Free Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) by Rachel Blaufeld

bothered, I shivered as I entered Southern A.
    “Hey, Catie!” a high-pitched voice called after me as I headed toward the stairwell.
    I stopped and turned. “Hey, Tess. How are you?”
    “I’m cool. I got a job at the music fest. I’m going to be working one of the food trucks for my buddy, Ryan. So, maybe we’ll go down together? I’m sure you’re going to be there all weekend.”
    Her fluffy blond hair bounced as she closed the distance between us. She’d gone a little heavy with the flowery perfume she wore today, and it made my eyes burn when she stood next to me.
    “I’m there all weekend. Sonny’s got me on grunt duty.” I rolled my eyes, faking exaggerated frustration. No one had to know how hurt I truly was by the stupid shock jock.
    “Why? I heard you on the radio for like two seconds. You sounded great. I was over at my sorority, and everyone cheered when you made the joke about Sonny Be Knocking Boots. What an idiot!”
    Tess and I couldn’t be more different, but I had no reason to ice her out. We’d been roommates the year before, and she was incredibly tolerant of my obsessive overachieving and idealism. I wanted a happily-ever-after, both in love and in my career. She wanted to bang the alphas and eventually marry the guy from the book—Grey something.
    “He’s okay,” I said with a smile. “You know better than anyone how I’m dying to take over that slot at the station. I know I can’t make it my women’s-only bitch fest, but I can grow the audience and show the world that women can be funny.” I leaned against the door to the stairs and sighed. “But I don’t know. Lately I’m not sure what I want more. To have fun or be serious.”
    Tess pushed her hair behind her ear and stared me down. “What was I always telling you last year, Catie? You don’t need to be so serious. That’s what college is for, experimenting and trying on different personalities. You can have fun, perfect your on-air voice, and then go be the Howard Stern of women and their rage against the machine.”
    “I know. I’m starting to think I should’ve listened to you more last year.”
    She pulled me in for a hug. “It’s not too late to start,” she whispered into my hair.
    “So, the music fest?” I said as I broke away. “What food booth?”
    “The gyro truck, so come over anytime and I’ll feed you some meat.”
    My cheeks burned, and I silently thanked God for my Mediterranean complexion. “Stop it!”
    She burst out laughing. “We’ve got to get you some meat,” she said, waggling her eyebrows to taunt me.
    “I’m going down around four o’clock on Friday, so I’ll swing by your room?” I pushed the door open a bit, trying to escape to my single room and my thoughts.
    “Sounds good. We’re going to an almost-hump-day party tonight. Basketball guys, I think. Want to go?”
    “Definitely not, but thanks for asking.”
    I slipped through the door and raced upstairs to my room, my mind filled with visions of Blane at the party. Maybe he would have taken me to it if I’d said yes to a drink. As friends , I reminded myself.
    After locking my door, I stripped out of my clothes, threw on pajamas, and plopped on my bed. Snuggled tight with my pillow, I let my hand wander over my hip. It was round, but not lumpy. My fingers lingered on my stomach; it was neither flat nor distended. My legs were short but toned from walking around campus and playing soccer in high school.
    Maybe I should try intramurals; get more exercise. I wasn’t hideous, but I wasn’t a cheerleader or a supermodel or a ball baby.
    Thinking about tonight, I slipped my hand beneath my waistband and across my dark curls, searching for my most sensitive parts. Opening myself to my roaming fingers, I grazed my clitoris and a shudder ran through me. Someday a man would touch me there, and it would mean something, be more than experimentation or a random hookup. His hand and heart would yearn to make me scream because I was