Losing Hope

Chapter Thirteen

“We going out tonight?” I ask Daniel as we make our way toward the parking lot. We usually do something on Friday nights, but tonight I’m actually hoping he says no. I decided a few days ago that I wanted to go to Sky’s house tonight to try to talk to her. I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but I know if I don’t at least try, I’ll drive myself crazy wondering if it would have made a difference.

“Can’t,” Daniel says. “I’m taking Val out. We could do something tomorrow night, though. I’ll call you.”

I nod and he turns to head toward his car. I open my door, but pause when I see Sky’s car out of the corner of my eye. She’s leaning against it, talking to Grayson.

From the looks of it, they might be doing more than just talking.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that seeing his hands on her makes every muscle in my body clench tight. I prop my arm on my door and watch them for some stupid, self-torturous reason.

From here, she doesn’t look happy. She pushes him away from her and takes a step away from him. She’s watching him while he talks, then he moves in and wraps his arms around her again. I take a step away from my car, prepared to walk across the parking lot and pull his ignorant ass off her. She clearly doesn’t want him touching her, but I stop and take a step back when it looks like she relents and gives in to him. As soon as he leans in to kiss her, I have to look away.

It’s physically impossible to watch. I don’t understand her. I don’t understand what she sees in him and I really don’t understand why she can’t seem to stand me, when he’s the actual asshole.

Maybe I’m wrong about her. Maybe she really is just like everyone else. Maybe I’ve just been hoping she was different for my own sake.

Or maybe not.

I’m looking at them again, seeing her reaction to what he’s doing to her. His arms are still around her and it looks like he’s still kissing her neck or shoulder or wherever the fuck his mouth is. But I could have sworn she just rolled her eyes.

Now she’s looking at her watch, not responding to him at all. She drops her arm and rests her hands at her sides and she’s just standing there, looking more inconvenienced by him than interested.

I continue to watch them and continue to grow more and more confused by her lack of interest. Her expression is almost lifeless, until the second she locks eyes with mine. Her whole body tenses and her eyes grow wide. She immediately looks away and pushes Grayson off her. She turns her back to him and gets into her car. I’m too far away to hear what she says to him, but the fact that she’s driving away and he’s flipping her off with both hands tells me that whatever she said to him wasn’t at all what he wanted to hear.

I smile.

I’m still confused, I’m still angry, I’m still intrigued and I’m still planning on showing up on her doorstep tonight. Especially after witnessing whatever that was I just witnessed.

I ring the doorbell and wait.

I’m a ball of nerves right now, but only because I don’t have a clue how she’ll react to seeing me on her doorstep. I also don’t know what the hell I’m going to say to her once she does finally open the door.

I ring the doorbell again after waiting several moments. I’m sure I’m the last person she’ll expect to see here on a Friday night.

Shit. It’s Friday night. She’s probably not even home.

I hear footsteps making their way toward the door and it opens. She’s standing in front of me a frazzled mess. Her hair is loosely pulled back, but strands have fallen all around her face. She’s got white powder dusted across her nose and cheek and even has some in the loose strands of hair framing her face. She looks adorable. And shocked.

Several seconds pass with us just standing there and I realize that I should probably be the one speaking right now, since I’m the one who showed up at her house.

God, why does every single thing about her throw me off like this?

“Hey,” she says.

Her calm voice is like a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t seem pissed that I’m here unannounced. “Hi,” I say, returning her greeting.

Another round of awkward silence ensues and she tilts her head to the side. “Um . . .” She squints and crinkles up her nose and I can tell she’s not sure what to do or say next.

“You busy?” I ask her, knowing just by the disarray of her appearance that whatever she was doing, she was working hard at it.

She turns and glances back into her house, then faces me again. “Sort of.”

Sort of.

I take her reply for what it is. She’s obviously trying not to be rude, but I can see that this stupid idea of mine to just show up announced was just that . . . a stupid idea.

I glance at my car behind me, gauging how far the walk of shame I’m about to take will be. “Yeah,” I say, pointing over my shoulder at my car. “I guess I’ll . . . go.” I take a step down and begin to turn toward my car, wishing I was anywhere but in this awkward predicament.

“No,” she says quickly. She takes a step back and opens the door for me. “You can come in, but you might be put to work.”

Instant relief overcomes me and I nod, walking inside. A quick glance around the living room makes it appear that she might be the only one home right now. I hope she is, because it would make things a lot easier if it were just the two of us.

