Ridorkulous (Dorky Duet Book 1)

by Mary Frame

  Reese

  I’m stuck. Frozen. Can’t move. Can’t speak. I can’t believe Fitz is going to kiss me. For reals this time.

  Wait. Is he? He’s not quite there yet. He’s in front of me, his hands on my jaw, his mouth nearly touching mine, our breathing labored and tangled in the space between us.

  “Is it okay if I . . .” he asks.

  There’s a tremble in his voice, restraint in the hands cupping my face. He’s not acting like some romance movie hero where the guy takes what he wants, kissing with force and strength like I might have expected but wouldn’t have wanted. Not really.

  Instead, he’s gentle and waiting. Waiting for me.

  Making the moment mine.

  “Fitz.” His name is a benediction on my lips and then I’m gripping his wrists, keeping his hands on me.

  I sway forward, meeting him with a soft touch of my lips against his.

  My first kiss.

  And I took it.

  Initially, a press of lips is all it is, just a hint of flesh, a gentle entreaty, a tentative meeting and introduction, hi how are you, but then the conversation gets deeper. I need to get closer. Engage in more meaningful discourse. I’m not sure who opens their mouth first, but we dive into a debate with tongues and lips and gentle sucks.

  I never imagined, never understood. Heat floods through me, filling my center with throbbing need.

  When he bites my bottom lip, I can’t help the moan that emerges from somewhere deep inside, the sound foreign and unfamiliar. I can’t believe I’m making these strange, needy noises, and they keep coming out.

  Fitz lifts me easily, his hands strong and warm around my waist and then we’re on the bed and he’s over me. His eyes meet mine, searching, seeking approval and I give it readily. My hands wrap around his neck to keep his mouth on mine, and my legs fall open as he presses between them. My body knows exactly what it wants even if my mind isn’t quite sure yet. Our mouths are fused, tongues exploring and tasting. I can’t stop my body from responding, rubbing myself up against him, making him groan and press down harder.

  “Yes,” I say into his mouth.

  Even though I’ve never been kissed till tonight, I know exactly what I’m feeling pressing against me, through his jeans, and I need more.

  Pounding at the door makes both of us jump. “Hey, are you guys still playing? The game’s starting again.”

  We stare at each other, breathless and panting. His eyes are dark and hooded and his lips are swollen.

  “Be right there,” Fitz calls out, his voice strangled.

  Sound sifts back into my consciousness. There’s still a party raging in the house and I’m in the room. With Fitz. And we nearly . . . well, not really that, but still. Didn’t he disappear with Abby less than an hour ago?

  Hesitation crosses his face and with a sudden movement that casts a breeze against my skin, he’s backing off and lifting himself away.

  He tunnels both hands through his hair and takes a deep breath before releasing his grasp.

  “Reese, I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay. I mean, I did it. Not you.”

  “You didn’t. I initiated it.”

  “And then I made it happen.”

  “But I let it get out of hand.”

  “Okay, so we’re both in trouble.”

  He smiles, a lopsided twist of his mouth. The same mouth that was just over me, doing magical things to my lips and tongue I didn’t even know were possible.

  “It’s just, is this a good idea? Right now? Us?” he asks.

  The word us on his lips sends a sizzle down my spine and all the way to my toes. “I don’t know. I mean, there’s Abby to consider.”

  “There really isn’t though.”

  “Maybe. But she was just here, and like it or not, she’s still part of your life right now.”

  He opens his mouth like he wants to object, then stops. His eyes break away, and like an open sore, Abby festers between us.

  “And then there’s the whole fight to the death thing,” I add.

  He laughs and the tension eases somewhat. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t care about Abby. I don’t care much about the competition either. All I know is I would like there to be an us. But the truth is . . . the truth is I’m a bit scared.”

  “Scared? Of what?”

  “Of you.”

  “Me?” I laugh. “I am not frightening.”

  “But you are. I guess I’m more scared of how I feel. If it’s real, if I know what I want . . . All I know is I like you. And quite honestly, I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  “Does something need to be done?”

  He takes a step closer, sitting on the foot of the bed. “Well, Reese, when you like someone, you typically, you know, date.”

  I’m blushing again. “I know that much.”

  “But it might be weird, us dating and all, given that we basically live together.”

  “For now.”

  “Right. For now. I guess the question is, how do you feel? About me, specifically.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He nods. “I guess I understand. You’ve seen me at some not-so-fine moments. I think in most relationships, you only show the good stuff initially and not all the bad stuff right away. We kind of went the opposite way.”

  “It’s not . . . I don’t dislike you or anything. It’s just, I’m scared too. I’ve never—as you know—had any kind of . . . anything. With anyone. It’s terrifying.”

  “Terrifying? Not horrifying, though?”

  I smile. “Frightening. Chilling. Daunting and intimidating.”

  “Is it less scary now that we’ve named it?”

  “No. I think I’m just a scaredy-cat in general.”

  “I think you’re pretty fierce, actually.”

  I laugh softly. “No one’s ever attributed that adjective to me.”

  “I could come up with more.” He leans closer and watches me. His eyes flicker to my mouth and then meet my eyes. “Tenacious. Intelligent. Kind. Passionate. Beautiful.”

