When We Kissed
Page 19
I reach across the table and seize Simone’s hand in a blatant show of possession. Brush her wrist with a slow swipe of my thumb, then give her fingers a light squeeze. Her pulse kicks fiercely against the underside of my knuckle, coaxing mine into a race of its own. I’m near the finish line in a nanosecond. The heat of her stare warms my face as I keep my attention locked on our trespasser.
“We’re all set, Brandon. Thanks.” I commit his name to memory for future reference.
Brandon’s a smart boy. He gets the hint, skulks off.
Asswipe.
I release her from my hold once he’s out of sight. Grab my fork and use it to poke at the seafood-laden platter in front of me. No self-respecting southerner would dare use the thing on fried finger food, however I need both hands occupied.
Her eyes remain beaded on me. Like with Coop, I don’t have to look. I’m sure that naturally arched, left brow is lifted higher than the right in obvious question over what just transpired. The answer? Not something I’m prepared to give.
Eyes on my plate, I slather half of a catfish fillet in tartar, pop the entire piece in my mouth as I wait Simone out. Figure if my mouth is full, she won’t expect an explanation.
By the time she clears her throat, I’ve scarfed down most of my fries.
“For the record, I’m a healthy, straight female with perfect eyesight. You’re a hot guy. Touch me, I’m going to react.”
All right. Now, I’m looking. Free my hands, while I’m at it.
Was that an invitation to touch her again? A warning? Does she really think I touched her with the sole purpose of getting a rise out of her?
I didn’t. This time.
Can’t promise I won’t from here on out. I remember well how this girl responds in a challenge and so do my lips. Furthermore, I think I’m developing a hair fetish. I can’t keep my eyes off hers, the way it looks billows around her face in a halo of tiny curls as she cradles her head in her hands. Why she tames it into submission for school is beyond me. Guys would drop at her feet, if she arrived on campus Monday morning looking like this. Only thing that’s kept me staggering upright on mine today is fear of her running for the hills if she got an inkling of half the thoughts that have crossed my mind. None of them are platonic.
I drain my tea, buy myself a few precious seconds to leash my eager imagination. The apparent masochist in me addresses the second best part of her statement.
“You think I’m hot?”
“Quit fishing, boy. You know you’re hot.”
The blunt admission pulls me up short. Honestly, in that clipped, bitter tone, should I consider that an actual compliment? I bite the inside of my cheek, quell the urge to laugh.
“Thanks?”
She nods. “Thank you. For today.”
“What about it?”
“You know, hanging out.”
“Ain’t that what we agreed on?”
“Yes, but a second trip to the zoo in less than a week couldn’t have been much fun for you,” she murmurs, picking up her fork.
I don’t miss the way she’s avoiding direct eye contact. “Told you, I love that rainforest. I’m sure I’d also love the pleasure of participating in a first with you.”
My favorite shade of pink steals over her face.
What’d I . . . ?
Oh.
I should ask. Lord knows I’m curious.
I settle for asking how she liked it.
The zoo.
Her smile is brilliant. “I can’t wait to go back.”
“Told you it was awesome.” Like her lips. They have the perfect shape. “How’s the pasta?”
“Fantastic. Wanna taste?”
Man, do I.
I shake my head, try to haul my rapidly devolving thoughts out the gutter. “Try mine?”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
No idea what she thinks I said, but her sudden movement left a string of melted cheese stuck to her lower lip. She clears it with the tip her tongue.
Have mercy, Jesus.
Words evade me when Simone looks at me like that, those brown eyes, unguarded, ready to tell me anything. Everything, if I asked. My brain and throat shut down simultaneously.
I point at my plate. She lets out an audible breath. “Oh, no. Thank you.”
“Sure? Don’t mind sharing.”
“No, I-I doubt I’ll finish this.” She sits back, a relieved, albeit polite smile on her face. Doesn’t quite overshadow the longing in her eyes. “Other girlfriends, the ones before Ashley. What were they like?”
You applying? “What sparked that question?”
“Curious. All blonds? Tall?”
“No.”
“No? What kind of answer is that?”
“They weren’t all blonds or tall.”
“So you’ve dated a variety?”
“Something like that.”
Not sure which road this conversation’s taking us. Chances are slim it’ll lead anyplace good for me. Guys can be dumbasses, from time to time. I’m no exception. Like my fellow comrades, I’ve inadvertently provided a weapon, only to have a girl wield it against me later. The “numbers”—Simone’s going there, I can feel it—aren’t something I’m particularly proud of, to be honest. I’d rather her not think the worst of me. Least not before the end of the week.
Any direction I steer this answer will likely take us places we don’t need to go. Time to redirect.
I rest an elbow on the table,—Nana would not approve—spear a shrimp with my fork, dip it in the tartar, lift my offering to her mouth.
Surprisingly, she accepts, lips parting, like feeding her is something I do every day. A drop of sauce loses its fight with gravity just as that tempting tongue darts out again, breaking its fall. I shift in my seat.
Am I seriously getting turned up watching Simone eat?
