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His lips curve into a crooked smile. “I didn’t want to assume.”
“I thought you knew.” I inch forward until our noses touch and our breath mingles. “I pretty much always want you to kiss me.”
With one last glance at my lips, Jordan closes the distance, slanting his mouth over mine for a toe-curling kiss that ends way too soon.
“You’d better go.” He adjusts himself with a groan. “Before I kidnap you and drag you to my lair.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t mind being kidnapped. Is it a nice lair?” I gaze up at him from under my lashes. “Will you shackle me?”
Jordan’s eyes smolder as he gazes into mine. “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Keeping my naughty thoughts to myself, I collect my discarded bag and head into the dining hall with Jordan’s minty taste still fresh on my lips.
After wolfing down a muffin and a plain latte, I cut through the quad and nearly run into Ramsey Michelson, the wicked bitch of Zeta Nu. Instead of peppering me with clever insults, she smiles and waves.
“Hey, Kennedy!”
My jaw unhinges. She never says hi to me. Ever.
Anticipating the metaphorical knife in my back, I keep Ramsey in my sights until the moment she rounds the next corner. No sooner do I whip back around than my gaze lands squarely on the red-and-blue bullseye heading toward me from the opposite direction. The top half of the circle spells out Kennedy in red and the bottom half spells out President in blue, and smack-dab in the middle is a vintage black-and-white image of a smiling John F. Kennedy. I don’t recognize the brunette wearing it, but damn it, I recognize the shirt stretched across her impressive rack!
A sudden burst of anger wells up in me, and I stare daggers into her massive chest as she passes. Why is she wearing Jordan’s shirt? And how hard would it be to take it from her without losing an eye?
Fixated on the brunette, I barely notice Casey—one of my Delta Sig sisters—striding toward me wearing a Kennedy for President tee of her own. But the face staring back at me from her shirt is mine. What the hell?
Casey passes with a shy smile and a little wave.
I wave back in a daze as several more people—both men and women—pass me wearing matching Kennedy T-shirts—my face on display like the poster child for every virgin on campus.
I’m dreaming. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I contemplate pinching myself when a series of clicks goes off in front of me.
“Hey!” I confront the photographer. “What are you doing?”
The skinny, dark-haired guy blinks rapidly, as if he doesn’t understand the question. “Getting a picture for CampusBuzz?”
I vaguely remember seeing the guy at a frat party—or was it a basketball game?—but I can’t remember his name. David, or Doug, or something else with a D. “Why?”
His bewildered gaze morphs into a knowing smirk, and I can almost feel him undressing me in his mind.
“Go away.” Flicking her fingers in his direction, Nicole skips toward us. “Go take pictures of the women’s rugby team.”
He turns to walk away, then whips back. “We don’t have a women’s rugby team.”
“And why is that, Dylan? Hmm? Maybe you should write about that!” Nicole spins me away from the roving reporter. “I need to talk to you.”
“Good. I need to talk to you, too. What the hell’s going on with all the Kennedy for President T-shirts? Where did they come from? I almost scratched someone’s eyes out thinking—never mind what I was thinking.” I shake my head to clear it. “And why is Ramsey Michelson acting like she’s my new best friend?”
“Ramsey ‘Sas-Crotch’ Michelson?”
“Yes! Her.”
“That’s . . . weird.” Nicole scrolls through her phone. “Looks like Eve’s has a wider reach than I expected.”
“What do you mean?” I lean over her shoulder, but I can’t read the display. “Is that . . . ?”
Nicole flips her phone around so I can see the rows upon rows of Kennedy merchandise.
T-shirts - $19.99. Buttons - $5.99 to $9.99. Vibrators . . .