  I shake my head, but no words come out. How do I respond?

  “This doesn’t have to be so complicated,” he says. “We could be scared together.”

  “Fearful of each other but together.” I laugh.

  “Just . . . promise to tell me if you’re thinking anything weird or crazy and I’ll do the same. And no other boys. No Dukes. And no Abbys.”

  “No Dukes. No Abbys. Got it. What about the competition?”

  “I don’t know. We still have two more challenges and at least four more days until Jude announces the winner. We can keep on as we have been. I’ll even take the floor if you want. There are no obligations. And as far as what happens when this whole thing is over . . . we can jump off that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Which is ironic, since I might be living under an actual bridge.”

  “I won’t let that happen.” He reaches over and picks up my hand, lacing our fingers together.

  My stomach flutters and I swallow past a suddenly dry mouth, my gaze focused on our hands. “What else would you suggest?”

  “We could tell Jude we’ve decided to live here together, just share.”

  I look up. “You really think it’s smart to live together so soon into our . . . whatever this is? It seems like a terrible decision.”

  “You’re likely right.” His hand squeezes mine. “Listen, don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out. Annabel said she would look into something at the paper, and hey, maybe Granny will let me stay with her.”

  I laugh. “She probably would. But she really liked Beast. Maybe we can get him over there and I’ll take his room.”

  “I dunno, he’s pretty protective of Jude, and vice versa. I don’t think they would leave each other.”

  “That’s true.” Our eyes meet and his gaze slips to my mouth.

  I swallow and lick my lips and his hand tenses in mine.

  “Well, don’t
think I’m letting you off easy for these events coming up,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, just before his mouth captures mine.

  18

  You don’t love because: you love despite; not for the virtues, but despite the faults.

  —William Faulkner

  Fitz

  Abby keeps calling, then when I don’t answer, she moves to texting.

  I read the first few. She’s apologetic at first, then increasingly irate until I shut my phone off so I can focus on the here and now. I’m a little worried and a lot frustrated. Abby seemed sincere about wanting to be friends and giving me time, but she didn’t mean it. I will not be manipulated. Not anymore.

  Jude cooks dinner, then Reese and I do our homework at the dining table, exchanging secret smiles and amused glances every time Beast lumbers in to bring us a drink or a new pencil when the lead on mine snaps.

  When it’s time for bed, I wait until we’ve both brushed our teeth and Reese is setting up her blankets on the floor.

  “Reese, I can’t let you sleep on the floor.”

  She frowns at me. “Why not?”

  “Sleep up here.” I pat the mattress beside me. “With me.”

  She blinks rapidly. Her mouth opens. Then shuts. Then opens again.

  “I mean just sleep. I would never pressure you into anything you didn’t want to do. You trust me, right?”

  “I do, it’s just—” She bites her lip, not meeting my eyes. “I have flutters.”

  “Flutters?”

  “Nerves. Bad ones. It’s not like butterflies in the stomach. It’s like a wandering albatross.”

  “An albatross, huh?” I fight to contain my laughter. “That bad?”

  “They have the longest recorded wingspan.”

  “Really?” The laughter is under control but I can’t stop the grinning.

  “Twelve feet.”

  “That is bigger than butterflies. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you nervous?” I keep my expression neutral.

  She regards me for a few long seconds, and then finally it spills out. “What if I drool on you? What if I stink when I sleep? What if you wake up and look at me in the morning and realize it’s all a mistake?”

  “We have slept next to each other before and you didn’t turn into an ogre overnight. Not that I remember.”

  “But still, what if there’s . . .” Her hand flails for a second in frustration. “Flatulence.”

  I bark out a laugh, and then can’t stop laughing. “Are you saying you might fart on me?”

  Her face is now bright red. “See? I am no good at this.”

  “Actually, I think you’re very, very good at this.” I move away from the bed and take a step toward her, getting close enough so I can take both her hands and link her fingers with mine.

  “Come to bed. With me. I promise I won’t run out of here gagging if you fart all over me in your sleep.” The words come out mixed with laughter.

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “It’s a little funny. Unless you really don’t want to. Then I wouldn’t make you. If you would rather stay away from me, I won’t cry too much.”

  She smiles, the movement small and shy. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” She slides in the bed first, scooting toward the wall, on her side, facing me. I leave the lights on—maybe it will make her more comfortable if she can see—and slide in next to her and lie on my back, trying not to crowd her, but I take one hand and link our fingers, shutting my eyes.

  Her hand clutches against mine, but tension vibrates off her.

  I crack an eye open and find her staring at me, eyes wide in the dim light.

  The chuckles can’t be held back.

  “Why are you laughing?” Her voice is indignant, but she’s smiling.

  “You look terrified. You can sleep. Do you want me to turn off the lights?”

  “No. Maybe I like watching you sleep.”

  “That’s worse than the farting, creeper.”

  “Stop it.” She smacks me gently on the arm.

  I lean over and kiss her on the lips, slowly, making sure she sees me coming and that she’s okay with it. It’s a small kiss, a light tap of lips and then I move back to lie on my side, facing her. The faint flush of her skin makes her radiant under the soft illumination.

