“Crosbie—”
But I don’t resist when he grips the front of my shirt and pulls me in for another kiss, even as the frigid air chills my legs and steals my breath.
“That’s just the warm up,” he says, finally releasing me. “I didn’t make you scream last night.” Oh God. Of course he’d focus on that.
I shove him out the door. “That’s because I’m not a porn star.”
He grins. “I bet I can get you to scream.”
“I’m very close to it right now.”
He laughs and jogs down the steps. “See you soon, Nora.”
* * *
Classes are sparsely populated on Monday, post-Halloween weekend hangovers being what they are. Last year, after downing half my body weight in shots and hooking up with the army man, I’d spent three solid days scrubbing off green paint and regretting my life choices.
This year, however, I feel fine. Better than fine, actually. Maybe even a little…optimistic.
Which is stupid, I know. Crosbie’s got a reputation for one night stands, and it’s far easier to say “See you later” than “Goodbye forever,” even if that’s what you mean. Still, this is the first time since Nate started bringing Celestia to the shop that I haven’t watched them with a little bit of longing. Now that some of my more basic needs have been met, I’ve gained some perspective.
That perspective shifts quickly when Marcela strolls in. She’s dressed modestly for Marcela, in tight dark jeans and an equally tight sparkly white sweater, red lipstick and black velvet heels. The shop is half-full when she enters, and everyone watches as she strides through, including Nate and Celestia.
“Hey,” I say, when she squeezes behind the counter and reaches for an apron. “Feeling better?”
“That’s what drugs are for,” she replies, filling a mug with hot water and dumping in an enormous amount of honey. “I figure I’ve got three good hours before I collapse. I just had to get out of that apartment.”
“I offered to visit you yesterday.”
“I know,” she says, patting my arm. “And that was sweet of you. But that place is a germ market and I wanted to spare you.”
“You’re very kind.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
Truth be told, I was glad she turned me down, and not just because I didn’t want to catch her cold. Marcela has a sixth sense about sex, and I needed to put some distance between my…thing…with Crosbie and Marcela’s innate ability to recognize when anyone has done the deed.
Maybe I’m a great actor or maybe it’s just the cold that prevents her from catching on. Or perhaps it’s the fact that though she’s trying hard to pretend she doesn’t notice them, she’s got one eye on Nate and Celestia, who sit in a corner working on a crossword puzzle together.
“Want to go in the back and make donuts?” I ask, hoping to stop her tirade against Celestia before it begins.
“I’ll come in the back and eat donuts,” she replies, reluctantly pulling her gaze away from the adoring couple. “We—” She breaks off and stares over my shoulder as the door opens, the faint sounds of light traffic filtering in along with the new customer. “Well, this is interesting,” she murmurs, a coy smile curving her lips.
My heart immediately starts beating overtime as I slowly turn, expecting Crosbie.
But it’s not Crosbie. It’s Kellan.
“Hey,” he says, shooting me a grin. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, shorts and sneakers, dark hair damp at the temples.
“Hey,” I respond, hoping I don’t look as disappointed as I feel.
“Hey,” Marcela says.
It doesn’t take a genius to see where this is going.
“Hey,” Kellan replies.
They smile at each other, no other words needed.
“Did you want a drink?” I ask loudly. “It’s on me. Marcela, why don’t you go into the back and start on the donuts?”
“Donuts?” Kellan echoes with great interest.
“Come on,” Marcela says, lifting the panel on the counter so he can step behind. “I’ll show you how we make them.”
“You’re sick!” I accuse. “You can’t make donuts.” I turn my attention to Kellan. “And you don’t work here, so you can’t make donuts, either.” I herd them both out from behind the counter and follow, effectively locking us all out.
Kellan holds up his hands defensively. “Simmer down, Thelma. I thought you’d be more relaxed after—”
I widen my eyes in a warning Kellan actually heeds, cutting himself off before he announces my mysterious sexual escapade to Marcela. Marcela scowls as she grabs a lemon from the basket on the counter, turning her back to us as she slices a piece for her drink. With her attention averted, Kellan makes a face like, Why doesn’t she know?
