Standingon Wes’s front porch, I debate whether to knock or ring or text him,I’m here.It shouldn’t be this complicated, but for some reason my brain takes the small things and blows them out of proportion. All day, tiny bombs going off in my head, overcomplicating what I wear and eat. How I walk and talk. What I do or think.
This time, fate intervenes, and the decision is taken out of my hands when the door swings open, Wes filling the doorway with equal measures of light and mass. He’s wearing navy sweatpants along with a fitted gray shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders and clings to his sculpted arms. My mind completely blanks, and all I can think isholy muscles,which is a horrible thing to think because I know I’m staring.
“Whatcha doing out here, Ives?” he asks. “It’s freezing.”
I finally manage to tear my eyes away from his body, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. My face warms, and it takes a moment to formulate words. “I was just about to knock.”
Wes grins like he knows I’ve been standing out here in the cold for way longer than socially acceptable and steps to the side. “Well, come on in before you freeze to death or catchpneumonia. I can’t have my practice buddy getting sick, now, can I?”
I move past him into the house, noting the garbage bags strewn about, most of them filled with plastic cups and beer cans. Half of the streamers have fallen from the ceiling, and Wes’s smile turns sheepish as he kicks away a deflated balloon with his bare foot.
“Sorry, the place is still a disaster. Kaden cleaned up a little this morning, but Ben’s too hungover.”
I eye him curiously. “Are you hungover?” I didn’t see him drink much last night, maybe a beer or two. Even so, he wasn’t acting any different than usual, but itwashis birthday. I would think most guys would want to get plastered.
He shakes his head. “Nah. I only had a few beers. I don’t like feeling that out of control. You?”
“Oh, I wasn’t drinking last night,” I tell him. When he blinks in confusion, I remember the can I carried in my hand most of the party. “I was holding a decoy seltzer,” I explain. “Quinn’s idea.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize. Do you not drink ever? Or…”
I hesitate. Do I not drink ever? The jury’s still out. “I was the designated driver.”
“Very responsible,” he praises.
“That’s me,” I say, my eye snagging on the banner still hanging from the ceiling. It jogs my memory, and I reach for my keys again. “Oh, I have something for you. I left it in the car. One second.” Setting my backpack on the floor, I hurry back outside and grab the bakery box from my back seat. I stopped on the drive over, knowing I couldn’t show up empty-handed on his actual birthday.
Wes is waiting by the doorway when I return, ready to usher me out of the cold. Once he closes the door, I hold out thebaby blue box, tied with a delicate white ribbon. “Happy real Birthday.”
“You didn’t have to bring me anything,” he tells me earnestly, but I simply shrug. Baked goods were the least I could do. He’s always bringing me snacks during class, after all.
Shaking his head, he opens the box, revealing three immaculately iced cupcakes. “Strawberry, mint chocolate, and peanut butter,” I explain, pointing at each.
He stares at the sweets before looking up at me, his face unreadable. “You remembered my favorite ice cream flavors?”
“Of course I did.” When he doesn’t say anything else, I shift on my feet, suddenly anxious. “I hope they translate into, um, cupcakes.”
His mouth breaks into a slow smile, dark eyes flickering with something I can’t quite put my finger on. “Absolutely, they do. Thank you, Ivy. That was…really fucking sweet of you.”
I blush at his words, I can’t help it, and fight the urge to look away. “You’re welcome.”
“Let me put these in the kitchen for later, unless you want one now?”
I quickly shake my head. “Oh, no. Those are all for you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, disappearing around the corner. When he returns, he motions to the staircase. “Want to head up to my room? Otherwise, we’ll have to work in this mess.”
“Sure,” I say, before I can think it through.
This is it. The ultimate test. You better be right about him.
My heart pounds with every stair I climb, and as we enter the room on the right, my vision tunnels in on the queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall, mocking me.
“Do you even fit in this bed?” I blurt without thinking.
He snickers. “Barely. Sometimes I sleep at an angle.”
I nod, standing there awkwardly, staring at the bed he sometimes sleeps in at an angle. There’s not much space in thisroom, what with us and the dresser and the bed and the desk, and I don’t know where to sit. Panic buzzes beneath my skin, uneven and frantic.
