“I’m greeting you now,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m sure you’d rather be greeted like this than by me dripping in sweat after practicing in the outdoor gym.” My mind briefly considers Ben like this: sweaty, exhausted, muscles tense from hours of strenuous dribbling up and down the long expanse of the court. I’m not sure I’d be any less affected.
“I don’t think I could bring myself to care either way.”
He’s staring at me, his brows furrowed in what seems like a challenge or a question. I feel my pulse quicken, so I stand up and stride over to the bookcase on the left. Pretending to inspect what is obviously the post-modern section of the collection, I play with snarky remarks in my head.
“I assume you’re going to get dressed now, unless you’re developmentally stuck in that one phase… where you’re preoccupied with your own nudity?”
I sneak a glance over my shoulder, catching his grin widen. I wait for the reply, only to hear what I assume is his bedroom door shut with speed.
I’m mulling over the wittiness of my remark when I hear him approach the bookcase, stopping to stand nearly shoulder to… temple with me. Standing like this, I’m struck by the height of this man. He’s a pillar next to me, grounded and towering, immovable it seems. His hair is still a tousled mess, but it’s damp rather than dripping, and the beautifully tattooed skin taut over his tight, muscled chest is now hidden by a light gray t-shirt.
“Assessing my development or thinking about me nude, Beckett?” he asks, dipping his head to the right.
I know he’s being his facetious, flirtatious self but my face warms anyways. Feeling my phone vibrate again, I use it as an excuse to avoid answering the question and slip it out of my back pocket.
Will.
A red dress loads as the first message, two thin straps held up by two feminine hands.
Gen.
The dress is fine, a little slutty, and not my type.
Will
For the gala. ;)
I would have preferred it in black, but who am I to have a preference.I shut my eyes and feel them roll. Forcing them open, I take a slow, deep breath, pushing my anger back into the vat of emotions I frequently access when I’m dealing with Will.
I click my phone screen off, feeling Ben’s gaze on the screen. Clearing my throat, I roll my eyes upward, my brows rising in irritation.
“Do you have something to say?
His mouth opens then shuts, finally sighing and breathing through his nose.
“Just seems obvious you wouldn’t wear a dress like that,” he says, looking everywhere but at me. My skin prickles, my pulse fluttering high in my throat like it did whenever Lily would see right through me like this.
“Maybe I would,” I say a little too defensively, pushing my hair behind my ear, willing my eyes to keep contact when he finally looks at me. I hold his gaze that has turned inquisitive, assessing. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what, Olivia?”
My arms cross on their own, my body suddenly feeling naked under his stare.
“Like you know something I don’t. If you have something to say just say it, Ben.”
He breaks his stare, but not before I see the fire in his eyes cool. “I’m sorry,” he says, his tone shifting into slight annoyance. “It’syourboyfriend buying you lingerie with another woman, not me. I’m just your study partner, Olivia.”
And then he’s down the hall. I’m instantly cold, the sensitivity of my skin now transformed into chilled goosebumps— the heat I’ve come to associate with Ben’s nearness replaced by the coolness of his disdain.
I pull my Astor crewneck out of my bag, pulling it over my head and onto my chilled body. Cracking my neck, I focus on regaining my composure and trace the steps he made to what I assume is his bedroom. I find him at the desk adjacent to the bed in the middle of the room. It’s slightly raised, covered in simple navy linens laid atop white sheets. Like the rest of the apartment, the walls are white and contrast with the walnut floors and crown molding. I awkwardly stand at the threshold, wondering if I should just leave. I refuse to be anywhere I’m not wanted but… against my better judgment, I cross into his room.
Searching my mind for the right thing to say, I land on, “I’m sorry if I was… a bitch.”
Without looking at me, he says, “Don’t call yourself that, Olivia.”
Grabbing two stacks of papers, he leans out of his chair and hands me the article we’re supposed to be reading. I’m half expecting the fiery, molten gaze I’ve grown used to when he meets my mine, but all I find are cool, dark pools of indifference. He smirks, but it fails to reach his eyes.
“I guessed you didn’t bring your own copy, so I made you one.”
