Tied Up in You

by Erin Fletcher

  “You. Me. This.” He leaned down and kissed me, short but sweet. “I’m happy. Are you happy?”

  If the way the force of gravity suddenly seemed a lot less than normal wasn’t happiness, I didn’t know what was. “Very,” I said, and kissed him again.

  “Remember, juniors and seniors, you can enter one project into the scholarship competition. However, a win in one of the categories does not guarantee a scholarship win, and a scholarship win does not guarantee a win in one of the categories.” Mr. Palmer was one of those teachers who made you appreciate natural speaking voices—ones with inflection, animation, enthusiasm—simply because he didn’t have any of those things. As the STEM coordinator, he was definitely part of the T, which meant he spent more time with technology than he did with other people. That was saying something, considering he spent much of his time interacting with students.

  “Any questions about the scholarship part of the competition?”

  I raised my hand.

  Mr. Palmer nodded at me. “Yes…Miss…”

  It wasn’t any surprise that, even though this was my fourth year involved in the STEM program, Mr. Palmer couldn’t remember my name. It definitely wasn’t personal. The guy couldn’t remember to trim his nose or ear hairs, let alone remember any of our names. Though I wasn’t in any of his classes, I assumed he gave everyone an A simply because he couldn’t tell students apart.

  “It’s more of a general question,” I said. “Is that okay?”

  He motioned for me to continue.

  “Do our projects have to be completely finalized by next week?”

  “Yes. You may still make minor tweaks up until the day of the competition, but the vast majority of the project must be complete so we can determine which projects will be selected in each category.”

  I wasn’t so much worried about the “will my project be selected” thing. My project could fit into many different categories, and seniors’ projects tended to be the first picks. Plus, my project should be impressive. If I could get it working. That was the part that had me worried.

  Ever since that first, accidental kiss, I’d been spending too much time thinking about Jackson. Wasting hours that I really should have spent working on the project. Working on scholarship applications. I’d read an article recently that broke down different jobs and loans and found that without scholarships, most people were financially better off not going to college than going and being unable to pay loans. The job with my dad’s car company? It would barely be enough to pay off loans. Barely. But at least I’d have one foot in the door. Most college graduates didn’t even have that.

  “Miss…?” Mr. Palmer said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I jolted. The meeting was over. Most of my classmates were gone, and the last few were packing up their things.

  “Sorry,” I said, immediately closing my notebook and shoving it into my bag.

  “It’s okay,” Mr. Palmer said. He studied me. “Are you still working on the scientifically accurate light-reflecting solar system controlled by the app?”

  Go figure. The guy couldn’t remember my one syllable last name, but he could remember exactly what I’d been working on for the last year. “Yes,” I said.

  His face lit up. “Good. I can’t wait to see it.”

  Yeah, I thought.

  You and me both.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jackson

  “Ta-da,” I said as I flipped on the basement light.

  “I’ve definitely never been in your basement,” Malina said.

  “That’s because the only thing that’s down here is my workout equipment.” I motioned to the weights and the treadmill I used when the Michigan weather was too intense for running outside, which was most of the year. “Well, my workout equipment and this card table, which I set up for you.” Malina and I wanted to see each other, but were also both dealing with pressure. I had hockey pressure, and she had school/college/scholarship pressure. Our compromise was that she would come over and work on stuff while I worked out. We’d get to be together, and when we both finished, we’d hang out as our reward.

  “It’s perfect,” she said, setting her backpack on the table and taking her laptop out.

  While she waited for it to boot up, she crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. The basement was unfinished, so it was pretty cold down there. I’d warm up as soon as I started working out, but I’d already thought of a solution for her. I grabbed the sweatshirt I’d draped over the chair and held it out to her.

  She smiled. “So sweet. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  When she pulled it over her head, she was still smiling. “It smells like you.”

  “Yeah?” I asked. “Is that a good thing?” Then I pulled her toward me. She might have been focused on how the sweatshirt smelled, but I was more focused on how she looked wearing it. Seriously hot.

  “A very good thing,” she said.

  The sleeves were too long for her, so I rolled them up past her wrists. Then I took her hands in mine, intertwining my fingers with hers, and kissed her. I wanted more, so I put my hands on the small of her back and pulled her close, kissing down her neck to the spot where my sweatshirt met her skin.

  “Hey,” she said softly, pulling away a little.

  “What?” I asked in between kisses.

  “You’re supposed to be working out.”

  With a grin, I took two of her fingers and pushed them against the pulse point in my neck. “I am working out.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, this is one of your coach’s approved workouts?”

  “It should be. I’ll submit it to him for his approval.” I leaned in and kissed her on the lips again, tasting her smile.

  She let me go on for another few seconds, then pulled back. “Hey,” she said. “You might be getting a workout, but I’m definitely not getting any work done. I have that paper due on Monday, and I’m barely even through the outline. Plus there are two more scholarship application deadlines next week. And then I—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, forcing myself to step back. “I get it. I’m distracting you.” I took another step back. “I’ll be over here. Working out. And you’ll be over there. Doing smart people things.”

