “Who’s playing at home?”
Nicole darts her gaze around, landing on everything but my face. “Uh . . . no one?”
“Nicole!”
“Fine!” Her heavy exhale ruffles my hair. “As of this morning, the betting pool is up to fifteen hundred, give or take.”
“Dollars?”
“No. Pesos.” She laughs. “Yes, of course, dollars.”
“Are you serious?” I probe her eyes for the secrets of the universe, but all I find is a big fat mystery. “Why?”
“Because . . .” She draws out the word as if that’s answer enough all by itself, then groans when I don’t catch on. “Everyone’s invested in the ‘get laid’ plan! Face it, girlfriend, you’re front-page news! Well, you would be if CampusBuzz hadn’t flat out refused to publish the story. Too controversial,” she whines. “But you’re still big news. Hell, you’re even trending on socials!”
“Socials? As in plural?”
Nicole nods, picking at her bagel.
I groan. “Can’t I be invisible like the old days?”