  After a few long seconds, she leans over and her mouth covers mine.

  And so it goes. We face each other under the fairy lights and kiss for a while. Then we stop to gather ourselves and talk. And laugh. And the conversation turns into really random things. Mostly because I’m trying to calm the happy guy in my pants by thinking about bizarre topics unrelated to Reese’s soft skin or the feel of her hands when she runs them under my shirt and up my back, casting chills over my body.

  “Why do they sell hot dogs in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight?” I ask. “It just plain don’t make sense.”

  She leans over and kisses me, then leans back with a smile. “The world is full of things that don’t make sense.”

  “It really is, like, why do people give flowers to people for special occasions? I mean, it’s kinda arbitrary. What’s the point?”

  She nods and tucks one hand under her head. I have her other hand in mine, our fingers playing and tracing and feeling. “Actually, the history of flower giving can be traced back to ancient Greece, when it was thought that flowers were associated with the gods. And in Turkey, they assigned meanings to different flowers, which then was adopted by Victorian culture as a part of the courting ritual. In Japan, it’s called hanakotoba, where various plants are used for passwords and codes.”

  “Wow. Really? You seriously know everything.” And then it’s my turn to lean over and kiss her, on the mouth, slipping my tongue inside, tasting her smart words.

  This distracts both of us for a few long seconds before Mr. Happy starts taking over my brain and I pull back again.

  She resumes our conversation like it wasn’t just interrupted. “I guess a plant or a flower in a pot might be better, since at least it has more of a shelf life. Why cut something that’s alive, give it to a loved one, and then they watch while it dies? It’s kinda morbid actually, if you think about it.”

  “What’s your idea of the perfect gift, then?”

  “Books,” she answers without hesitation.

  “Any old book will do?”

  “Well . . . I collect first editions.”

  “Is that what the box was?” My eyes trail over to the closet, where I helped her shove the small but heavy box onto the top shelf.

  She sits up and scoots to the end of the bed, then over to the closet, reaching up to grab it. She’s wearing flimsy sleep shorts, and when she reaches up, her shirt rides up and I get a peek of her pale stomach.

  She has no idea how hot she is.

  And I’m being a barbarian while she struggles and tugs.

  Jumping up, I stand behind her and stretch overhead, pulling the box down and setting it on the foot of the bed.

  She pulls the flaps open and hands me one from the top.

  “Northanger Abbey,” I read the title.

  “It’s not a first edition, but it’s my favorite.”

  I turn it over in my hand. It’s bound in red cloth with ornate gold decorations threaded into the cover. I open it gingerly. The pages are yellow and brittle with age.

  “Why is this one your favorite?”

  “It was Jane Austen’s first book. Well, the first she finished for publication, although it wasn’t actually published until after her death. It’s also a comedy.”

  I meet her eyes. “Is it?”

  “It’s a satire of gothic novels, which were very popular during her life. And she did something unique for the period. Most of the sentimental novels of the time featured exceptionally beautiful heroines and heroes who fall madly in love with them. Jane reversed the gender stereotype by having the heroine Catherine fall for Henry first, and he isn’t
immediately attracted to her but falls eventually when they get to know each other.”

  “Sounds interesting, actually. So this isn’t a first edition? It looks pretty old.”

  “No. I think maybe it’s the first from this particular publisher though. It was printed in 1920.” She turns the title page and points out the date on the reverse side. “The real British first edition is from 1818 and would be worth thousands. At least.”

  “Wow.”

  “You want to read it?”

  “Really? Yeah. I do. If it’s your favorite, it must be good. Although I’m disappointed you aren’t a Pride and Prejudice fan. I was named after Mr. Darcy.”

  Her eyes light up. “Really?”

  “My momma’s a librarian.”

  “I love her already.”

  I laugh and her cheeks tint pink and we continue to look through her book stash.

  She points out different titles along with various facts about each one and every time her face glows with delight, I fall a little more in love with her.

  After a time, I put the box back in the closet—minus Northanger Abbey, which goes onto the bedside table—and we lie back down next to each other in the small bed.

  “Are all of those books gifts from your parents?”

  “No. I purchased most of them. I mean, with their money, so in a sense I suppose they are from them. But they don’t really give gifts. The only person who’s given me anything nonessential is my sister.”

  “Your parents don’t buy you birthday or Christmas presents?”

  “Not really. They don’t celebrate those things.”

  “Oh. Because of their religion? Are they Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

  “Granny is religious—she’s Baptist—but my parents are anything but. Honestly, I think they forget. They’re not home much and they tend to be real absorbed in their own lives. They aren’t bad people. They always made sure we were taken care of, had food and shelter, and whatever necessities or things we wanted whenever we wanted. It’s not like I ever went without.”

  “Huh. I can’t imagine. We didn’t have a lot of money, growing up, but Christmas and birthdays were always a big deal. My mom would go all out. Special dinner and presents I had been waiting to get for months. I can’t imagine getting what I want whenever I want it. On the surface it sounds great, but the reality seems . . . kinda sad, actually. Half the fun of Christmas morning was the anticipation of getting something you’d been wanting forever.”