  “Right.” She sat down at the table, took a notebook and pen out of her bag, and started working.

  Meanwhile, I jumped on the treadmill. My usual routine was to jog a mile or two to warm up and then hit the weights. It was an arm day. My legs were sore from my last leg day, but they started to loosen up as I jogged.

  The good thing was that the treadmill faced away from Malina, so I couldn’t be distracted by the sight of her and do something idiotic like miss a step and fall flat on my face. The bad thing was that I usually blasted music while I ran, and without that to distract me, all I could think about was her.

  At one point, I glanced over my shoulder at her. It almost caused a misstep, but I caught myself at the last second. She was hard at work, her fingers flying over the keys, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. I forced myself to mentally run through some of the team’s newest plays to keep my brain where it needed to be.

  Once my muscles were warm, I took a drink of water and hit the weights. I started with the dumbbell bench press. The first set of reps was easy with that weight, but I knew by the third set, it would be a struggle. I sat up after the first set to give my chest and arms a little break, and glanced over at Malina. She was staring at me, but the second my eyes met hers, she startled and turned back to the computer, knocking her pen on the ground in the process.

  Good to know I wasn’t the only one who was distracted. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” she said quickly. She picked up the pen and pointedly did not look at me.

  “Good.” Since she was watching, and because I was warm enough from my run to make up for the cold basement, I took off my shirt. I laid back down on the bench for my next set with my head toward her, giving her full view o
f my bare shoulders and chest. Once half the set was over, I let myself tip my head back and look at her. She was watching me again, pen at the corner of her mouth, but of course the second we made eye contact, she flinched.

  “Stop it!” she said.

  I laughed, straightened my head, and did another rep. “Stop what? I’m working out. Wasn’t this the agreement?”

  “Yes, but…”

  I did two more reps, each one a little more challenging than the one before. “But what?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’m going back to work.”

  I didn’t necessarily believe her, but I said, “Okay,” anyway. I finished the set and sat up. When I looked over this time, she was actually working. I managed to keep my focus through the last set of reps, and the first set of tricep dips. But when I sat on the bench to rest, I found myself staring at Malina. There was something sexy about watching her work. The concentration was clear on her face. Her fingers tapped the keys with intention and purpose. Every once in a while, she’d mouth the words she was typing. I wasn’t sure if she realized she was doing it. What I was sure about was that I loved watching her lips move.

  Those lips distracted me until I noticed her fingers slowing on the keys. Finally, she looked over at me. This time, she raised both eyebrows.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re not doing anything.”

  Oh. I guessed that particular break between sets was a little longer than normal. Okay, a lot longer than normal. “Right.” I grinned, put my hands back on the bench, and dropped back into the dips. I forced myself to stay focused on counting, but Malina didn’t go back to work. She stared as I lifted myself up and down, up and down. When I finished the end of the second set, I sat on the bench and gave my arms a little shake.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She physically snapped back to attention. “What?”

  “You’re not doing anything,” I teased.

  She sighed and ran a hand through her long hair. “You’re right. This was a terrible idea. We suck at staying focused.”

  It was true. I slid over on the bench, patted the empty space, and motioned for her to come join me. When she didn’t immediately come over, I said, “Come on. You’re not getting much done anyway. Come do some tricep dips with me.”

  “Are they hard? You know I have noodle arms.”

  “There’s only one way to fix that.”

  At that, she shoved the computer aside and came to sit next to me. I showed her how to position her wrists so she wouldn’t hurt them and how to dip down, focusing on keeping her elbows in instead of flailing out to the sides.

  “Like this?” she asked.

  I nodded. She had good form. “Like that.”

  “This isn’t so hard,” she said, picking up the pace a little.

  “Talk to me when you’re in your third set.”

  When we took a break after her first set, she rolled her wrists. “Which muscle does this work?”

  “Your triceps,” I said. When she didn’t respond in recognition, I turned my arm and flexed it, then pointed to the correct muscle.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Transfixed, she reached up and ran one finger along my arm, outlining the muscle. The basement-cold of her touch felt like ice against the workout-warm of my skin. Though my arms were tired from having completed my third set, I kept the muscle flexed.

  “I like your tricep,” she said. Then she studied her own “noodle arms.” “Mine…not so much. I’m not sure I have a tricep.”

  With a laugh, I turned and pulled one leg over the bench so I was facing her. “Let’s see,” I said. Through the fabric of my sweatshirt, I ran my fingers over her thin arm until I found her tricep. “It’s there,” I said. “Come on. Flex it.”

  She frowned. “I am flexing it.”

  I gave her arm a little squeeze. “That’s okay. It’s perfect.”

  She lifted one hand to touch the front of my arm. “This is the bicep, right?”

  I flexed it for her. “You got it.”

  She ran her fingers up my arms to the tops of my shoulders. I shivered, but whether it was due to the fact that I was shirtless and rapidly cooling down in a cold basement or from her touch was a toss-up.

  “What muscles are these?” she asked. “Shoulderceps?”

  I laughed. “For someone so smart, you’re really not up on human anatomy, are you?”

