“Hot date? Let me guess, you’re seeing Brad,” Lindy singsonged.
“Brad? Who is Brad?” Krista asked, sitting down her wine in shock to stare at me.
I opened my mouth and closed it, desperately trying to think of an excuse. But Lindy didn’t wait on me to answer.
“He’s this super hot econ major that Skylar has been talking to,” she said. “Are you guys official yet?”
“How come you’ve never told me about this?” Krista asked as Kyle knocked on the front door. “Is he in your date notebook?”
I grabbed my backpack from beside the couch. “I have to go. I’m just going to the library. One more final left, you know? Gotta prep.”
I opened the door for Kyle, grateful for the distraction. “Kyle, hi! How’s it going? How’s work?” I said with a bright smile.
He gave me a strange look, not sure why I was talking to him more than I ever had before. “Hi, Skylar, you doing okay?”
I glanced at my watch. “Okay, well, I have to go.”
“Tell Brad we said hi,” Lindy said with a laugh.
“Not seeing Brad! Going to the library,” I said over my shoulder, rushing out the door.
As I drove the 24 minutes to Dean’s, I tried to recall every detail I’d told Lindy about Brad, knowing Krista would have questions.
And then everything I knew about fictional, perfect Brad went out the window when Dean opened his door, smiling at me. I closed my eyes, so annoyed that he was so attractive. He was wearing a fashionably tattered white v-neck, his collarbone tattoo on full display, his first chest tattoo peeking out under the hem, his distressed jean jacket, gray pants, several beaded bracelets, silver necklaces and rings, and black hoops for earrings.
“Damn, you look hot,” he said, pulling me inside. “Why haven’t you worn this skirt before?”
He pushed me against the wall, kissing me hard, nothing like the soft kiss in the parking lot from the last time we’d seen each other, nearly erasing it from memory. I dropped my backpack, wrapping my legs around him as he picked me up. He turned, sitting me on his kitchen island, already pulling off my white cashmere sweater.
“I missed you,” I said, unable to think clearly, kissing his mouth, neck, collarbone, pushing off his jacket. “Shit, I didn’t mean that,” I said breathlessly, shaking my head. “I meant I missed this,” I said as he tugged off my skirt. “Sex. Just sex.”
He nodded, kissing my neck. “No, I get it, I kept thinking about you, too,” he said, his voice low and raspy, picking me up again, walking me to the bed as I worked off his shirt. “This, whatever, it doesn’t matter.”
We fell to the bed, kissing harder than ever before until we couldn’t take it anymore, falling off of each other, unable to breathe. I closed my eyes, still trying to catch my breath, as he laid next to me. I rolled on my side, lifting up on my elbow to look at him.
He grinned at me. “What?”
“You’re really attractive.”
He laughed. “So are you.”
“But I didn’t mean I missed you.”
“It’s fine. I know what you meant,” he said easily with another laugh and closed his eyes.
I sat up, gathering the trail of my clothes from the bed to the front door. As I passed through the kitchen, I scooped up my backpack and settled on his couch, grabbing a blanket and pulling out my notecards for my final economics presentation. I might have lied to Krista and Lindy about going to the library, but I had every intention of preparing for my final exam.
After several minutes, Dean joined me on the couch, sitting on the farthest cushion. “Did you still want help on that lettering thing?”
I paused, sitting down my cards on my lap. “You don’t really have to help me. I think I was just being, like, weirdly flirty or something. I was still in date-mode or something that night.”
He looked at me, not convinced.
“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “But you definitely weren’t flirting with that guy. You looked bored out of your mind,” he said, picking up his sketchpad from the coffee table.
“You aren’t supposed to talk about my dates.”
He flashed a smile at me and shrugged again, not responding.
I sighed and moved my notecards to the coffee table, reaching in my backpack for the sealed save the date envelopes and my laptop.
“You were right, though. I was bored,” I admitted, sitting the envelopes down with a thud. “Will you help me? Just show me what you did. I’m sure I can figure it out once I see you do a couple.”
After three minutes, I knew I was wrong. I definitely had no idea what he was doing to make perfect script letters. He hadn’t even needed to practice on a piece of paper first.
“How do you know how to do this?” I asked after a moment.
All I had accomplished was moving to sit in front of the coffee table next to him and reading off the list of names, spelling the more complicated ones as needed.
He glanced at me and looked back at his work. “I don’t know. I just know how to replicate something once I’ve seen it, I guess.”
I watched him, mesmerized by his system. He’d ask for a name, glance at it on my laptop, pick up an envelope, and look at it for exactly three seconds with the same focused expression I’d only seen when he’d looked at the moon all those weeks ago. Then he’d sit the envelope down and adjust the brush pen in his tatted hand exactly two times before pressing pen to paper. Moments later, a flawless script would exist, spaced evenly, never crooked, never off-center, just perfect. He would hold the envelope up, look at it for two seconds, and then sit it aside. The whole process took less than two minutes.
“You’re really talented,” I said once he finished an envelope.
He half-smiled at me. “Thanks. What’s the next name?”
