“It’s super rough.” I smile weakly and she stares at me, as if she’s attempting to penetrate my brain or something, and I hold her gaze. Trying my best to look completely neutral. “And sort of personal.”
“Oh.” She blinks and leans back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” I try to soften my rudeness by reaching out and grasping her hand in mine. Her fingers are slender and cold and I squeeze them, hoping I can warm them up. “I’m the one who should say sorry. It’s just … it’s a mess. I need to work on it some more.” Like trash it and start completely over.
“I bet it’s fine. Just add it to your portfolio. Don’t worry about it.” She tries to pull out of my grip but I won’t let her. “You have a printer, right?”
“Yeah, I have one.” This conversation has taken a strange turn. I just wrote about making Chelsea come and now we’re talking about printers and shit. I have to get this back on track. “Chelsea. Go out with me.”
“What?” Her jaw drops open and this time she does tug her hand out of mine, almost recoiling. Reminding me of that flower I described at the beginning of my poem. The one I had to gently coax open. “What do you mean?”
“Are you doing anything after this? Do you have to work later tonight?” I hate that stupid job she has at the diner. It makes me worry about her.
She slowly shakes her head. “No. I’m off tonight. Though I do have a paper I should start on.”
“When’s it due?” If she turns me down, I’m not asking her out again. A guy can take only so much humiliation, and I hadn’t been lying to Fable when I told her I thought I was beneath Chelsea. Her refusal would only prove my point.
“Right before Thanksgiving break,” she admits, and I chuckle.
“Chels. That’s weeks away,” I point out.
“I know. I just like to think ahead and be prepared.” Her voice drifts and she glances down, lifting that one bare shoulder, the one I’m dying to touch. Trace the pale pink lace of her bra, slip my finger beneath it and slowly tug the strap down her arm. “You think I’m a freak.”
“No, I think you’re kind of mean.” She lifts her head, her eyes so wide they look like they’re going to pop out of her head. “You’re leaving me hanging here, Chels. You want to do something with me tonight or what?”
“Oh.” She blinks at me again and leans back against her chair. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Yeah. I am.” My schedule is going straight to hell within the next few days. I’ll be back at work, back at practice, and back in action. I won’t have time for girls. For Chelsea.
Meaning I shouldn’t string her along and get her hopes up. But hell, sitting here, breathing in her scent, seeing her pretty face tell me everything she’s feeling and thinking, I know I have to do this. I want to do this.
I want to be with her. Even if it’s only for tonight, for a few hours. We don’t have to do anything. I have zero expectations. She’s not the type of girl who’ll put out. She has more respect for herself than that. I respect her, too.
But nothing says I can’t kiss her. I’m going to try my damnedest to taste those soft, pink lips of hers before the night is through. That’s a f**king promise.
“All right,” she says, her voice so soft I almost don’t hear her. “I’ll go out with you tonight.”
Relief floods me, and it takes everything within me not to reach out and tug her into my lap. “Want to go out to dinner?”
“Okay.”
“A movie?”
She shrugs. “Not really. I can hardly sit still through them.” When I don’t say anything she makes a funny little face. “I don’t like wasting time.”
“So going to a movie with me is wasting time?” I’m almost offended.
“Yes, when I could be spending those two-plus hours talking to you instead.” She smiles dreamily and f**k, that’s it. I’m done for.
“Hey, Chels?”
“Yes?”
“What you’re wearing right now? Wear it tonight.” Reaching out, I give in to my urge and draw my finger across her shoulder, trace the lacy bra strap. Her skin is so f**king soft. I wonder if she’s that soft all over. “I like it. A lot.”
A shiver moves through her. I feel it beneath my finger, and that little hint that my touch affects her kick-starts my heart. Makes it pump wildly in my chest.
Damn. I have got it so bad for this girl it’s scary.
Chelsea
“You’re going on a date,” Kari says, her voice flat, her expression full of utter disbelief.
“Yes. I am.” I tug a brush through my bone-straight hair, then toss it onto the counter, where it lands with a loud clatter. “And I totally hate my hair.”
“Why? It’s so pretty. Such a rich color and so thick.” Kari stands just behind me, that stunned, I-can’t-believe-you’re-going-out-with-someone look still on her face. “So you wear this sexy little sweater, show off some skin, and now you’re going on a date? With whom?”
I smile, wishing I could keep my secret to myself for as long as possible, but I know Kari is going to keep at me incessantly until I have no choice but to confess. She could convince just about anyone to reveal all their secrets. She should go work for the CIA or something, she’s that good. “It had nothing to do with the sweater.”
Okay, it probably did, though I don’t necessarily want to give the sweater that much credit in Owen asking me out on a date. Yeah, he liked it. And I liked it when he traced my bra strap, his finger moving beneath the lace to actually touch my skin.
I’d wanted to die, all over a too brief touch that had somehow set fire to my skin. I can still feel his finger on my shoulder, and it happened over an hour ago.
Which means I need to get a move on, because Owen will be here soon to pick me up for our date.
I’m so excited, I feel like I’m going to burst.
“Don’t act all mysterious, you little bitch.” Kari starts to laugh when I shoot her a dirty look. She loves getting a rise out of me, too. “Tell me who you’re going out with. And please don’t say it’s Tad.”
Grimacing, I shake my head. “No way. I haven’t seen him since that night at The District.”
“Lucky you! I’ve seen him a few times when I’ve been with Brad. He’s just as moody as ever,” Kari mutters.