She walks around me and into the kitchen. She picks up a measuring cup and resumes whatever it was she was doing before I showed up on her doorstep. Her back is to me and she’s quiet. I slowly make my way into the kitchen and eye the baked goods lining her bar.

“You prepping for a bake sale?” I ask, making my way around the bar so that her back isn’t completely to me.

“My mom’s out of town for the weekend,” she says, glancing up at me. “She’s antisugar, so I kind of go crazy when she’s not here.”

Her mom’s out of town, so she bakes? I really can’t figure this girl out. I reach over to the plate of cookies between us on the bar and pick one up, looking to her for permission to try it.

“Help yourself,” she says. “But be warned, just because I like to bake doesn’t mean I’m good at it.” She refocuses her attention to the bowl in front of her.

“So you get the house to yourself and you spend Friday night baking? Typical teenager,” I tease. I take a bite of the cookie and ohmygod. She can bake. I like her even more.

“What can I say?” she says with a shrug. “I’m a rebel.”

I smile, then eye the plate of cookies again. There have to be a dozen there and I plan on eating at least half of them before she kicks me out of her house. I’m gonna need milk.

She’s still intensely focused on the bowl in front of her, so I take it upon myself to find my own glass. “Got any milk?” I ask, making my way to the refrigerator. She doesn’t answer my question, so I open the refrigerator and remove the milk, then pour myself a glass. I finish the rest of the cookie, then take a drink. I wince, because whatever the hell this is, it’s not real milk. Or it’s rotten. I glance at the label before shutting the refrigerator and see that it’s almond milk. I don’t want to be rude, so I take another drink and turn around.

She’s looking straight at me with an arched eyebrow. I smile. “You shouldn’t offer cookies without milk, you know. You’re a pretty pathetic hostess.” I swipe another cookie and take a seat at the bar.

She grins right before she turns around to face the counter again. “I try to save my hospitality for invited guests.”

I laugh. “Ouch.”

The sarcasm in her voice is nice, though, because it helps ease my tension. She powers on the mixer and keeps her focus on the bowl in front of her. I love that she hasn’t asked why I’m here. I know she’s wondering what I’m doing here, but I also know from previous interaction with her that she’s incredibly stubborn and more than likely won’t ask what I’m doing here, no matter how much she wants to know.

She turns off the mixer and pulls the mixing blades loose, then brings one to her mouth and licks it.

Holy shit.

I gulp.

“Want one?” she says, holding one up for me to take. “It’s German chocolate.”

“How hospitable of you.”

“Shut up and lick it or I’m keeping it for myself,” she says teasingly. She smiles and walks to the cabinet, then fills a glass with water. “You want some water or do you want to continue pretending you can stomach that vegan shit?”

I laugh, then immediately push my cup toward her. “I was trying to be nice, but I can’t take another sip of whatever the hell this is. Yes, water. Please.”

She laughs and fills my cup with water, then takes a seat across from me. She picks up a brownie and takes a bite, holding eye contact with me. She doesn’t speak but I know she’s curious why I’m here. The fact that she still hasn’t asked, though, makes me admire her stubbornness.

I know I should offer up my reason for showing up out of the blue, but I’m a little stubborn myself and feel like dragging this thing out with her a little longer. I’m kind of enjoying it.

We silently watch each other until she’s almost finished with her brownie. The way she’s semismiling at me while she eats is making my pulse race and if I don’t look away from her, I’m afraid I’ll blurt out everything I want to say to her all at once.

In order to avoid that, I stand up and walk into the living room to take a look around. I can’t watch her eat for another second and I need to refocus my attention on why I’m here, because I’m even starting to forget.

There are several pictures hanging on her walls, so I walk closer to them to take a look. There aren’t any pictures of her that are more than a few years old, but the ones where she’s younger than she is now are jarring to look at. She really does look just like Hope.

It’s surreal, looking into those big brown eyes of the little girl in the picture. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s in several pictures with her mother, I’d be convinced she really was Hope.

But she can’t be Hope, because Hope’s mother passed away when she was just a little girl. Unless Karen isn’t Sky’s mom.

I hate that my mind is still going there. “Your mom seems really young,” I say, noticing the noticeable small age difference between them.

“She is young.”

“You don’t look like her. Do you look like your dad?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t remember what he looks like.”

She looks sad when she says it, but I’m curious why she doesn’t remember what he looks like.

