He’s hurt and trying to hide it.
I push up onto my knees and inch closer, lifting my hand toward his back before stopping myself.
“Carrson…” My fingers hover, then fall to the ground. “Are you okay?”
He glances over his shoulder, then away again. “You’re too slow,” he says, his voice harsh, meant to sound like an insult.
I reach out anyway, letting my fingers brush lightly against his back. I already know what’s coming.
He flinches.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
“What?” Even that single word comes out biting.
“Not let anyone touch you.”
“Why should I let you?” he snaps. “I barely know you.”
I let it pass. This isn’t about me.
I sit back, crossing my legs beneath me. “You’re right,” I say easily. “We don’t know each other very well.”
He gives me a long, skeptical look, like he’s waiting for more.
He’s not wrong. I know of him, newspaper articles, quiet observations from a distance, but that isn’t the same as knowing him. Not really.
The truth is, I want to.
Part of it is selfish. I want to understand how this place works, how Ashford House and Rosewood Hall produce people with that kind of influence.
But it’s notonly that.
I want to understand him. Why he keeps himself out of reach. What drives him. What makes him smile, like he did earlier. And, if I’m being honest, what it would be like if he didn’t pull away.
I rest my chin in my palm, thinking. “What’s your favorite color?”
“What?” He turns toward me, brows pulling together, his expression so genuinely confused that I laugh.
“I said,” exaggerating each word, each one louder than the last, “what’s your favorite color?”
He blinks. “I don’t think I have one.”
“Of course you do.” I smile, letting him know this is supposed to be fun. “Everyone does.”
“Umm…” He glances around, attention drifting to the trees that form a canopy over our heads. A bird calls in the distance, another answering. “Green?”
“Are you saying that because we’re in a forest?”
“No.”
The slight jut of his lower lip gives him away.
“Okay,” I say, waving it off. “Next question. Favorite food?”
He considers that more seriously than it deserves. “Pizza.”
“Me too.” I lean in a little. “Toppings?”
