She tugs me closer.
I’m not dancing. Not really. It’s more like needing to scratch your back when your nail polish is still wet. My hands move around, lagging behind the music, feet shifting. Not perfect, but the way Peyton’s cheesing at me, you’d think it was.
Her amber eyes glimmer in the dim light of the cabin, her voice rising loud and off-key as she sings along. I can’t help but laugh. She’s awful. But the way she throws herself into it, I think she knows. And for some reason, I don’t even care about the noise curfew anymore. She can squawk the lyrics as loud as she wants, and I’ll listen to every word.
“You sound like a dying cat.” I chuckle.
She grins. “So?”
The wire from the earbud pulls tight, nearly tugging free from our ears. She steps in to adjust the slack, releasing my hand. For some stupid reason, my heart drops. That is, until her palms settle low on my waist, looping around my hips.
She moves with the rhythm, swaying closer, breath warm against my skin. Her eyes flick up to my lips, and for a moment, everything stops.
She’s still singing, and I’m still listening, but the air in my lungs freezes, and my heart skips. I wonder if she can feel the static. If her heart is pressing against the walls of her chest, searching for the beat of mine.
As the last “pretty woman” rolls off her tongue, we stand there breathless, faces inches apart. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. Peyton’s still holding my waist, her breath still ghosting over my mouth.
Just like the locker room.
And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, when my mind is screaming at me to act, to do something, to close the space, she breaks the silence.
“You know, I have articles written about me too,” she says softly. My gaze stays trained on those plush, soft lips.
“I’m willing to bet those paint you in a better light than mine,” I breathe.
A smile flickers across her face. “Sometimes.” She nods. Then her eyes tip up to meet mine, pupils swallowing the golden hue of her irises. “Sometimes not.”
I fall silent, just studying her. The slope of her button nose, the shade of her eyes. I fear that for someone who can’t stand her, I know a little too much about her every perfect detail.
My heart thuds mercilessly. Hopefully. “What do you do?” I ask, but it comes out as a whisper. “I mean, to help with it.”
That little crease sinks into her cheek, and cold air rushes to my lips as she takes a step back. “This.”
Eighteen
Peyton
FINAL CHAT FR THIS TIME
BRADY
Just through everyone should know the cafeteria has KOLACHES this morning
SIMS BUT NOT THE GAME
Huh?
YERSIE
wtf is a kolache
HAMMIE
???
BRADY
We ate them last year at camp in Texas? You don’t remember?