I read off a name from the spreadsheet Krista had sent me, and Dean nodded, restarting his process.
“You don’t have to watch me,” he said after a minute, not looking up from the envelope he was working on. “I’m not going to mess up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I shook my head, realizing the only thing I’d been doing was staring, taking in the way he moved and the way he looked.
“Right, sorry, yeah, I guess if you don’t care, I could do something productive with my time,” I said, picking up my notecards. “I have a presentation I need to prepare for anyway.”
He sat an envelope aside, nodding. “That’s perfect. Let’s hear it.”
I immediately felt my face flush. “Um, what? No, I’ll just read my notecards silently.”
“Didn’t you say it’s a presentation? Those usually involve spoken words,” he said with a laugh. “I work better when I have something to listen to. So it’s either your presentation or nineties hip hop.”
I laughed and shook my head. “No, I can’t. I get too nervous in front of people.”
“Which is why you should practice, right. Plus, I disagree. You’re very good at doing other things in front of me, so this shouldn’t be any harder. You’re even wearing clothes in this scenario,” he said with a grin.
I hated that he made me laugh. That his logic made sense.
“Okay, but, just, don’t judge me.”
He smiled, not looking up from where he was writing. I cleared my throat, standing. After a moment of hesitation, realizing he was mostly in his own world anyway, I started my presentation about market equilibrium. By the third run-through, pacing around his room, my face still flushed, I found myself actually doing a pretty good job. By the fifth time, I didn’t need my notecards. I took a deep breath, feeling exhausted as I walked back to stand in front of the couch. A stack of 15 envelopes sat in front of him, but he’d stopped working, his rich brown eyes watching just me.
I made a face. “Look, I know it’s still rough but—”
“You’re brilliant, aren’t you?” he interrupted.
I felt taken aback, unable to stop the smile that appeared on my face. “No, it’s just
a silly presentation I’m going to bomb,” I said with an eye roll.
“It didn’t sound silly. I didn’t know the specific economic stuff you said, but it’s clear you know what you’re doing. The way you carried yourself … You made me actually want to listen.”
He had an expression on his face I couldn’t read. I wondered if my face had looked the same way when I’d watched him writing. I shifted, sitting down my notecards, suddenly feeling nervous.
“Well, um, thank you. I appreciate your feedback.”
“No problem,” he said, looking away from me.
I sat down next to him on the floor as he rubbed his hand with his thumb. I nodded at the motion. “Cramp?”
He kind of laughed. “Yeah, I didn’t realize I’d been doing this for forty minutes straight.”
“Oh, wow,” I said, realizing I’d lost track of time, too. “Here, the least I can do is help you,” I said with a laugh and, without thinking, took his hand, massaging his palm with my fingers.
Even though his hands had been all over me countless times, I’d never touched his hand like this, realized that they were soft, actually looked at his tattoos. He had a henna pattern on the back of his hand, curving up to and around his wrist, three black lines below the knuckle on his thumb, and four above the knuckle on his ring finger. He had a star on the inside of his ring finger, too, and several tiny moons wrapping around his index finger. After a moment, I realized I’d been so distracted that I’d stopped rubbing his hand and was just kind of holding it instead. I dropped it quickly, standing.
“Sorry,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
I glanced around his room, wanting to look at anything but him, figuring he was probably about to make some joke about our no-intimacy Rule 4. I looked over at his easel, but the canvas wasn’t facing me.
“Can I grab a piece of paper from your backpack?” he said as I walked away. “This is a really complicated last name.”
“Sure,” I said, ducking my head as I crossed over to his easel.
As he reached into my backpack, I looked at the canvas, completely blown away.
What had been totally blank a few weeks ago was transformed into a landscape, an exact replica of where we’d stood less than a month ago in his backyard. It was absolutely beautiful, perfect, the stars seeming to shine straight off the canvas, the moon washing over the houses, even the cold somehow represented in the painting.
Stunned, I looked over at Dean, opening my mouth to give him a compliment he definitely deserved and to ask several questions, when I noticed which notebook he had grabbed from my backpack.
“Oh, shit,” I said, rushing over to him.
He looked up at me and laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t read anything.”
He tore out the blank page next my pro and con list about Collin and closed my date notebook, but didn’t sit it down.
I reached out my hand. “Give me.”
“I really can’t ask anything about this?”
“You said you didn’t read it,” I said, reaching for the notebook but he moved it away from me. I glared at him. “Dean, Rule 2.”
“I didn’t,” he said with an eye roll. “But I’m pretty sure I can piece together what I saw.”
He handed me the notebook, and I swiftly grabbed it, sitting down on the couch. He faced me from the floor, propping his head up with his arm resting on the seat, his fingers in his dark hair.
“Is it really a Rule 2 situation because doesn’t that imply I’m breaking a jealousy rule? I’m not jealous, I’m morbidly curious,” he said with a grin.
I crossed my arms, pressing the notebook against my chest.
“And also, I think Rule 2 is just about dates. And I’m not asking you about the specific dates. I’m asking you about what you do after the dates once the dude is gone,” he continued.
“Dean,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’re driving me crazy.”
