He turns his head, and the moment is gone. I’m relieved and disappointed and flushed with feelings I don’t want to feel.
“Are you hungry? I’m hungry,” he announces. Always good for an unsubtle change of subject, he is.
“I’m good.” I type a nonsense sentence as he leaves the room.
I tip my head back against his wall as a nostalgic kind of melancholy drips down my spine. I breathe deeply, count to ten, and browbeat my emotions into a manageable shape.
By the time West returns with a protein bar and starts another game, the weird tension between us has evaporated, and I’m back to writing. The main character is meeting her love interest for the first time. I’m giddy with anticipation, but I’m also at a roadblock; it’s time to describe what he looks like, and I suck at description.
I type the first thing that comes to mind.He has a nose. Two eyes. And a mouth. In a hot way.
I groan and delete it.What do people even look like?
“I need help,” I announce when my fingers have been hovering over the keyboard for the time it takes West’s on-screen character to die and come back to life and then die again.
“Nine times five is forty-five,” West says without skipping a beat. I snort.Now that’s a callback I remember.
Hands still frozen, I study his face: long black eyelashes and a crooked nose. Without my permission, my fingers move.Fox Caldwell is born.
15
Present Day
I follow Westout of the bar and chase him down University, annoyed at myself the whole time.
“Wait!” I call, and I’m mad when he does.
He turns dramatically on his heel (how veryFoxof him), surprise quickly melting into suspicion. His narrowed eyes match the expression on the actor’s face on his T-shirt. I wish he’d take it off.
I huff an exasperated sigh. “Relax, I’m not going tojumpyou.”Why did I say it like that?“ ‘Jump’ as in ‘rob.’ I’m not going to rob you,” I clarify. “I wasn’t meaning ‘jump’ as in ‘jump your bones.’ Sexually.” I cross my arms, irritated. What possessed me to use the wordsexually? Am I still buzzed?
Even now, with the stench of weed swirling around us and undergrads spilling out of bars, West looks exactly like the kind of guy you write a book about. Tall. Brooding. Just the right side of dangerous. My stomach is doing those pleasant swirly loops that lead to bad decisions. He’s a decade-plus virus that I can’t sweat out.
He crosses his arms over his chest, mistrust dissipating into amusement. “So, to be clear, youarehere to jump my bones?” he deadpans.
“Hilarious.”
He drags his fingers through his curls, his shirt riding up again. I try not to watch. “What’s up? You didn’t torture me enough tonight?”
“Is that what it would be?” I put a hand on my waist and cock my hip, all bravado. It’s fine to joke about something that will never happen, right?
He tenses, his expression steely. He chooses his next words carefully. “What are you doing here, Mars?”
I drop my hand. “You still can’t read, talk about, or listen to your own book, huh?”
“Something like that,” he says flatly.
I feel a small, obnoxious urge to apologize. It’s easy enough to ignore. “You forgot your jacket,” I say quickly, relieved to have found an excuse for standing under a streetlight with him.
“Okay.” West nods.
He blinks. Patient. Waiting for…Oh.
Goose bumps streak across my chest as I slide the jacket off. My nipples harden under this ill-advised sundress. I wonder if he notices.
West’s eyes are dark as they dip low for a fraction of a second. “Keep it. You’re cold.”
Question asked and answered. My body flushes hot, desire gathering between my thighs.
