“Besides, I’m not here to touch you,” he whispers. “I’m here to help.”
My shoulders sag. No touching. Right. Do I need help? I mean, I can’t move from this spot, so I might need help with that.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me and I feel like I did when I broke mom’s car window with a tennis racquet and an acorn. I’m in so much fucking trouble. I could run down the block and hide in the woods like I did when the glass shattered, leaving Tara to take the fall.
“If I throw you out, can I keep the cupcakes?” I ask, my voice too raspy.
“No.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
I step backwards, hand on the edge of the counter. Maybe he can help. Better this than a night with my mom pretending not to know what day it is. “You can stay. But I need to wash the eighth graders off of me.”
He laughs when I crinkle my nose as I process my own words.
“Ew. That came out wrong?—”
“Go take a shower, Devon,” he says, saving me from myself.
I lift my beer toward him and take my leave, telling my dumdum heart to knock off its shit while I take the steps two at a time.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jeff
Lesson 32: Give her space. Give her cupcakes. But do not give her “Fifty Shades.”
I’m tipping the pizza delivery guy when I hear Devon laughing uncontrollably from the kitchen.
“Thanks, man. Drive safe,” I say, closing the door between us, trying to wipe the cheesy smile I’m sporting off of my face as I make my way through the living room with the pizzas. Her laughter is pure joy.
“You can’t be serious, Jeff,” she says, her grin so bright it makes the Edison bulbs above the island look dim. Her hair is wet and pulled into a bun on top of her head, her skin glowing.
Shit. She’s holding the third DVD I hid beneath the fruit bowl.
“I told you it was a mistake,” I say, placing the pizzas on the table and reaching to snatch the disc out of her hand. She dodgesmy grab and scurries around to the other side of the island, her oversized sweatpants nearly catching under her feet and making her fall.
“I want to know what you were thinking when you chose '50 Shades' from the machine,” she says, her brows merging with her hairline. I’d pick the damn movie again if I got to see her smile like this all night.
I let out a breath. Look to the ceiling.
“Let’s call your mom down?—”
“To watch soft-core porn with us?”
“To eat the pizza.”
She shakes her head.
“Kathy won’t be joining us for dinner. She’s requested room service,” she says, eyes still glittering. “Shame though. She does love herself some S & M.”
“You’re impossible,” I say.
“Impossibly awesome.”
Devon slides the DVD across the island to me and winks, then turns to grab some plates from the cabinet. As she lifts onto her toes and reaches upward, her shirt lifts a little exposing the skin at her back. The memory of how soft and warm she was that night on the dance floor makes me grip the edge of the counter. I remind myself why I’m here. To comfort. To listen. Not to ogle.
She turns and meets my gaze, freezes with the plates against her chest. It’s like every time she sees me in her kitchen, her brain needs to re-acclimate.
