Stars (Penmore #1) by Malorie Verdant

impressive as your honey eyes,” he states, giving me his cheeky smile. The one I know he usually saves for his mom and his best friends when he’s up to mischief. So bizarre.
    “What about you?” I ask. Okay, so even if this is a strange mandated study, I figure I might as well find out a little bit more about this coffee-buying, sandstone-leaning, possibly-flirting-with- ME college Grayson. I might know he isn’t a bad boy and how he tends to look when he first wakes up. Yes, my creepiness had no bounds when I was about twelve, until I realized that maybe that was going too far to watch him get up in the morning. Especially when he started to wake up a little differently at thirteen, which, by the way, was a super awkward way to learn about puberty for a twelve-year-old girl.
    I did not know, however, why he never went pro and why this new college Grayson Waters might bother to spend time with some nobody freshman rather than maybe find an aspiring model who would look great in future tabloids reporting on famous players.
    “I’m an English major,” he tells me quickly. Uncomfortably.
    “Wow.” Nope, can’t let that go. “Are you interested in writing?” I ask, having flashbacks of how he used to sit at the long wooden desk his mom gave him for his tenth birthday, energetically scribbling in his worn notebook.
    “Yep,” he tells me.
    I wanted to ask him more questions, ones I was burning to know the answer to, like was he into Dostoevsky, James Patterson and/or planning to write a sport autobiography.
    But he quickly changed the subject. “Did you grow up around here, or are you from out of town?”
    Oh, no. Great, let’s go from the subject he clearly doesn’t want to talk about to the one I don’t want to discuss.
    Or is this when I tell him that I’ve lived right next door to him for nearly his entire life? Between the lecture hall and busy classrooms, do I just casually mention that Dr. Elliot, who used to pay him cash to mow the lawns for both his and our house when he was sixteen, is actually my dad? Let him know that I used to hide behind our drapes to watch the sweat drip off his shoulders when he rode the riding mower during the summer. Sometimes wondering what he might taste like if I had the chance to lick a droplet off his shining body.
    Is this my chance to confess my sins? In front of half the student body?
    Do I also suddenly remind him that I’m the girl he might have seen once or twice hunched over wearing a kitten sweater in the high school cafeteria before she managed to escape and hide in the library? Or the girl who tried to say hello to him by the creek when he was eight and his family fell apart?
    I’m thinking not.
    “I’m a local.” And a big fucking liar .
    “Great. Maybe you can show me around sometime. I’m sure between football practice and hanging out with the boys I haven’t seen nearly enough of this town,” he tells me with a genuine smile.
    No. I couldn’t do that. I have no idea where anything is. It would probably take him less than a minute to work out that I know nothing about this town except for Lucky’s and maybe how to locate the best food joints near the football stadium. “Um, I’m really busy at the moment,” I say, trying not to make eye contact or blush. I always blush when I’m nervous and lying. “With school.” Yep, there I go again, blushing like a tomato. It’s probably so I get used to the color red, because I am totally going to hell for being a humungous fibber.
    “I guess I’ll just have to keep seeing you in class and maybe bring you coffee on Fridays.” He grins at me before coming to a stop in front of a classroom. “This is me.”
    “Okay.”
    “Just so I know for next time, caramel latte okay?” he asks, smiling at me before reaching forward to wipe off the small amount of foam with his thumb that I’m suddenly afraid has been stuck on my lip since I took my first sip.
    He then slowly licks the foam from his finger, and