Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I curled my hand into a fist to keep from touching him when a stray lock fell over his forehead, shielding his eyes. Nope. I couldn’t do it. I pushed his hair back and straightened his glasses.
“You’re changing the rules, Christopher,” I hummed. “You built a fort, not an office cubicle. And forts are cool. In fact, I love forts, but I’m not sure how my professor will feel about it.”
“What professor?” He choked before continuing in a businesslike tone. “Oh, right. No problem. Just turn off your camera.”
“Great idea, but I don’t think we need all this.” I plucked off the top two pillows and tossed them over my shoulder.
“Wait! You can’t do that.”
The note of panic in his voice stopped me. I put my hands up in surrender. “Okay. We’ll leave it. Now what?”
“Um. Well, if you put your computer on the coffee table in the middle, we can both see the screen.”
I nodded. “It’s almost nine. Let’s get started.”
I sat on the edge of the cushion beside the fortress wall, pulled my laptop from my bag, and took a few minutes to log in to my class while I wracked my brain trying to figure him out. One of the many things I’d learned playing football was that you couldn’t force a play. You could plan and strategize, but if the other team had a strong defense, you might be shit out of luck.
Like now.
I hadn’t come with a big agenda in mind, but I definitely hadn’t expected a pillow fort. I stifled an amused huff as I leaned forward to adjust the volume just as the professor greeted her online students in a monotone voice.
“Today, we’re going to talk about the biological factors that influence humans and non-primates and…”
“This should be fascinating,” Topher said.
I braced my elbows on my knees and sighed. “Oh, boy.”
I did my best to pay attention, but twenty minutes into the lecture, I gave up. The classification of living organisms was a yawner. I was more interested in the guy on the other side of the pillows. I stole a few peeks his way and had to smile. Topher was…adorkably intense.
He kept his gaze locked on the computer, manically scribbling notes with his head cocked and his tongue out in what I recognized as his “in the zone” look.
That was a good feeling.
I’d felt that way on the field, poised and ready to run like lightning the second the whistle blew. It hadn’t mattered if I was my quarterback’s target. Being prepared, alert, agile, and aware made any play possible. I’d been an expert at tuning out static and concentrating on the job at hand—no matter the size of the crowd.
Kind of like Topher was doing now. He’d probably forgotten I was here and—
“Stop staring at me.”
Oh.
“I wasn’t staring,” I lied. “I was checking out your notes.”
“Have you written any of your own?”
“No, but I can’t concentrate with this wall in the way. It’s blocking my brain waves or something,” I griped.
He chuckled. “I don’t think so.”
“It needs to come down.”
“But then I won’t be able to concentrate,” he countered, glancing over the rim of his glasses. “That’s a poor excuse. I know it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. But…I thought we had this figured out. I’m Sherlock, you’re Watson. You forgot your character and your line. What happened?” I pushed my laptop a few inches away and sat on the coffee table facing him. “Was it…what we did? ’Cause I thought that blowjob was pretty fuckin’ hot.”
Topher blushed. An honest-to-God blush. He lowered his eyes briefly and cleared his throat.
“It was very hot. And it’s the reason for the stupid wall. I’m saving us both. We need to concentrate on your class.” He gestured to the computer screen. “Thankfully, this is interesting. She’s talking about the prehistoric—”
“Whoa. You’re changing the rules,” I repeated, sliding directly in front of him.
“It’s necessary. We need to work first, take notes, etcetera. If you want to play Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson afterward, we can do that.”
“It sounds stupid when you put it like that,” I grumbled. “And it’s not Dr. Watson, it’s just Watson.”
Topher leveled me with a serious stare. “Watson is a doctor.”
“No, he’s an assistant. Like you.”
He set his notepad and pen on the coffee table and crossed his arms. “You’re wrong. Dr. Watson is Sherlock’s best friend, roommate, and assistant.”
“Sounds gay.”
“They were not gay. I mean…no. No, they weren’t gay. They were associates and friends,” he insisted, clearly flustered.
“Mmhmm. Like Bert and Ernie.”
“We’re done talking.” When he reached for his notepad, I pushed it behind my laptop. “Simon.”
“Changing the rules is against the rules. Let’s try this again. Your name is Watson, and your line is?”
He held my stare for a long moment, then woodenly recited, “You’re late again.”
I couldn’t contain my megawatt grin. He was fucking adorable. “I’m sorry, Mr. Watson. I—”