Yes. Yes, I am.
“That is so good!” She mumbles around the food, her eyes shut in ecstasy.
Did we say friends, like friends, friends? Or did we agree on, “friends?”
Taking my eyes off of her mouth is damn near impossible, but somehow I lower my gaze until it lands on the curve of her neck, then lower still where a familiar pendant suspended on a silver chain rests in the cleft of her delectable cleavage. I blink, drag my gaze to a more respectable area a second she opens her eyes. She clears her throat. Loudly.
Okay, maybe a second after.
I pierce another shrimp, offer seconds that she waves off.
“I’m not eating any more of your food.”
“Thought you weren’t dieting?”
“I’m not. I have a closet full of clothes I’d rather not have to donate anytime soon, that’s all.”
Declaration made, she proceeds to decimates most of her pasta and half of my shrimp.
I don’t stop her. Not only do I get the pleasure of watching those luscious lips in motion, a few sexy moans of satisfaction accompanying the action, the food provides a needed distraction from the topic of my past conquests.
“Ready?” I ask, checking my watch as she finishes.
8:45
Not too late, but I promised her aunt I’d have her home at a decent hour. I’m a man of my word. Don’t matter that she’s not there to know otherwise.
“Lead the way.”
I stand, wait while she gathers her things. Do the gentlemanly thing and offer my assistance.
She accepts by hanging her purse straps on my fingers, then slides out of the booth with her jacket clutched between her fingers. I frown at the blinged-out carryon.
The upside of this chivalry gone wrong is the mesmerizing view of Simone’s ass as she uses her hands to pull on her jacket. Leather. Fitted. Way sexy. The hem of her sweater hitches over the waistband of her low-rise jeans, exposing a smooth strip of caramel-creamy skin at the small of her back.
Unless my eyes deceive me, there’s a tiny bit of black lace peeking out, too.
That’s why I’m gonna look elsewhere.
> Okay, yeah. The entire wrestling team can dance in here, wearing zebra print leotards and polka dotted tutus this very second. Peeling my eyes away won’t happen. That tiny wisp of material has already conjured a million fantasies in my brain.
Adjusting the misaligned buttons of her jacket, she turns, facing me.
Which draws my focus back to her cleavage.
Magnificent.
“How do we not all have the pneumonia with all of these the weather changes? The weatherman promises we’ll be back in the upper seventies next week. I’ll be keeping my winter gear out.”
“Learning that’s Ohio weather for you. Can’t be too sure what we’ll get,” I murmur, making a big show of brandishing my wallet for a second time.
Brandon already settled our ticket. All I need to do is leave a tip I don’t want to leave after the way he checked out my friend, but I don’t want look like a cheap ass. I’m not as tight as Coop, but I generally stick to a budget. The roundtrip twenty-five miles drive out of the way of gossip will take a chunk from my dwindling gas supply, if we do this every day. I still need to get back and forth to school next week. Not to mention, I already told Ryan I’d drop him home every afternoon before I head to practice.
I pull out a ten I can ill afford to leave.
“I’ll leave the tip.”
“I got it.”
“Okay, so do I. This isn’t a date, you know?”
How right she is. So why am I thinking about how perfect this night will be if it ends with her thanking me with her lips? “Well aware, but I invited you out. I’m paying.”
“Ever invite Ryan out places with you?”
“Of course.”
“We’re friends.”
“Yep.” I know where she’s going with this, but now my mind’s made up, I refuse to go there. I toss the note on the table. “But he ain’t half as gorgeous as you are, so he pays his own way.”
She cocks her head to the side, her expression full of wonder. “You think I’m pretty?”
I shake my head, step closer.
“Now who’s fishing?” I give her a quick peck on the nose. “Anyway, I said gorgeous. Get it right.”
Simone’s grin holds enough wicked to make the most strong-willed man shake in his boots. Every second standing this close to that mouth weakens my willpower.
“You’re gonna nudge me towards a whole heap of trouble.”
She lifts a brow. “Can I even do that? Get you in trouble?”
“You know you can, now behave.”
“I’m trying,” she huffs. “You don’t make it easy when you look at me, all—”
She does her imitation of my “look.” Her smoldering gaze lingers on my crotch.
Je-sus.
2:24 a.m.
“Ever wanna do anything other than law?”
“You already asked your fifth question. It’s my turn.”
“I’ve only asked four.”
“Five.”
“No, I—okay, that last one shouldn’t count since you made me guess first.”
“And you guessed wrong, so it counts.”
“All boys like blue.”
“This boy prefers green. Now, pipe down so I can ask my questions, woman.”
“I like your accent. I know I’ve teased you about it some in the past, but . . . I like it. Whit?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Thank you. I like your voice, too. Uh, I’ll go easy on you. Favorite car?”
“Barbie’s pink corvette.”
“Cute.”
“Serious.”
“Biggest pet peeve?”
“Ashy feet.”
“What?”
“You know what I’m talking about. When it looks like someone’s walked through a bag of flour in their bare feet before leaving the house? Pedicures should be mandatory with all sandal purchases, Stop laughing.”
