Wes frowns, eyeing my hunched shoulders, and then he jumps abruptly to his feet. I barely have time to register what’s happening before he’s tugging off his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head. As he does, his shirt rides up beneath it, and my eyes widen at the glimpse of toned abdomen and taut skin. Muscled, taut skin. I swallow, heat rushing up my neck, and quickly avert my gaze as he tugs his clothing back into place.
He sits back down and passes the hoodie across the table. “Here, take this.”
“I can put my coat back on,” I protest, but he practically shoves the thing onto my lap. I eye him skeptically. The fabric of the long-sleeved t-shirt he has on looks too thin to provide any sort of insulation. “Aren’t you cold?”
He points at himself. “Human Furnace, remember? Go on. Put it on.”
Seeing no use in protesting further, I pull on his sweatshirt. It swallows me whole, but it’s soft and warm and smells incredible. Like laundry detergent and a faint hint of citrus. Like Wes, I guess, not that I’ve had much opportunity to sniff him up close.
“It looks way cozier on you,” he notes.
I raise my arms and bunch the oversized sleeves at my wrists, so they don’t cover my hands. “That’s because it’s basically a sleeping bag. You’re twice my size in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He grins and leans forward a little across the table. “I had noticed, actually. You know, you can be kind of a smartass when you want to be. I kind of like it.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not a smartass. Things just slip out, sometimes. Around you.”
His head tilts to the side as he studies me. “Why do you think that is?”
That face. That smile. Those eyes.I shrug. “I don’t talk to a lot of people.”
“So, you’re saying I’m special?”
“In an eat the paste kind of way, maybe.”
He presses his hand over his heart, giving an exaggerated wince. “Poison Ivy strikes again! She lures you in with her beauty and thenwham!And after I gave her the literal shirt off my back, too.”
“You practically threw it at me!” I protest, but really my brain’s stuck on the wholeshe lures you in with her beautypart.He smirks, a playful twinkle in his eyes, and my face grows warm from the attention. My gaze drops to the table as an absolutely inane idea pops into my head.
Is he…flirtingwith me?
Thankfully, Wes lets me off the hook of making my mouth form words, gesturing at my empty cup. “All done?” I nod, and he scoops up my trash like it’s nothing, taking it to the garbage can across the room. I should head back to campus and continue practicing my train wreck of a speech, but when Wes asks, “Want to check out the bookstore next door?” I don’t hesitate to sayyes.
I don’t recognize myself.
I’m not the kind of girl that hangs out with a guy on Saturday afternoon. Definitely not an attractive, popular guy who wants to get ice cream and then browse a bookstore. I’m not the kind of girl that agrees to spontaneous plans. I don’t do much socializing, sure, but if I did, it would be on a schedule. Ialwayshave a well-thought-out, highly researched plan of action, one that maps out every potential detour and roadblock and barricade.
Scanning through the discount book bin, I think about the number of times I studied the map of our college campus before the first day of school, committing every route, building code, and classroom number to memory. I also studied the curves of the paths and the surrounding landmarks on Google Maps. That way, there would be minimal surprises, and I wouldn’t look like some lost, loser freshman who didn’t know the way.
I think of the very particular schedule I kept in high school. My friends and I would hit the Starbucks after the final bell, hang out there for an hour max, and then Lizzie would drive me home. I’d start my homework by five, Mom would have dinner on the table by seven-thirty, and then I’d spend the rest of the evening working on my artistic portfolio. Every day, the same routine.
That is…until that horrible Friday night. Until the Northland party, a last-minute decision in which I had zero time to prepare. I didn’t map out the street or the house. I didn’t plan my clothes out ahead of time or ask who was invited. There was no exit strategy if the night went sour or signal to my friends if we wanted to leave. I drank too much, I wore the wrong outfit, I lost track of time, I trusted the wrong people.
I trusted the wrong person.
Things go bad when I’m not in control…which doesn’t explain why it feels right when I’m here with Wes. Why it feels safe and natural and relaxed. His easy grin and kind eyes make me want to let my guard down for once, but what if I’m missing something? What if it’s a mistake? A trap?
You need to be careful.
I know I do, but every time he calls me by one of his nicknames, my guard drops another inch. At this rate, I’ll be completely exposed by March, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing?
Don’t kid yourself.
“Ives, come over here,” Wes calls, his body hidden behind the bookshelf to my right.
I drop the ninety-nine-cent book in my hand and come to a halt in front of a giant cardboard display featuring romance novels of all different tropes. My brows shoot up. “Woah.”
“I knew you hadn’t been over here yet,” he says before studying the categories written across the display. “I know you like romance, but what’s your favorite sub-genre? Age gap? Enemies to lovers? Vampire? Damn, who knew there were so many?” He smirks. “I know which one it’s not.”