“I’m shy,” I mouth back. It’s not the best response, but it’s all I can come up with. Fortunately, Kellan buys it, nodding his understanding.
The sound of a throat clearing gets our attention, and the three of us look over to see Nate standing a few feet away, next to a customer waiting for a refill.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hastily reaching around to grab the coffee pot and pouring him a new cup. “My apologies.”
Nate crosses his arms and looks at Kellan. “If you’re not going to buy anything—”
Marcela looks ready to argue, but Kellan answers before she can, pulling a wallet from his pocket. “No problem,” he says with an easy smile. “I came for the brownies.” But the way he’s looking at Marcela says his focus may have shifted.
“Here,” Marcela says, using tongs to select a brownie from the plate in the display case. “This is the biggest one.”
Kellan’s smile widens. “Lucky me.”
I look at Nate and he looks at me. We both look like we want to gag.
“What’s the hold up?”
The four of us turn at the sound of the door and the wash of crisp fall air that sweeps in alongside Crosbie. Like Kellan he’s wearing shorts and sneakers, but instead of a sweatshirt he’s got a black T-shirt that clings to his broad chest.
Our eyes meet for a split second, then he turns his attention to Kellan. “You said you were getting a snack,” he accuses, joining our awkward little group. “Not robbing the place.”
“I am getting a snack,” Kellan replies. Then he shoots Marcela a charming little smile. “And maybe a phone number?”
I cannot believe he just did that. The same disbelief is stamped all over Nate’s face, and this no doubt spurs on Marcela as she grins and writes her number on a nearby order pad. She rips off the top page with a flourish and slips it into Kellan’s waiting hand, their fingers lingering about twenty-eight seconds longer than necessary.
I feel bad for Nate and annoyed with Marcela and exasperated by Kellan. But they’re all just background noise when Crosbie shifts a little bit closer, near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, smell the faint tang of his sweat.
“Um…” I say when the silence lingers awkwardly. “Do you want a brownie?”
Crosbie grins at me, but there’s nothing special in the gesture, nothing to suggest anything happened between us, nothing to suggest it will ever happen again. “A brownie?” he asks. “Or a phone number?”
Everyone laughs and I grit my teeth, annoyed.
“Dude,” Kellan says, still laughing. “As if!”
Another customer comes in and Nate looks at us all sternly. “Let’s break this up, shall we? You two have work to do.”
“And you?” Marcela snaps. “You have to figure out the answer to thirty-three across?”
Nate narrows his eyes. “Get back to work.”
“Sorry,” Kellan says, polishing off his brownie and putting a five dollar bill on the counter. “We’re out of here. See you at home, Nora.” He smiles at Marcela. “And see you later. I hope.”
Ugh.
I turn to go back to work, halting when a firm swat on my ass makes me jump. I whip around, stunned, to see Crosbie casually strollin
g out the door after his friend. He doesn’t look at me until they’re outside, but when he turns his head to catch my gaze through the glass, the slight arch of his brow says everything I’d hoped to hear.
chapter thirteen
“I’m sorry,” Marcela says immediately. Ten seconds later we’ve hustled into the kitchen, away from Nate’s evil eye and any actual work.
I look at her blankly. “For what?”
She gestures toward the front. “For that! I know you’re into Kellan and—” She lowers her voice as though there’s someone around to eavesdrop, “and you two hooked up. This isn’t me trying to hurt your feelings or steal him—”
I stand frozen as she rambles on. Somehow, over the course of moving in with Kellan McVey, sleeping twelve feet away from him, and sharing the occasional bowl of cereal, I’ve absolutely gotten over whatever lingering remnants of attraction I’d had. If I looked annoyed out front it was because Marcela was putting on a show for Nate’s benefit and Kellan was, well, being Kellan.
“Stop,” I say, holding up a hand when she shows no signs of tiring. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” she replies, looking pained. “That was a terrible thing to do—”
I hesitate, hoping to walk the fine line between girl-who-used-to-be-into-Kellan and girl-who-is-now-into-his-best-friend. “I’m over him,” I say firmly. “I’m just…over it.”