“Is your dad dead?”

She sighs. I can tell she’s uncomfortable talking about it. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since I was three.” It’s clear she doesn’t feel like elaborating. I walk back to the kitchen and reclaim my seat.

“That’s all I get? No story?”

“Oh, there’s a story. I just don’t want to tell it.”

I can see I’m not getting any more information out of her right now, so I change the subject. “Your cookies were good. You shouldn’t downplay your baking abilities.”

She smiles, but her smile fades as soon as the phone on the counter between us sounds off, indicating a text. I look down at it just as she jumps up and rushes to the oven. She swings it open to eye the cake and I realize she thinks the sound came from the oven, rather than the phone.

I pick up the phone just as she shuts the oven and turns to face me. “You got a text.” I laugh. “Your cake is fine.”

She rolls her eyes and throws the oven mitt on the counter, then walks back to her seat. I’m curious about the cell phone, especially since she told me earlier this week that she didn’t have one.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to have a phone,” I say, glancing at all the texts as I scroll my finger down the screen. “Or was that a really pathetic excuse to avoid giving me your number?”

“I’m not allowed,” she says. “My best friend gave it to me the other day. It can’t do anything but text.”

I turn the phone around to face her. “What the hell kind of texts are these?” I read one out loud.

“Sky, you are beautiful. You are possibly the most exquisite creature in the universe and if anyone tells you otherwise, I’ll cut the bitch.” I glance at her, the texts making me even more curious about her than I was before. “Oh, God,” I say. “They’re all like this. Please tell me you don’t text these to yourself for daily motivation.”

She laughs and snatches the phone out of my hand. “Stop. You’re ruining the fun of it.”

“Oh, my God, you do? Those are all from you?”

“No!” she says defensively. “They’re from Six. She’s my best friend and she’s halfway around the world and she misses me. She wants me to not be sad, so she sends me nice texts every day. I think it’s sweet.”

“Oh, you do not,” I say. “You think it’s annoying and you probably don’t even read them.”

“She means well,” she says, folding her arms defensively across her chest.

“They’ll ruin you,” I tease. “Those texts will inflate your ego so much, you’ll explode.” I scroll through the settings on her phone and punch the number into my phone. There’s no way I’m leaving here without her number, and this is the perfect excuse to get it. “We need to rectify this situation before you start suffering from delusions of grandeur.” I give her back her phone and text her.

Your cookies suck ass. And you’re really not that pretty.

“Better?” I ask after she reads it. “Did the ego deflate enough?”

She laughs and places the phone facedown on the counter. “You know just the right things to say to a girl.” She walks into the living room and spins around to face me. “Want a tour of the house?”

I don’t hesitate. Of course I want a tour of her house. I follow her through the house and listen as she speaks. I pretend to be interested in everything she’s pointing out, but in reality I can only concentrate on the sound of her voice. She could talk to me all night and I’d never get tired of listening to her.

“My room,” she says, swinging open the door to her bedroom. “Feel free to look around, but being as though there aren’t any people eighteen or older here, stay off the bed. I’m not allowed to get pregnant this weekend.”

I pause as I’m passing through her door and eye her. “Only this weekend?” I ask, matching her wit. “You plan on getting knocked up next weekend, instead?”

She smiles and I continue making my way into her room. “Nah,” she says. “I’ll probably wait a few more weeks.”

I shouldn’t be here. Every minute I spend with her makes me like her more and more. Now I’m in her room and there’s no one in the house other than her and me, not to mention the fact that there’s this bed between us that she told me to stay off of.

I shouldn’t be here.

I came here to show her I’m the good guy, not the bad guy. So why am I looking at her bed and not having good thoughts right now?

“I’m eighteen,” I say, unable to stop imagining what she looks like when she lies in this bed.

“Yay for you?” she says, confused.

I smile at her, then nod toward her bed as explanation. “You said to stay off your bed because I’m not eighteen. I’m just pointing out that I am.”

Her shoulders tense and she inhales a quick breath. “Oh,” she says, slightly flustered. “Well then, I meant nineteen.”

I like her reaction a little too much, so I try to refocus and concentrate on why I’m here.

Why am I here? Because all that’s running through my mind right now is bed, bed, bed.

I’m here to make a point. A much-needed, valid point. I walk as far away from the bed as I can get and end up at the window.

The same window I’ve heard so much about over the course of the past week at school. It’s amazing the things you can learn if you just shut up and listen.

