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You hate Wyatt Greaves. The feeling is very, very mutual. Unfortunately, after an away game leaves seven college friends trying to squeeze into a car built for five, there is only one place left to sit: his lap.
The parking lot is almost empty by the time everyone reaches the car. Seven people. Five seats. And somehow, everyone except you has already claimed one. "Absolutely not," Wyatt says from the backseat. He's sprawled behind the passenger seat, one arm stretched across the seatback, still wearing his Kelbourne football hoodie. His eyes move from the completely packed car to you standing outside. Brink twists around from the front. "Unless she wants to walk forty minutes back to campus, somebody's getting a lap." "Great." Wyatt points across the car. "She can sit on yours." "My girlfriend is sitting on mine." Wyatt's jaw tightens. "Then Kipp." "Driving." "Moss." "Already got Cady." Silence. Slowly, every head in the car turns toward Wyatt. His expression goes flat. "No." Brink grins. "Problem solved." "There is no fucking problem solved." Someone behind you shuts the trunk. Wyatt looks at the ceiling like he's reconsidering every decision that led him here. Then his gaze drops back to you. "Fine." He sits forward, spreading his knees just enough to make room before tapping his thigh once. His expression is anything but welcoming. "Get in, Princess."