  She glanced up from my shoulders long enough to smile. “I’ve been much more into physical sciences than biological ones. But right now…”

  I grinned at her. “I’m glad I’m having an influence on you.” I motioned for her to turn and face me. She swung one leg over the bench, as well. I slid a few inches closer to her. I put my hands on her shoulders, where she’d just been touching mine. “Trapezius,” I said. I let my hands drop a little lower, but not too low. “Pectorals,” I said.

  “Trapezius and pectorals,” she echoed. “I think those might be some of my favorites.”

  “Yeah? You want to end the anatomy lesson there?”

  She gave a firm shake of her head. “Keep going.”

  I slid my hands down to the sides of her rib cage. “Intercostal muscles. Those aren’t very big or strong. But these…” I let my hands drop down to her sides. Then I slid my hands up her shirt to rest in the same place. I brushed my thumbs against her abs. Her skin was warm, and she shivered against my hands. I liked making Malina shiver. A lot. “These are your obliques. Big. Strong.”

  “Not as strong as yours,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “You don’t have to be as strong as me,” I said. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  Then I slid closer to her on the bench, closing the distance between us, and kissed her. She melted into me and kissed me back, taking some control and making my heart race faster than the treadmill had. When my sweatshirt got in the way, she pulled back long enough to let me tug it over her head. I wanted to take the other shirt with it, but I settled for letting my hands explore through the thin fabric of her shirt, taking in what my eyes couldn’t.

  My tongue was doing its own exploration of her mouth when a voice startled me.

  “Luke!”

  I bit my own tongue in surprise and pulled back, wincing at the pain. There, standing at the bottom of the stairs, was Mom. Ice cooled the heat that had been building in my veins.

  “Malina?” Mom asked, incredulous, looking back and forth between the two of us. “What are you doing?”

  “Ms. Reed, I’m really—”

  I cut Malina off mid-apology. “Ever heard of knocking?” I asked my mom.

  “You know, it’s funny. Knocking isn’t a requirement when you sign the mortgage documents. And it’s especially not a requirement when your son is down in the basement all alone with a girl. With your shirt off, I might add.”

  The ridiculousness of the situation almost made me laugh. In less than a year, I’d be a professional hockey player, but I couldn’t be alone with a girl in the house? But since it was Mom’s house, Mom’s rules, I didn’t say that. Malina handed me the sweatshirt I’d pulled off her, and I put it on over my head. “I was working out.” I motioned to the card table I’d set up. “Malina was working on stuff for school.”

  “Uh huh,” Mom said. “That’s exactly what it looked like you were doing.” She pinched the bridge of her nose before turning to Malina. “I think you should go home.”

  Malina didn’t waste any time. She hopped up from the bench, shut her laptop, and shoved everything back into her bag.

  “Here,” I said, taking it so I could carry it upstairs for her.

  Mom stepped aside and motioned for us to walk up first, like if we let her go first, we’d turn around and start having sex before her feet hit the first floor. But I didn’t say anything about that—just let Malina go in front of me and followed behind her, trying not to stare at her gluteus maximus too much as we went.

  When we reached the top of the stairs, M
alina turned to my mom. “I am really sorry, Ms. Reed. It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re right it won’t,” Mom said firmly. Then she turned to me. “Drive her home. I know exactly how long it takes to drive to the Halls’ house. I suggest you don’t stop for any yellow lights.”

  “Good night, Ms. Reed,” Malina said.

  “Good night, Malina. Tell your parents and grandma I said hello.”

  “I will.” As soon as we were out the front door, Malina groaned. “Oh my gosh, your mom is going to kill me.”

  I opened the passenger door for her. Once I was in the driver’s seat and pulling away from the house, I said, “No, she’s not. Trust me. She’ll be pissed at me for a little while, but she didn’t kill any of the other girls.”

  “Oh, so you’ve had lots of girls alone down in your basement? That ‘work out’ thing was practiced?”

  My face warmed. I hadn’t thought that one through very well. “No, no. You’re the only one.” I took a turn toward her house and cleared my throat. “But I have had girls other places, and…” Shit. That sounded worse. “I mean that—”

  “Jackson,” Malina said. “Relax. We’re best friends. I know your dating history. It’s not something you have to hide from me. And, believe it or not, I still want to do this. Still want to do us. For as long as we both want that.”

  Relief cooled the embarrassment that had been heating my skin. I was lucky to have this girl. I’d always been lucky to have her as a friend, but I was even luckier to have her as more than a friend. “I want that, too.”

  “Good. But I hoped I’d be able to stay on your mom’s good side for a tiny bit longer than that, you know?”

  “She’ll get over it,” I said. There was a traffic light in front of us, but thankfully it was green. “It was probably a shock.”

  Malina groaned and put her face in her hands. “I can’t believe your mom walked in on us making out.”

  I couldn’t resist a smile. “Hey, at least only one of us was shirtless.”

  She lightly punched my arm.

  “Ow,” I said. “That hurt. Have you been working on your triceps?”

  She laughed. Man, I loved making the girl laugh. I pulled into her driveway.