He looked at me, his eyes sparkling. “Awh, Skye,” he said, placing his hand on my leg. “You drive me crazy, too.”
I sat my notebook to the side, placed my hand over his, pressing his fingers down on my skin, and moved to sit on top of him.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “I’m not finished with your envelopes,” he said, his lips against my neck.
“I don’t care about the envelopes,” I said, taking off my sweater.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said lowly. “You’re distracting me so I’ll stop asking about that notebook.”
I groaned, taking his shirt off and kissing his collarbone. “Is it working?”
He nodded, kissing me, not pausing even a second to answer.
★☽★★☽
“Oh my god, yes!”
From my place on the couch, I looked over at Dean sitting on the floor, envelopes stacked in front of him. He looked so excited.
“Um, what’s up?” I said, slowly sitting down the bridal magazine I’d been flipping through. He did a double-take at the magazine but moved past it, too excited about whatever was happening.
“That was twenty, you just did it twenty times,” he said, pointing at me. “One full week, ‘Jingle Bells,’ twenty times. Pay up.”
My mouth dropped open. “No way, I did not,” I responded, rolling my eyes hard.
“Yes, you did,” he said, frowning. “I’ve been paying attention. So now I get to cash in. That’s the rule. Rule 9. I get something I want.”
I shook my head. “That’s not a real rule.”
“Then why is that here?” he asked, nodding toward the heater that had appeared over the weekend between the couch and the bed, closest to where I was curled up.
I tried to hide the smile he was forcing on me.
“Okay, even if it’s a real rule, I don’t trust your counting.”
He rolled his eyes and moved to sit next to me, flexing his hand from where he’d been working on the envelopes. I reached out and took it, rubbing his palm for him. I’d rationalized I could do that for him since he’d been doing all my envelopes this past week.
“I knew you would say that, so I made sure to commit every time to memory. The first time was on Sunday, right after we hooked up in my car. You were rebraiding your hair from where it had fallen out. The second time was Monday night, after your date left, and you were doing accounting homework when I took your cup. The third time was that same night when you were packing up your backpack. Next was on Thursday, after our first round and you were sitting on the couch, writing something in that big planner thing you have—”
“Okay, okay,” I said, pulling him on top of me, shushing him with my lips. “I get it. Fine, what do you want?”
“So you agree that’s the rule and our contract is rock solid?” he said, lifting up on his elbows, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
I rolled my eyes again. “Sure.”
He reached out and tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear, kissing the spot right below it, sending chills down my spine.
“I want to read your notebook,” he said simply, his breath against my skin. “The one with the intriguing list.”
I laughed, pushing him off of me. “No way, that’s not—”
“You said the contract was rock solid,” he said, moving to face me, all his attention on me.
“Why are you so curious? It’s not a big deal. I like to keep track.”
“So those are all the guys you’re seeing at the same time?” he asked, slightly surprised. “And you need a notebook to keep up with them all?”
I laughed. “No, it’s just like record keeping. Historical data of sorts. Pros and cons.”
He looked at me, considering this, not saying anything. I hated that he was such a good listener.
I hesitated, not sure how to explain it. Other than Krista, no one else knew about my date notebook. I grabbed it from my backpack, but held on to it, trying to decide the right words.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” I said, giving in, figuring what the he
ll, Dean’s opinion really didn’t matter anyway. “It started out as a way for me to decide if I wanted to stay in a relationship with some guy. And then after we broke up, it became a joke with my sister when I started dating and couldn’t decide if my dates were good or bad or if I wanted to see the guy again. The whole thing just seemed chaotic. So she suggested I make a pro and con list so I wouldn’t waste my time. And at first it was funny, but then it became a real system.”
“So that’s why you always do coffee shop dates. You were serious about the whole variable, constant thing,” he said, referencing the conversation that led to our first kiss. I blushed at the memory, quickly pushing it out of my mind.
“Right. Dating is just this big math problem, you know? So if I can control all of the other variables, then I can focus on the guy and decide if he’s perfect.”
“Perfect,” Dean repeated, squinting at me. “And a pro and con list is doing that for you?”
“It’s not just one list though,” I said, flipping through the pages of my notebook. “I have all this data, all of these different guys, and eventually, it’s going to add up. I’ll know exactly what I want.”
“So is it about perfection or what you want?”
I looked at him, confused how they were different.
“Well, I want perfection.”
“Right,” he said, nodding. “And have you ever come close?”
I shook my head, thinking of Michael and how he had checked all the boxes. “I don’t think so.”
I paused, not sure if we were about to break Rule 1 or if we already had, but willing to push it just this once. “What about you?”
He half-smiled at me, taking the notebook I offered. “I’m not looking for perfection, so I’m not sure. And I’m certainly not making lists of the girls I’ve seen.”
“But I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of girls,” I said, thinking he wouldn’t be that good in bed without some practice. “So you must be looking for something.”
He shrugged, flipping through the pages, pausing every so often to scan a page or two, amused.
“So what’s your plan then?” I pressed. “Just hook up with a bunch of women until you’re old and alone?”
A Guy Like Him Page 10
