I lean down to grab my purse from the floor.
I’m out of here. This chapter of my life is finished.
Chapter 8
My hand passes through empty air where I expect my purse to be. Of course. My purse is not under my chair, because I’m in Feather’s seat.
Before I can get up, Drew says to me over the din of everyone else chatting, “Meenie! You lost control over your group. When Feather gets back, you’re in trouble.”
I shoot back, “Oh, what do you know, Mr. Fancy Manicure? Seriously. Why are your hands so clean and perfect?”
His eyebrows raise, and he moves to fold his hands on his lap, tucking his finders under and hiding his nails.
“Too late,” I call out over the noise. “I already saw your shiny nails, Mr. Manicure. That’s my new name for you, by the way.”
He shrugs. “Better than Mr. No-Balls.”
“Why are you even here?” My words come out like poison arrows. “What’s your damage, anyway?”
“You go first. What’s your damage?”
I snort. “I don’t have any damage. I came here the first time thinking it was a Weight Watchers group, then I just sorta stuck around.”
His dark, sexy eyes flit down my face and over my body. He licks his lips. “You don’t need to lose weight. If anything, you could stand to put a little meat on your bones.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a salesman, aren’t you? That must be in the guidebook of cheesy things to say to manipulate any woman on the planet. Ugh, I’m not stupid. What do you sell? Fancy cars?”
“What do you sell?”
I give him an eye-flash worth of attitude. “Flowers. I own Gardenia Flowers, on Baker Street.” The last part is not entirely a lie. On paper, my sister and I are equal partners and owners. My mother opened the store, though, and the store knows it. When she’s in town, she takes over. Whatever. Drew thinks he’s blue cheese on Carr’s water biscuits. If I tell him I’m a lowly peasant who works at her mother’s shop, he’ll probably say something arrogant that makes my fist fly up into his mouth.
“The flowers sell themselves,” I add. “We don’t resort to your style of smarmy high pressure tactics.”
“What?” Drew gets up, picks up his chair, and circles around the outside of the group. Everyone is still talking about the TV show, mixed in with a bit of speculation over Feather possibly being pregnant. I should probably try to get everyone back on track, but now Drew is slipping his chair back into the circle next to my chair, and taking a seat next to me.
A pleasing, manly scent wafts into my nose. This smell is new. The community center smells like the back of a family car, with crayons, dog hair, and fast food wrappers melted into the upholstery like some unholy stew.
Drew, however, smells like that freshness that hits you when you peel a grapefruit. There’s also a hint of sweetness, like cocoa. And a musky scent I think of as testosterone. Citrus, chocolate, and balls. That’s what I smell. And my ni**les are getting hard. Interesting.
“I couldn’t hear you,” he says, his voice gentle yet still manly.
Citrus. Chocolate. Balls.
Now I know how zombies feel about brains. ME WANT WHAT ME SMELL.
Oh, crap. He’s still talking.
“Wha-wha-what?” I stammer.
He repeats himself. “I couldn’t hear you over the noise. Did you say you run a flower shop, or did you say it’s a secret military training facility? I can’t see you playing with daisies, but I can see you crushing the spirits of young military men, breaking their will to defy orders, then building them up again as trained ninja-like assassins.”
My mouth can’t help but smile at his joke. “That’s a good one,” I admit.
He gets comfortable on his chair, angling his body open toward me. Everything about him right now feels very open, from the polite and inquisitive look on his face, right down to his shoes. His feet are pointing toward me, yet angled out at the toes, like a funnel drawing me in.
Feather has been talking to us about body posture, so I notice it even more now. I think I’m naturally perceptive of the way people telegraph their thoughts with small gestures. It made me an excellent wrestler, that ability to anticipate moves. The only problem is, sometimes I get so caught up in the whirlwind of craziness happening in my brain, I forget to really look at other people.
“You’d be a great personal trainer,” Drew says with sincerity. “I like how honest you are.”
“I like how you had the balls to come back this week.”
“You were surprised to see me.” He looks back down at my lap, his gaze moving over my jeans. His hand twitches, like he’s thinking about running his fingers up my thigh. For an instant, I’m so sure of his intent that I actually feel his fingers on my thigh.
My body trembles at the suggestion of being touched. My mouth goes dry, and I feel my heart speed up, whooshing blood up my neck. Now his beautiful, charming, devilish, cunning, sweet, salesman eyes are on my neck. I’m sure my pulse is visible, because I can feel my neck throbbing.
I bite my lower lip. Honestly, I’ve never once bitten my lower lip, except as a joke. After we watched Twilight, I did it a bunch of times, but only to make my sister and our friend Rory laugh.
Now I’m actually biting my lower lip. What does that even mean?
That scent. Citrus. Chocolate. Balls.
Drew turns his head, jerking his eyes away from my legs like he’s breaking a spell. “I really am sorry that I barged in on your group right when you were going to share something.” He gazes at the courtyard beyond the window.
“It was nothing. Just this dumb thing, with this dumb boy.”
He angles his body away, giving me some space, then flicks his eyes back to mine. “Tell me what happened, and I promise to listen without judgment. I won’t try to alter your experience.”
I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t your first therapy group.”
“I swear it is, but I’ve read the occasional self-help book.” He looks over at the others, who are still chattering, and getting up from their chairs to help themselves to the tea cakes and goat-ass coffee at the back table. “Dump it on me,” he says.
I choke up a little laugh. “Dump it on me,” I repeat. “If I ever become a counselor, that’s going to be my slogan. Dump it on me. I’ll put it on all my business cards.”
He chuckles as well, and damn it. His genuine laugh, plus his light GQ scent wafting into my nose, are combining to make me feel like a puddle of mega-giddy, super-girly, watch-Twilight-too-many-times goo.