Page 93 of River & Rue

“Shut up right now.”

His head snaps in my direction, confusion furrowing his brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You wear glasses? How did I not know this?”

I sound belligerent but can’t help it. In no universe would I handle the sight of River Ashburn in nerdy wire-framed glasses any differently.

His forehead smooths, amusement brightening his eyes. “I only use them for reading and sketching.”

My gaze flickers to his open sketchbook, but it’s angled away from me. “What are you drawing?”

“I’ll tell you if you let me read what you wrote today.”

“Not a chance.”

“Same answer.” He smirks. “You can’t stop staring at my glasses. They make me look old, huh?”

My body temperature spikes.

“Not at all. They’re, uh… nice.”

I’m sweating. Literally sweating. And I can’t make my legs move, which means I’m still squatting over my chair like I’m about to take a dump.

River’s eyes roam my face and chest, both doubtlessly beet red. He sits up and drops his feet from the railing.

“Are you feeling okay? Dizzy from too much sugar?”

I laugh like a goddamn hyena.

“No way. Sugar is my middle name. Or it would be—I don’t have a middle name. Thanks for the apples, by the way. It’s hot today, isn’t it? And I have to pee. Super bad. I should also shower since I’m really sweaty. From writing an action scene, not for other reasons. Okay, bye.”

Desperation unlocks acrobatic skills I didn’t know I had. Laptop clutched to my chest, I spring off the chair and dart inside.

32

river

​. . .​

cherry on top

I close my sketchbook and set it down beside my chair, then chuck my pencil onto it. Elbows on my knees, I try to physically wipe the smile off my face with a hand. But it doesn’t budge.

Rue has a glasses kink. More specifically, a me-in-glasses kink.

I chuckle at the memory of her stammering with a bright-red face, her eyes so wide they were ringed in white.

When her shower turns on, I retreat inside. Every thud of my heart pumps more adrenaline into my veins, but I make myself wait. I drink a glass of water, retie my hair, and check my pits and my breath. I stretch my neck and shoulders, the left side sore from hitting the flagstones. I’m sure I’ll be bruised tomorrow, but I couldn’t care less.

The second the water turns off, I’m on my way across the porch. She left her front door open. Her bedroom door too. As I near the latter, the soft, herbal scent of her bodywash grows.

I stop on the threshold.

Rue stands at her dresser. She’s facing away from me, wrapped in a towel that barely covers her ass. Water beads on her upper back, arms, and shoulders, and damp tendrils of hair curl against her neck. The rest sits in a messy knot on the top of her head, a cherry on the dessert I’m about to consume.

“Rue.”

She shrieks and spins, brandishing a hairbrush like a sword before slumping against the dresser. Sadly, the knot holding her towel survives.