Read Rites of Spring for Free Online Page B

that immediately found their way into my crotch. I attempted a subtle jiggle (unsuccessful, I might add), and stopped walking, for fear the ice would shift left and press against spots even more sensitive than my inner thigh.
    “What an asshole,” Brandon said. “Look, let’s go. Our lunches are drenched, and you need some dry clothes.”
    I nodded, poured the excess liquid from my bag into a nearby cup, and let Brandon bus our trays of ruined food while I prayed for the ice to melt as quickly as possible.
    Of course, ice in my pants was the least of my problems. Even my gorgeous new camel coat—a Christmas present from my grandmother—was stained with starbursts of orange soda and…was that fruit punch? Great. Just great. I gingerly tried to slip my arms into the sleeves for the trip outside, but Brandon stopped me.
    “It’s too cold for you to go out all wet. Come on, we’ll get to my suite through the basement.”
    I followed him down into the tunnels that twisted below each residential college. This was where they kept all the goodies reserved only for their residents—everything from laundry rooms and student-run burger joints called “butteries” to bowling alleys and squash courts. We wound through the narrow, dimly lit hallways and I began to shiver.
    Wait until the other Diggers heard about this! And where was I supposed to find the funds to replace the sticky mess Dragon’s Head had made out of my course materials? I wondered if Rose & Grave had any kind of emergency scholarships for knights who were victims of another society’s taste for vengeance, since I couldn’t picture explaining to my parents what I’d done with this semester’s book money. And let’s not start on my coat.
    Ahead of me, Brandon stopped and turned. “Amy, you okay?”
    “Aside from the obvious?” I wrapped my arms tighter around my torso.
    I felt his fingers on my chin, and he tilted my face up to his. “Your teeth are chattering.”
    They were. I clenched my jaw. “I’m fine. Just cold.”
    He said nothing, just stared at me.
    Um, hello, cold? Maybe we should keep going until we get out of these tunnels? But I didn’t say that, because under his gaze, I didn’t feel chilly at all anymore. Nope. Downright warm.
    “Amy—” he whispered.
    I stepped back, and the—feeling, the moment, whatever it was—fell away. I hugged myself even harder, trying to quell the need to get close. “I could, um, really use some dry clothes right about now.”
    “Of course. Come on.” He put his hand on my shoulder to guide me up the stairs to his entryway. I could feel humid, sticky heat burning through the material of my sweater and deep into the flesh of my arm.
    The first time Brandon and I slept together had been Valentine’s Day, almost a year ago. There’d been none of that weird, first-time-with-a-new-girl fumbling on his part. Like I said: The guy was a natural. Such a natural, in fact, that I’d put up little resistance when he’d repeated the persuasion act several times over the next few months. But he’d wanted a real relationship, and I’d resisted. Logical as the Applied Math major was, he had a mental block regarding my deplorable girlfriend potential, probably because we got along so well as friends. And yet I had no problem with the sex; bed was the one place where all the Brandon/Amy equations balanced perfectly.
    He showed me into his unfamiliar suite and made a beeline for what I assumed was his bedroom. “I think I’ve got some spare sweats it wouldn’t embarrass you too much to wear,” he called back.
    “I appreciate you doing this for me.” I stood in the center of the room, recalling the odd bit of furniture and some of his posters from before. Though tempted, I tried not to touch anything. My fingertips were sticking together. My hair was plastered to the back of my neck. My soft, makes-my-eyes-green cashmere scarf was hopelessly destroyed. I also tried not to think about Brandon’s bedroom.