“I can’t. You’re hilarious.”
“Whatev. Next question, boy.”
“Okay, okay. One thing you wish you had that you currently don’t? Hello?”
“Your questions are way harder than mine.”
“Hey, that question about my favorite body part on a woman had my brain all jacked. Mine are a cakewalk.”
“Singing.”
“Singing?”
“Yeah, I love music, but I wish I had a better voice.”
“I’ve heard you hum. Sounds fine to me.”
“You’re sweet.”
“Two compliments in one night. Nice. First kiss?”
“Bad memory. Ask something else.”
“C’mon. Told you mine.”
“You offered that information freely. I didn’t ask.”
“You ain’t playing fair. I’ll let it slide for now. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
“Here in my house.”
“Besides there.”
“I don’t wanna live anywhere else. Well, I take that back, if not here, I’d live in Heaven. Either way, I’d be with my family.”
“Okay, good answer. So, you do believe in God.”
“Of, course.”
“If Ashley weren’t a factor, like you weren’t her friend or I had asked you out instead of her, would you’ve gone out with me?”
“You’ve already asked five.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. Last question was if I believe in God.”
“That was an observation, not a question.”
“Oh, now who isn’t playing fair?”
“Would you’ve given me a chance, Simone?”
“Had you asked . . . I would’ve said yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Simone
“Lemme get this straight—that’s the car you got on your birthday last year?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it? Jus’ “yeah,” like we’re talkin’ ‘bout some used rust bucket teeterin’ on three wheels? That,” Whit emphasizes, pointing at the pristine white vehicle parked in my garage, “is a brand new Audi, Simone!”
“I know.” What is it about guys that make them go stupid over cars? “They have really good safety ratings.”
“Does safety matter if no one has driven this baby since June fourth of last year?”
“You remember my birthday?”
“Course,” he scoffs, peering through the window.
His is September thirtieth. “Aunt Katie drives it to Duff’s when she’s in town.”
“Grocery store is, like, five miles away, Simone!”
I shrug. “We take it in for servicing, too. The guy at the dealership insists the fluids need changing out every three month, or so, which I’m pretty sure is a rip-off.”
“You’re tellin’ me since your birthday, this car’s only been driven approximately 450 miles?”
My lips twitch at the sight of his incredulous expression, this warring combination of wonderment and fury that widens his shimmering hazel eyes to the point of bulging.
“Did you seriously do the math in your head?” I ask, knowing for a fact he’s only off by fifty-eight miles.
He dismisses my question with a sigh. “You realize leavin’ this beauty tucked away borders on sacrilegious, right?”
“I swear Mark said almost the exact same thing.”
“Great minds. Remind me again why you walk everywhere?”
“Good exercise.”
Whit narrows his eyes at me, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You took Driver’s Ed same time as Ashley?”
“Yep.”
“Got your license?”
“She got hers first.”
“Then you got this?”
“Yep.”
“Keys.”
Cars usually come with a set, yeah? I’m confused. “Two of them?”
“We’re rightin’ your wrong today. Hand ‘em over.”
Oh. “You wanna take it for a spin?”
“I want you to take it for a spin.”
“I don’t drive.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Tough.”
I laugh.
He thrusts his open palm in my direction, waggles his fingers.
Oh, my God, he’s serious. The two of us. Him in the passenger’s seat. Me—
“When you asked to see the car, I thought you wanted to do that guy thing where you check out the interior, not go for a ride. Driving is scary.”
"Anything is if you let it. Fear’s no excuse for you neglectin’ this fantastic piece of machinery.”
“I don’t! I sit in there all the time. That’s where I do homework. I even back it down the drive for a hand wash every other week. I’d hardly call that neglect.”
Again with the eye-bulging thing.
“Whit—”
“Simone.”
“Look, I’m touched by your concern for my car, Cowboy, but—”
“Keys.”
The grooved metal nestled in the bottom of my pocket digs into my thigh like I need a reminder. I deserve every bit of this mental flogging I’m giving myself for ever mentioning the car in the first place.
After an early evening of movies in our den, then a late-night conversation, Whit arrived, bright and early, intent on spending the two free hours we have before my day with Aunt Katie. His dad holds mid-week service on Wednesday nights, so chances are highly probable we won’t see each other again until tomorrow.
May be better if we don’t. I’m already crossing lines, flirting with him at every new opportunity.
How did I fool myself into believing that spending more than a second alone with this boy could somehow alleviate my heart of a possible explosion from my ever-growing feelings? Life would be so much easier if Whit proved to be half the jerk I’d hoped he’d be. The whole point of this plan was for him to become less appealing, not leave me lying awake, unable to sleep because I’m too wired once we’ve finally said goodnight. That was stark naked disappointment I felt when I heard my best friend’s voice on the line at the butt crack of dawn—disappointment that blossomed into joy when a texted Come outside interrupted her morning rant.
I tore through my closet looking for something suitable (read: quick and cute) to throw on before meeting him in the driveway. Squealed more than once.