Getting to know her had seemed harmless on Friday, but when I woke up the next day and skipped my usual morning run to wait around until it was an acceptable hour to text her . . . that’s when I realized what a monumentally bad idea contacting her again was.

I’d dragged myself out of the apartment for a run a few hours later than normal, when the sun was already breaking across the sky. As I mourned the cooler morning temperatures I usually had, I vowed that I wouldn’t contact her.

It was just a party hookup. I needed to leave it at that.

And yet here I am, ignoring a lecture in favor of looking at her last text.

How’s that list coming?

Bad. Very bad. Me, that is. Not the list. My list was still growing despite that vow I made on Saturday. How am I supposed to pay attention to a lecture over sustainability when my mind is full of all the mental images that text conjures?

I’d signed up for this environmental class because it was supposedly one of the easiest science credits, but it wouldn’t be a breeze if I didn’t pay attention at all. For me, especially. Nothing about school came easily to me.

But that text. I bite back a groan at the thought of her somewhere, maybe on her bed in her dorm, making a list of her own, contemplating the things she wants to do with me. It is entirely possible her list consists of things like going to dinner or a movie or for a romantic walk.

But there is also the possibility her list is a little more focused. A little more like mine, and if I’m not careful people are going to think I’m really passionate about the environment.

As soon as the professor dismisses us, I’m on my feet and heading for the door, and I know I’m gonna have to borrow someone else’s notes to catch up on what I missed today. Not a great way to start out the semester.

A run. That should help. I have a two-hour break for lunch on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, enough to give me time to eat and join at least part of the one-o’clock workout if I want. I don’t have to since I do the morning one, but it pays to put in the extra time, especially while the coaches are around to see you. Or that’s what I keep telling myself anyway. If I swing by the student center and grab a couple wraps to go, that will give me even more time.

That’s the plan, until I walk out of the environmental science and geology building at the same time that Dallas is walking in.

I grind to a halt in the doorway, and my grip is so hard on the doorknob, I’m surprised I don’t snap it off.

She speaks first.

“Hey.”

I clear my throat. It’s a sign of weakness, but I can’t help it. Ignoring her text message is one thing . . . Ignoring her in person isn’t something I can (or want) to do.

“Hey.” It comes out quietly, so low that I don’t even know if she heard me.

“Move, douche-bag! You’re blocking the door.”

I step out of the way, but that brings me closer to Dallas. She moves too, letting the line of people behind me exit first.

I stand there in silence for a few moments, fighting the urge to look at her, and I feel like such a f**king coward.

“Listen, I’m sorry I—”

She cuts me off. “ Remember that time you promised not to be a tool? You already screwed that up, but keep that promise in mind while you formulate whatever excuse you’re making up right now.”

Ouch. “I deserve that.”

It occurs to me in that moment that whatever reasons I have for staying away from her aren’t as good as the reasons for why I want to be around her. I like her. I need people in my life to tell it to me straight. I need a friend. Friends, really, but I’ve got to start somewhere. Life is a balance, and mine tends to fall heavily toward work with too little play. And of all the people I’ve met, she’s the only one I’ve met that could actually be that kind of friend.

“I am sorry I didn’t answer your text. I wanted to.” She’d never let me hear the end of it if she knew how often I’d typed out a reply only to delete it a few seconds later. “I just wasn’t sure how to answer it.”

“You didn’t seem to have any problem texting me Friday night.”

“Friday night, I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, bolting for the door even though there’s still a steady stream of people exiting.

I grab her elbow and pull her back. Her br**sts brush my chest for the barest second, and I fight the urge to suck in a breath. Her glare is ferocious, but I don’t drop her arm. I know she’ll be gone in two seconds flat if I do.

“I’ve got a lot of shit on my plate right now, Dallas. And I’m doing a piss-poor job of handling it.” Part of me thinks I should just man up and ask her to dinner. I could take a page from her book and tell her up front that I like her, want to date her even, but can’t handle a relationship. Maybe she’ll appreciate that. Or maybe she’ll see me as a massive waste of time. The other part of me knows that’s a terrible idea. Friends is all I can afford to be right now, but if I start by throwing out the I just want to be friends bomb, she might just slap me. After all, I was the one who pulled us firmly out of the friend zone on Friday night. I sigh and continue. “This isn’t the best time to talk about this, but I do want to talk about it. Are you free tonight?”

She hesitates and looks toward the doorway, which is now clear.

Before I can think too much about it, I take her jaw and pull her back to look at me again. “No excuses, I promise. I just want to tell you what I’m thinking. Honestly. And then we’ll figure out where we go from there.”

Damn. I shouldn’t have used the word we. That probably sends the wrong message, but her lips twist in that distracting way that she does when she’s thinking something through, and I don’t say anything else.

“Tonight?” She still looks unsure, but her shoulders have relaxed a little.

“I’ll come to your dorm. We can go for a walk.”

“It will have to be late. I’ve got plans for dinner. I should be back on campus by nine, though.”

My stomach twists, and I tell myself that it’s because I’m hungry, not because I’m bothered by the idea of her having dinner plans. I’m the one that’s going to drop the friend bomb. Maybe.

“Nine thirty, then. What dorm?”

“Schaefer.”

I still haven’t let go of her face, and I force my hand down by my side.