None of the other chicks here are wearing clothes—well, they are, but barely—and here comes Jameson Clark, bundled up for a trip to the Arctic Circle.

It’s thirty degrees outside, not thirty below.

Still, I watch her enter the living room with a small group of friends; one I recognize as a regular on the fraternity row party circuit, another is my roommate Parker’s regular fuck buddy. All of them are very nice girls, I’m sure, but with groupie mentalities—though not a single one of them is as conservative and buttoned up as James.

Jameson. Jim.

I try to listen as Zeke criticizes beside me, but instead find myself glued to James as she slowly lowers the zipper on her puffy coat. Drags the zipper slowly down her body. Pulls the lapels apart, arching her spine to pull her arms free.

Tossing her head back, she laughs at something Fuck Buddy says and does an odd little dance on her heels as her friends grab the end of her scarf and unwind. Then, all together, they remove Jameson’s thick mittens and stuff them in the pockets of her puffy coat.

She shakes out her long, dark brown hair.

That goddamn hair.

It’s mussed and damp from the snow flurries outside, and kind of sexy as shit, even if a bit unkempt.

I look away, but not before catching sight of an emerald green cardigan that’s probably some pretentious fabric like cashmere, pulled over a V-neck tee shirt, jeans, and—my eyes skim her body from tits to toe—black heeled boots.

Yup. Way too many clothes.

“What’s she doing here?” Zeke nudges me again, a bored inflection to his deep voice. “I didn’t think they let geeks out of the library on the weekends.”

“Let’s be honest, she’s their DUFF,” someone else says.

I cringe. Designated Ugly Fat Friend? Hardly.

Everyone stands around laughing, and our friend Jared sputters, “She’s not their DUFF, morons. She’s not fat.”

Or ugly.

Not even close.

Calmly, I shrug, not wanting to call any more attention to Jameson, but not coming to her defense, either. “Who cares? It looks like she came here with Parker’s booty call.”

I might sound blasé, but inside I’m fuming.

Now that I’ve kissed those lips, I know she’s not as prissy as she looks. I know her tits are real, her lips are demanding yet pliant, and her tongue does this magical swirly thing that makes my dick stiff. I know she likes sweaters, studying, and the library.

And let’s not forget her sarcastic, shrewd little mouth.

So it’s kind of pissing me off that these assholes are making fun of her.

“Let it go guys.”

Zeke shrugs his wide, NCAA wrestling championship-bound shoulders. “Whatever man, just letting you know she’s here. I’d keep my eye on that one if I were you; you know how the nerdy ones are. Clingy,” he pronounces knowingly, like he’s some goddamn Yoda for nerdy chicks.

“Stage five clingers,” Dylan adds, trying to be helpful—until I jab him in the ribcage with my elbow. It’s one thing for me to degrade Jameson behind her back; it’s another completely for my friends to do it, and I’ve had enough.

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Dylan coughs from the contact, sputtering on his beer. “Big fucking deal—she showed up at a house party.”

“I’m running to grab another beer. Anyone want anything?” I ask, not waiting for their answers and already heading toward the kitchen. The solo keg on the yellow linoleum floor summons and I answer its call.

Beside it? Jameson Clark.

What a coincidence.

“Here, let me get that for you.” I reach down for the keg nozzle, grab the red cup out of her hand, and give the handle on the barrel a few hard pumps.

Despite the blaring music filtering through the house, I still manage to catch the sound of her foot tapping on the kitchen floor.

“You owe me more than one measly foamy beer, Oswald,” she teases.

Did she just call me—

“Oswald?” I search the throng around us. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

Jameson scrunches up her nose, causing the freckles across the bridge of her nose to wink at me. It’s kind of really fucking cute, actually—or is that just the three beers I’ve already chugged down talking?

“Uh, you? Oz. Oswald.”

I laugh then, a loud, booming laugh that echoes in the small, shitty kitchen.

“You seriously don’t know who I am?”

Lips purse, and she takes a dainty sip of the red plastic cup, tapping on the rim with her index finger as she drinks. A thin line of white foam coats her top lip. “I don’t know—should I?”

I guess that answers that question.

“Sweetheart, Oz is a nickname. Haven’t you googled me yet?”

Amused blue eyes roll. “I’m sure you google yourself enough for the both of us.”

Shit, she’s right. I do google myself a lot.

Nevertheless, I persist. “There is no fucking way you don’t know who I am.”

She gives me a sidelong glance, thinking. Taps her cheek with the tip of her index finger. “Are you an actor? Have I seen you on TV?” Snaps her fingers together. “I know—your father is an important politician. The president of something or other? No? Hmmm…”

My grin widens. “You’re a sarcastic little asshole, did you know that?”

“I take that as a compliment coming from you. Luckily, my sarcasm is usually a sign of affection when I’m warming up to someone.”