“But you—”
“You know that saying, absence makes the heart grow fonder? Well, living together has had the opposite effect. He’s a nice guy and a surprisingly tidy roommate, but that’s it. I’m not into him.”
She looks like she wants to believe me but can’t. “Are you sure?”
“A hundred percent. Honest.”
She lets out a breath. “I wasn’t actually going to go out with him,” she says anyway. “It was just—”
“To make Nate jealous?”
“No!” she protests, too loudly. “To show Nate I’m fine with him and what’s her name. I’m less fine with the discount she gets on her shitty drinks, but…”
I don’t believe her for a second but I’m feeling guilty about keeping the Crosbie thing in the dark, even though not for one second do I consider coming clean about it. “Her drinks are so shitty,” I agree instead.
Marcela grabs the tray of uncooked donuts from the oven where they’ve been rising. “And can we talk about the fur coats?”
“Of course—” I break off when my phone buzzes in the front pocket of my apron. “One sec,” I say, frowning at the screen. The number is local but the caller is unknown. I open the message anyway.
Sorry, it reads. Shouldn’t have slapped your ass.
Crosbie. Did he really memorize my number when I rattled it off two mornings ago? More likely he stole it from Kellan’s phone. Not that I’m complaining.
As for the apology, it’s completely unnecessary. I’m not interested in being tossed over his lap and having my ass spanked, but the faint sting of his hand is a pretty heady reminder of the other things those hands can do.
No prob—I start to type, stopping when another message arrives.
I’m hard just thinking about it, it says. Makes running a bitch.
I delete my response and stare at the screen, feeling my chest and stomach tighten. I want more. I want more texts and more hands and more, more, more. More Crosbie Lucas, if it can be believed.
Another text. When do you get off tonight?
I write back immediately. Eight.
I’ll pick you up.
Aware of Marcela watching me, I keep my expression neutral as I type “Okay” and hit send.
“What was that?” she asks when I put away my phone.
“My mother,” I lie, too easily. “She wants to know if I’m going home for Thanksgiving.”
“Are you?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll save that special brand of torture for Christmas.”
“Good. We can cook a turkey.”
“Do you know how to cook a turkey?”
She’s quiet for a second. “No. Do you think Kellan does?”
I look at her sharply, then follow her gaze through the glass windows on the doors, where Nate and Celestia huddle behind the counter while Nate makes one of her specialty drinks.
I sigh.
* * *
My bike is parked in the alley behind the shop, so when we close up for the night I wave good night to Nate and Marcela, who head to their respective cars with goodbyes so cold I shiver in my winter coat. Because Burnham is tiny, the town shuts down fairly early and the streets are dark and quiet, making it easy to spot Crosbie parked half a block away, his car shut off. He lifts a hand in greeting and I nod back, then round the building to the alley. A second later the growl of an engine turning over cuts through the night.
We’d texted back and forth a bit more throughout the evening, agreeing to meet back here after Nate and Marcela were gone. Now I watch headlights illuminate the dumpsters as Crosbie turns into the alley and drives toward me at a crawl.
I’m not going to lie. I’m totally willing to shuck my jeans and hustle into the backseat and do everything people do when they meet each other in dark alleys at night. Though our texts were relatively tame, I’m burning with anticipation. I’ve never really felt like this before. Truly, seriously…horny. A crude, lame word to describe what’s going on in my belly and the places below, but there you have it.
Crosbie seems to be on a different page, however, because he stops the car and simply reaches over to push open the passenger side door. No lunging out for a passionate, forbidden embrace. I squash my silly disappointment and get in, and the overhead light immediately blinks off, leaving us in the dim glow of the tiny dashboard lights. The car is old but clean, with roll down windows and seats that sag slightly in the middle. There’s a gear shift between us and an air freshener in the shape of a candy cane dangles from the mirror, making the car smell like toothpaste.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly shy.
