That blush? It lit a fuse deep in my gut, something feral and hungry I didn’t want to fight. She didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t punch me in the arm and call me a perv like she used to. She blushed. She fuckingblushed.
It was dangerous how fast I could get addicted to it, this feeling.
I ripped open my duffel, tossing clothes onto the bed whilesneaking glances at her. Dark curls framed her face, half-tied up in two messy buns, the rest cascading down her back. Her Van Halen shirt hugged curves I’d spent years guiltily memorizing. Black cutoff shorts left little to the imagination, and I had to stop myself from staring at her legs.
Had they always been that long? That tan?
She had laughed at one of my stupid jokes, scrunched her nose, and stuck her tongue out in that way that made my stupid grin grow wider.
She was cute as fuck.
I wasn’t shy about the crush I’d carried for years. Hell, it felt like it’d been carved into my skin, sharpened every summer I spent too close to her. I’d learned where to put my hands, what thoughts to bury, which lines not to cross. Was I crossing them now? I kind of wanted to, but I was a mess waiting to happen. I didn’t want to drag her down with me.
Not yet.
But our room was a trap. I was a red-blooded male for crying out loud, and they put me in close proximity with literally the girl of my dreams. I needed to behave myself.
She’s your best friend.I kept telling myself.
But she was one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen, and I was already chasing her in my mind.
Fuck.
“Think I made room for your stuff in this drawer,” she said, glancing up with a smirk.
I grabbed my pile, but she stopped me, eyes narrowing. “You’re putting those in the drawer like that?”
“Yeah?” I shrugged, catching the judgment. “Problem?”
“How will you find anything in that mess?”
Her fingers played with her hair, curling it around her pinky like a siren’s spell. My eyes drifted down to follow the motion, more than once. A weight settled low and sharp in my gut. Heat spread through my body.
I was drunk on her, already.
“Do it yourself, then.” I handed her the mess and tried not to look at her. I looked away.
“I love you, Max. But I’m not your damn maid.” She dropped the clothes on the floor, frustration etched on her face.
I leaned back on the bottom bunk, arms behind my head, hearing her words echo inside me:I love you, Max.
God, how many times was I going to replay that in my head? Her voice was so soft, warm, a tether I never wanted to break.
“Guess it’s someone else’s problem now,” I said, smug. I left the pile where it was.
She exhaled sharply, but started folding. I got up and joined her. I was clumsy, but I made her laugh, and the tension eased a bit.
“That’s the saddest fold I’ve ever seen,” she teased.
“It’s modern art,” I shot back.
“What is its title? Crumpled mess?” She grinned and then showed me how it was done.
Five minutes later, our stuff was sorted, mixed up, and somehow… right.
“Unfair,” I muttered. “You’re just naturally good at this.”
“Nah, you’re just bad,” she said, eyes sparkling.
