Infatuate Read Online Free Page B

with cushy, oversize pillows echoing the mask’s colors gave the whole place the feel of some very modern—bordering on psychedelic—lounge. Two golden scepters the length of golf clubs hung in an X above a mammoth mounted flat-screen TV.
    “This sort of feels too cool for us, don’tcha think?” I had to ask softly. But it wasn’t just us. Now I noticed the murmur of voices in the distance, the thump of music, and the clomp of shoes, jogging . . . toward us. A pair of guys talking to each other walked down the hallway off the living room, one of them spinning a basketball on his fingers. From the other direction, a scarlet-haired girl carried a box that looked too heavy for her.
    “Thought I heard the door!” came a deep, cheery, panting voice attached to the running feet. “Sorry for the delayed welcome but . . . welcome!” Connor approached us with his hand extended. He wore an olive green Tulane T-shirt and jeans and had a bright, toothy smile. He had a clipboard and pen and his eye seemed perfectly healed and entirely scar-free. “Hey, I’m Connor. How’s it going?” he said to Lance and Dante, shaking their hands. “And, Haven, good to see ya again. And I mean, really see ya this time.” He pointed to his eye.
    “Hey. Looking good. I’m glad it’s all better.”
    “Thanks to my good friends at Evanston General.”
    “So you’re the poker guy with the busted eye,” Lance said, and pushed his glasses up. He looked at me as if I had failed to impart some vital bit of information.
    “Yep, guilty as charged. So, hello, Chicago. Let’s getcha settled in.” Connor waved us to follow him as he led us down a narrow hallway adorned with framed frayed-edged maps of old New Orleans, black-and-white pictures of men dressed as kings, shots of the city streets at night, and abstract interpretations of the fleur-de-lis.
    “He’s just, you know, heartier than I expected for a guy who gets knocked out playing basketball,” Lance whispered as he wheeled my suitcase.
    “Oh?” I said, not sure what to make of it. Then: “Ohhh.” I tried to stifle a grin at the thought of him being protective.
    “You didn’t mention he was so cute, Hav,” Dante, being no help, said under his breath, before speeding ahead to catch up with Connor.
    “He didn’t need stitches but he was pretty beat-up,” I offered to Lance, matter-of-factly.
    “Good,” he said. “Or, I mean . . . you know.” I felt his free hand on the small of my back as we walked on.
    I peeked into the open doorways we passed—a kitchen here, a dining room there—but we were going too fast to take much in. Connor had that slight bounce to his quick step that implied friendliness; there was something comforting about him. “So, I’m gonna be sort of the resident advisor here. I’ll keep everything running smoothly, answer all your questions, make sure everyone plays nice, that kinda thing,” he explained as he walked. “I go to Tulane. You guys should totally tour the place while you’re here—great school. Still time to apply. You’re seniors, right?”
    “Just graduated,” Dante said.
    “Of course, I knew that. Well, just so y’all know, wherever you go to school, this will spoil you for dorm life—college doesn’t really look like this.” He laughed as we turned a corner. Now the doors had plastic street signs posted on them. “This is a rich donor’s pad. He lets us use the place for events and prospective student visits and stuff. Okay—” He stopped in front of a door marked DECATUR STREET and consulted his clipboard. “Lance and Dante, looks like we’ve got you guys in here. Get settled. New Year’s bash and welcome party tonight at eight. We’ll leave here at seven thirty if you wanna go as a group.” He slapped Lance on the back. “Enjoy. And Haven, you’re a few doors down at the end of the hall. Here, I’ll take that.” He grabbed the bag from my shoulder and my suitcase from Lance and wheeled it himself,