He glances over and smiles as he puts the car in drive. “Hey.” He’s wearing a puffy black jacket and jeans, and even in silhouette, he’s sexy.
This seems like a good “Your place or mine?” moment, except neither of those places is an option. I live with Kellan, and Crosbie lives in a frat house. I peer surreptitiously over my shoulder at the small backseat.
“Don’t worry,” he says, steering us out of the alley and turning onto the street. “I cleaned up.”
“I wasn’t worried about that.” Though I am disappointed—clean or not, there’s no way the two of us could fit back there. In fact, now that we’re here, I’m not sure where it is we are, exactly. Or where we’re going. Crosbie heads for the freeway, taking the exit south and merging neatly with the sparse traffic. I clear my throat and look around. “What, uh… What’s going on?”
He looks over. “You all right?” He drives with just his left hand, his elbow propped up against the window. His free hand rests on top of the gear shift, fingers tapping in time with the song playing on the radio, the volume so low it’s almost impossible to hear.
“I’m fine. Just…what are we doing?”
“Getting out of Burnham for a bit,” he replies. Then he takes a second look at me, concerned. “Is that not okay?”
Two exits away is a slightly larger town called Gatsby. No buses come this way, so I’ve only been a handful of times when Nate or Marcela drove. It’s a nice enough place, with box stores and movie theaters. Things to do that don’t revolve around coffee, alcohol, or school.
“It’s fine.”
“You want to go back? We can, no problem. But I didn’t know where we could go, you know? Kellan twisted his ankle and wanted to stay in to ice it, and my place is always busy.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I tell him. “I just wanted to know where we were going.”
“We can go wherever you want,” he answers. “Do whatever you want.”
Crosbie flips on his blinker an
d pulls into the right hand lane to exit into Gatsby. From here I can see the large signboard for the theater, the marquee too distant to read.
“Want to see a movie?” he asks as we drive closer.
I squint at the list of shows. It’s an enormous multiplex and the parking lot is packed. Crosbie inches past the front so we can see what’s playing.
“Kill Glory 3 is out? I thought it wasn’t coming until December.”
Crosbie laughs uncomfortably when I name the latest installment of the popular horror franchise. “What else is playing?”
I look at him. “You don’t like scary movies?”
He purses his lips. “I like them fine.”
My jaw drops. “You’re afraid.”
“Am not.”
“Maybe Toy Story 6 is playing.”
“The Toy Story franchise is classic.”
“Okay, fine.” I crane my neck to try to see some more names. “There’s Tanker Race 2, Soda Shoppe Gals, Operation—I think that’s based on the board game—and that documentary about seals. Anything you’re dying to see?”
He finds parking at the end of a row and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Lady’s choice.”
“Kill Glory 3.”
“Never mind, you can’t choose.”
“Have you seen the first two? They’re excellent. It’s about this death angel named Glory who keeps returning to earth to try to get revenge—”
“I saw five minutes of the first one, and that was enough.”
“So…Soda Shoppe Gals?”
He tips his head to peer out the windshield at the start times. We’ve got half an hour until the next showings. “We can see Kill Glory 3,” he says reluctantly, reaching over to tug me in by the collar. “But let’s make out for a bit first.”
“Make out?” I feign offense. “You haven’t even bought me popcorn.”
“Can I just give you the ten dollars?”
We’re laughing when our lips meet, teeth bumping until we get serious. Crosbie displays none of the urgency I’m feeling, kissing me leisurely, exploring, learning. Again, it’s a surprise. He’s got one hand curled against my neck while the other rests against the back of the seat. If I’d ever given any thought to making out in a car with Crosbie Lucas, I’d have pictured him sticking his hand up my shirt—or down my pants—in the first thirty seconds. But that doesn’t appear to be the plan for tonight, and I quash the tiny part of me that’s disappointed and tell myself to just enjoy the moment. I’ve actually never done this before. I had zero boyfriends in high school, and I don’t think any of the guys I kissed last year even had a car. At least, I never bothered to learn enough about them to find out if they did.
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