The Dixon Rule (Campus Diaries, 2)

You win

WILL:

Turns out the restaurant has a dress code now. Wear something semi-fancy.

WILL THROWS ME THAT CURVEBALL TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE HE’S supposed to pick me up. Men! How does he expect me to make myself look “semi-fancy” in the span of twenty minutes?

Sighing, I ditch my jeans and halter top on the bed and approach my closet to find something more suitable for a nice dinner. I flip through hangers until I find a shimmering red dress. I slide the smooth fabric off the rack and wriggle into it, then put my hair up in a neat bun and apply some red lipstick that perfectly matches the dress.

There. Semi-fancy.

Will picks me up, looking hot in a white button-down shirt and black trousers. His brown hair is shorter than the last time I saw him, giving him a more boyish vibe.

“Jesus.” He whistles as I slide into the passenger side. “I really hope Lindley didn’t see you leave the house looking like that. Otherwise, he’ll think I’m taking you out on a date and kick my ass.”

“He already thinks it’s a date,” I answer, grinning. “I got interrogated hardcore earlier.”

We chat on the way to the restaurant, a very familiar corner location on Main Street. “Wasn’t this a breakfast place last week?” I ask in confusion.

“Last month,” he corrects, snickering. “Last week they were the sushi place.”

I hope this venture sticks because we’re greeted by a very appealing ambiance when we walk inside. It’s a Mediterranean restaurant now, offering small, secluded tables hidden between tropical palm fronds you might find in Greece and framed photographs of Santorini and the Greek islands lining the white stucco walls. There’s even a live band. Well, a guitarist and a guy softly playing the bongos. But it’s still cool. I like it here now.

Will doesn’t get a chance to pull out my chair—an overeager waiter appears out of nowhere to do it for him. He then seats Will too and snaps open our napkins with an elaborate flourish, handing them to us to put in our laps. We’re both trying not to laugh as he ends his extravagant show by offering us a pair of red leatherbound menus.

Once he’s gone, we take a moment to study the menus.

“Welp.” Will lifts his head and flashes an innocent smile. “It’s all Greek to me.”

I laugh so loud it comes out as a snort. “Oh my God, that was so lame.”

But I mean, he’s not wrong. The entire menu is written in Greek. I can make no sense of the foreign characters on the page. There isn’t even an English option underneath.

I purse my lips. “I think I know why this owner keeps rebranding.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

We’re forced to ask the waiter to translate every single item, which takes forever. Finally, we order our meals and settle back in our chairs, while soft guitar music wafts all around us. Will spends some time complaining about his father, who’s been putting up a fight about Will wanting to spend a year in Europe after graduation. I learn that Mr. Larsen is a congressman who splits his time between DC and Connecticut with Will’s stepmom. We bond over stepmoms for a bit, as it turns out we both like ours. His parents aren’t divorced, though; his mom died when he was four, and he was raised by a troop of nannies until his dad remarried.

Eventually, I steer the subject toward Beckett because the curiosity is eating at me.

“How’s it going with Beck? He’s coming back soon, right?”

“Next week.”

I don’t miss the way Will’s features strain. “Uh-oh. The situation is still bothering you?”

“A little. Maybe it would be different if I’d been with someone since he left. But I haven’t met anyone I vibe with.”

“So your last encounter is still that awkward one where you kept picturing Beck.”

“Yup.” He sounds glum.

“Okay. Well. Where are we on the arousal scale now? When you think about hooking up with Beckett and a woman, is it less of a turnoff? Or more?”

He sighs.

“More, huh?”

“It’s all I fucking think about,” he mumbles.

“Honestly, I think you’re stressing way too hard about this. Everyone has their kinks.”

“Yeah?” he challenges. “What’s yours?”

“None of your business.”

Will grins.

“So what are you going to do when Beckett gets home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you talked to him since he left?”

The question startles him. “Sure. We text every day. He’s my best friend.”

“Then don’t you think you should be talking to him about all this? Tell him what’s been bothering you?”

“Maybe.”

He sounds noncommittal. Typical guy. Yes, let’s keep everything bottled up instead. That’s always a splendid idea.

The rest of dinner passes over decent food and some excellent conversation. I really like Will. He started off as Gigi’s friend, but he and I have grown closer now that we’re both in Hastings for the summer. And maybe it makes me an asshole because he’s so stressed about it, but I’m all over this Will and Beckett situation. I don’t know if I could ever have a threesome myself, but I can’t deny the fantasy is appealing. It doesn’t hurt that Will and Beck are two ludicrously attractive hockey players. I can see how any girl would be tempted to be crushed between those two hard bodies.

The waiter is clearing away our empty plates when I get a text from Shane. I expect some grumbly complaint about me being out with Will. Instead, I find a link to a document. Okay. That’s weird.

I have to pee, so I decide to open the message in the bathroom. One, because it’s rude to check it in front of Will, and two, because I’m afraid to check it in front of Will.

And I’m far too curious to wait until I get home.

After I do my business and wash my hands, I find a follow-up text from Shane. All it says is: you win.

I click the link and almost die laughing on the tiled floor.

It’s an application.

A literal application for the position of my friend with benefits.

Hilarious headings assault my eyes. Name. Penis size. Skills—oh my God. He listed all his favorite sex positions in order of what he considers himself most skilled at, to least skilled. Reverse cowgirl is on the bottom.

My laughter bounces off the acoustics in the bathroom. If I hadn’t just peed, I might actually pee myself. And yet despite the sheer absurdity of what I’m reading, I can’t fight the rush of arousal that floods my bloodstream.

Under turn-ons, he wrote:

Calling the shots.

Not against being watched.

My breath catches, heat tickling the tips of my breasts. Under final thoughts, he was more articulate:

As your fake boyfriend and real friend with benefits, I take the duty of pleasuring you very seriously. I guarantee at least one orgasm per session, whether by tongue, finger, or cock.

My entire body clenches. The idea of his mouth or fingers or tongue anywhere on me makes my heart speed up.

I will worship your body, respect it, and fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. Thank you for your consideration.

I stare at the screen until it times out and turns black. Jesus. I inhale a long, unsteady breath, just as another message pops up.

SHANE:

So? Do I have the job?