“I promise you won’t hurt your eye.”
“You make a lot of promises.”
“And I always keep them.”
Blowing out a hasty breath, I throw caution to the wind and nod. “Fuck it. Let’s do this.”
“That’s my girl.”
Wes situates himself on the lid and then helps me down onto his lap. My blush is inevitable, though I try not to focus on the fact that I’m perched on Wes Tucker’s thighs in front of half the student body. He wraps his arms around my stomach, holding me securely to his chest.
“Ready?” he whispers into my ear, his warm breath making me shiver.
I don’t have time to respond (or mentally prepare) before he pushes off with his feet, sending us sliding through the snow. As we glide down the hill, my stomach drops out, and I can’t help but scream. Wes laughs behind me, keeping us balanced against all odds, and before I know it, we’re at the bottom, spinning over flat ground. By this point, I’m laughing so hard my abs hurt, Wes behind me doing the same.
“That was awesome,” he says into my ear, arms still wrapped around my belly.
“I can’t believe we didn’t tip over,” I manage between gasps.
He squeezes me tighter. “I told you I wouldn’t let that happen.”
When we come to a stop, I climb clumsily to my feet, brushing snow off my legs. Wes does the same, still chuckling to himself.
“Let’s go again!” he says.
He doesn’t have to convince me this time.
I lose track of how many runs we make down the hill, but when my clothes are thoroughly soaked and my hair’s half frozen and my cheeks ache with the cold, we pass off the lid to one of his teammates and head back to Wes’s car.
“Are you starving?” he asks as he cranks the heat. “I’m starving.”
I press my hands to the vents, flexing my icy fingers. “I’m pretty hungry,” I admit. “But also freezing in these wet clothes.”
“Shower at my place. We’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”
I should hesitate. I should say no. I should go home and thaw out and put some space between me and the whirlwind that is Wes Tucker, but instead I find myself shrugging and saying, “okay,” like it’s nothing.
When we arrive at his house, we leave our snowy boots at the bottom of the stairs before heading up to his room. “Use mybathroom,” Wes says, gesturing to the door. “The water pressure in the downstairs shower is a disgrace.”
I nod, a hot shower with decent water pressure sounding like a dream. “Okay, if you don’t mind.”
He gives me a look like I’m being silly. “Of course I don’t. But before you step into the shower, leave your clothes outside the door so I can dry them. There’s a clean towel under the sink.”
“T-thanks,” I manage between chattering teeth. Grabbing the “pajamas” I wore last weekend, I step into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
Stripped down to my bra and underwear, I crack the door just enough to toss my sweater, jeans, and socks on the floor outside. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man’s seen women’s underwear before, but I’m not comfortable with letting him handle mine. Especially since the white bra I’m wearing has definitely seen better days and should really be put out of its misery at this point.
Locking the door, I pull those off too and step under the warm stream of water. My body begins to defrost, hot water chasing away the chill. For a few minutes I just stand there, letting my muscles relax and trying not to think about the fact that I’m completely naked in a boy’s bathroom.
I examine the products Wes has lined on the shelf, surprised he actually uses a decent shampoo and conditioner instead of some generic, two-in-one brand. I wasn’t going to wash my hair, but I decide to use a little dab of each, running it through my tangled, blonde strands. Once it’s fully rinsed, I grab his citrus body wash and unscrew the cap, inhaling deeply.
There it is. Wes Tucker in a bottle.
Squirting a little on my palm, I lather up my skin until the lemon and orange notes are overpowering. Heady, even. Then, I reluctantly rinse away the suds.
When I’m finished, I step out of the shower and dry myself off, pulling on Wes’s oversized clothes. I hunt through his bathroom drawers until I find a sad excuse for a hairbrush, using it to work through the tangles, wincing as it snags on a few knots.
Once I’ve managed to brush it through, I step out into the bedroom.
