“Coach wants us to dress up for game day. So.” He shrugs.
“I like it. Is that all you wanted my opinion on?” I linger in the door frame, dropping my elbow from its position and standing up straighter.
“Yeah, I just wanted to make a good impression with everyone tomorrow.”
My heart melts a little. It’s so cute that he cares. “It feels like it’s the first day of school or somethin’, doesn’t it? I always used to get so nervous for those. I never knew what to wear, or if I’d be over-dressed or too under-dressed. At least tomorrow I’m being told exactly what to wear.”
“True.” Ty pushes his hands into his pockets, and we stare at each other for a lingering moment. Then he’s dropping his gaze to his chest and loosening his tie before pulling it over his head.
I clear my throat as the adrenaline of what I’m about to ask builds. “Is that what you’re dancing in?”
Ty smirks, turning away from me as he tugs off his jacket. His collared shirt clings to his biceps in a way that makes me want to wrap both hands around them and squeeze like some mindless little fangirl. Which I’m not. Obviously.
When he doesn’t answer, I do what I do best. I fill the silence. “You can dance in your suit if you’re comfortable with it, but I’d suggest at least a pair of gym shorts. Or sweatpants. And a shirt. Obviously.”
He arches a brow. “I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”
I nod as coolly as I can and back out of the door, practically skipping all the way to my bedroom.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TY
The first thingI do is remove my glasses and stick my contacts back into my eyes. Avery seeing me in my old, thick glasses is… embarrassing. No matter how many times people tell me they’re fashionable or that I should just be comfortable with who I am in all my forms, all I see when I look in the mirror is a version of myself I’ve tried to leave behind. The weak one. The nerd. The one who was too quiet, too small, and read too much. Why did I think it was a good idea to show up at her door like that in the first place? No one ever sees me in my glasses. Half the team doesn’t even know I have them. I could get Lasik, but the thought of going under the knife, so to speak, makes me nervous. I can get hit by men weighing hundreds of pounds, but cutting my eye with a laser… That’s a different story.
I take a swig of mouthwash and swish it around, staring at myself as I do. Why do I feel like I’m about to step ontothe field for the Super Bowl? I take a few deep breaths, willing my adrenaline to chill, but it won’t. What’s wrong with me? I’ve done plenty of nerve-racking things in my life, but this is what’s going to make me feel like I’m about to break? Dance lessons with a certain raven-haired girl in my living room? I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing Avery. She’s just so… cute. From her attitude to the way she wrinkles her nose when I do something she disapproves of, like leaving my dirty socks in the living room. Honestly though, the fact that she lives her life like a wrecking ball crashing from one place to the next, but draws the line at dirty socks, cracks me up. Avery cracks me up.
I spit into the sink, staring as it swirls down the drain. Avery wants todancewith me. Which means I’m about to embarrass myself. Based on my collective knowledge, I’d say I have about as much rhythm as she has business being in the kitchen. So like… none. She wasn’t wrong while she was probing about my abilities. I tried to play it off, but she could tell. I’m not a dancer. And the mere thought of Avery’s delicate hands gripping mine…
Something jolts through me, straightening my spine. I’ve felt this before.
I’m into Avery.
The girl who was sleeping in her car, the one who brought her cat and her chaos and moved into my house. I’ve got a thing for her. And this time, it stretches beyond pity. Which was a terrible excuse anyway.
I’ve got a thing for Avery.
What exactly that thing is, I guess I’ll find out in—I check my phone—three minutes. Running myhands over my hair, I push it out of my face and make a grab for my cologne.Cologne, really?I shrug, lift my t-shirt, and spray one tiny spritz on my abdomen for good measure. I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard, but I’ve been told I smell good, and I want Avery to think so too. If we’re going to be in close quarters, I want her to remember it for good reason.
It’s like I black out, and when I come to, I’m in the middle of my living room. Alone.
Avery isn’t here yet. I stare at the line of plants at the base of my expansive living room window. What am I doing? Taking dance lessons is perfectly okay, but being drawn to the instructor the way I am is definitely not. Especially given our circumstances. Talking to Avery is bad enough given our employment statuses, so I can only imagine that having her live with me is a cardinal sin. If anyone knew… A shiver runs up my spine, and I remind myself that they don’t. No one knows. Avery and I, well, our living situation is a secret. I’m not—she’s not—going to lose anything over this. I won’t let that happen.
“You ready?”
I spin to face her. Avery stands on the opposite end of the room in a pair of black spandex shorts and the same tank top from earlier.Why did she have to change her shorts?
I cross my arms, a barrier that I know will soon be broken. “Areyouready?”
“Always.” She smiles wide, setting a speaker on the coffee table and scrolling through her phone. “Teaching the danceless how to dance is my specialty. You’ll benumber like… five. Or something. The point is, no one is unteachable. Not even you.”
“Danceless?” I channel all of my disappointment from the fact that to her I’m just another number to teach into that one word.
“Danceless for now.” She doesn’t notice the way I slump as she chooses the perfect song. “Now the question is, what have you got? Can you keep a beat? Are we at least still at middle school slow dance level?”
I watch as she tosses her long hair over her shoulder. It looks soft and wavy, a nice break from it always being pulled up into some configuration on top of her head. It’s then that I realize for the first time that her hair isn’t jet black. There’s a warmth to it I’ve never noticed before. Avery’s hair is dark chocolate brown. And it’s natural. I know this because Maggie once schooled me on all things hair when she was going through her “I might go to cosmetology school” phase. She even bought a mannequin head and dyed it all colors of the rainbow in preparation. In the end, she never actually went. In the process, I became quite fond of brunettes. Avery gazes up at me, completely unaware of the mental appraisal happening behind my eyes.
Then she smiles, her eyes crinkle, and her nose scrunches.
