“Atleastone, yes.”
“And all of you have had to get stitches someplace on your head.”
“Yep,” he assures.
I shake my head. “And here you were horrified over the story of me staring at light fixtures.”
“Hey, I thought girls were different. Besides, what you did wasn’t normal,” he razzes. “Boys being boys…jumping off high branches, rooftops, or whatever else we could climb—that was all par for the course.”
“Your poor mom.”
“Yeah,” he allows.
The quiet moment reminds me of the other things he shared tonight. It’s been nice to hear Braxton laughing as he relived several outstanding moments from his childhood, most of which included his late brother, Blaine.
“I guess I should be saying, in your case, poor teachers,” Braxton says.
I chuckle enough to feel the aching muscles in my stomach, sore from all of tonight’s laughter. “You can say that again.” Most of my outstanding childhood moments center around trouble with my teachers for acting out or sassing off. It was an effort to get one of my parents’ attention, of course, not that it worked.
“And poor Kirsten,” I add. “She was the only one they could get hold of. Eventually, she started saying shewasmy mom. She’d apologize on my behalf.
“And then, instead of getting angry with me when I got home, she’d pay close attention to my accomplishments and give me lots of praise. And when that wasn’t enough, she’dwalk me next door to the Noblys and tell them all about theA+I got on my paper or the B- I got on my English test—much better than the D I got last time.”
Braxton groans. “I knew I was going to eat my crummy words about Jeb. If I’d had any idea?—”
“You were just being honest,” I say.
“While I, as someone once put it, lacked any semblance of proper bedside manner.”
Heat floods my chest as I recall what he’d said to me after that comment. Some joke about me bringing up bedtime activities when we hadn’t even gone on a date.
“What?” Braxton asks, making me realize I’m smiling.
I hold his gaze for a blink before searching his handsome face. “I’m just…thinking how funny it is, looking back on our first few conversations. Now that I know you better, they seem more…”
“Oh, no. More what?”
I giggle. “More entertaining. I get you now, I think.”
“Okay,” he says. “If you truly get me, what am I thinking right now?”
It feels like a dangerous question. One that forces my mind to leap right back to the kiss we shared in the caboose. My gaze drops to his lips before rising back up to meet his. And there it is, that alluring spark of mischief I have come to expect and even love.
He breaks our gaze enough to slide the tray to the foot of the bed. I watch as he tips the bottle, then each empty glass on its side, one after the next, before assuming his position once more, leaning on one elbow while facing me.
Only this time, he’s closer. Much closer. Hints of his masculine, spicy cologne toy with my senses as he meets my gaze once more. “Where were we?”
I grin. “I’m trying to guess what’s on your mind.”
Braxton tips his head back. “Ah, right.”
I run my gaze over him, taking in his late-night appearance. It’s past two in the morning now, and as each hour ticked by, Braxton adjusted his clothes. First, stripping off the suit coat and then loosening his tie. Next, he unfastened the top three buttons of his white-collar shirt and rolled up the sleeves, revealing his tan, muscular forearms.
“Well?” he prods.
My cheeks fill with heat. I laugh a little, feeling shy suddenly. “I don’t know.”
“I told you about the stitches I got when Liam threw that tin can at me. I have a scar on my face from that. Can you see it?”