I lean my head out of it and look around, then pull back inside. I don’t like that she keeps it open. It’s not safe.

“So this is the infamous window, huh?”

If that comment doesn’t direct the conversation in the direction I’m hoping, I don’t know what will.

“What do you want, Holder?” she snaps.

I turn to face her and she’s eyeing me fiercely. “Did I say something wrong, Sky? Or untrue? Unfounded, maybe?”

She immediately walks to her door and holds it open. “You know exactly what you said and you got the reaction you wanted. Happy? You can go now.”

I hate that I’m pissing her off, but I ignore her request for me to leave. I look away and walk to the side of her bed and pick up a book. I pretend to flip through it while I contemplate how to start the conversation.

“Holder, I’m asking you as nicely as I’m going to ask you. Please leave.”

I set the book down and take a seat on her bed, despite the fact that she told me not to. She’s already pissed at me. What’s one more thing?

She stomps over to the bed and actually grabs my legs, attempting to physically pull me off the bed. She then reaches up and yanks on my wrists in an attempt to pull me up, but I pull her down to the bed and flip her onto her back, holding her arms to the mattress.

Now that I’ve got her good and riled up, it would be a good time to tell her what I came here to tell her. That I’m not that guy. That I wasn’t in juvi for a year. That I didn’t beat that kid up because he was gay.

But here I am holding her down to the mattress and I have no idea how we even got to this point, but I’ll be damned if I can form a coherent thought. She’s not struggling to get out from under me at all and we’re both staring at each other like we’re daring the other one to be the first to make a move.

My heart is pounding against my chest and if I don’t back away from her right now I’ll do something to those lips of hers that will for sure end up with me getting slapped.

Or kissed back.

The thought is tempting, but I don’t risk it. I let go of her arms and wipe my thumb across the end of her nose. “Flour. It’s been bugging me,” I say. I back away and rest my back against her headboard.

She doesn’t move. She’s breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, but she’s not trying to kick me out of her room anymore, so that’s good.

“I didn’t know he was gay,” I say.

She turns her head in my direction and she’s still flat on her back. She doesn’t say anything, so I use the opportunity to explain in more detail while I’ve got her full attention.

“I beat him up because he was an asshole. I had no idea he was gay.”

She eyes me, expressionless, then slowly turns her head back toward the ceiling. I give her a moment to ponder what I just said. She’ll either believe me and feel guilty or she won’t believe me and she’ll still be pissed. Either way, I don’t want her to feel guilty or pissed. But we’re not left with any other choices of emotions in this situation.

I remain quiet, wanting her to respond to me with something, at least.

A sound comes from the kitchen and it actually resembles an oven timer rather than her phone. “Cake!” she yells. She’s off the bed and out the bedroom door and I find myself alone in her room on her bed. I close my eyes and lean my head against the headboard.

I want her to believe me. I want her to trust me and I want her to know the truth about my past. There’s something about her that tells me she’s not like all the other people I’ve encountered who disappoint me. I just hope I’m not wrong about her, because I like being around her. She actually makes me feel like I have a purpose. I haven’t felt like I had a purpose in over thirteen months.

I glance up when she walks back into the room and she smiles sheepishly. She has a cookie in her mouth and another in her hand. She holds it out to me and drops down next to me on the bed. Her head lands against her pillow and she sighs.

“I guess the gay-bashing asshole remark was really judgmental on my part then, huh? You aren’t really an ignorant homophobe who spent the last year in juvenile detention?”

Mission accomplished.

And it was so much easier than I thought it would be.

I smile and scoot down until I’m flat on the bed next to her. “Nope,” I say, looking up at the stars plastered across her ceiling. “Not at all. I spent the entire last year living with my father in Austin. I don’t even know where the story about me being sent to juvi came into the picture.”

“Why don’t you defend yourself against the rumors if they aren’t true?”

What an odd question, coming from someone who hasn’t defended herself at all this entire week. I glance in her direction. “Why don’t you?”

She quietly nods. “Touché.”

We both look back up to her ceiling. I like that she was so easy to come around. I like that she didn’t argue about it, especially knowing how stubborn she is.

I like that I was right about her.

“The window comment from earlier?” she says. “You were just making a point about rumors? You really weren’t trying to be mean?”

I hate that she actually thought I was just being cruel, even if it was only for a minute. I don’t want her to ever think that about me. “I’m not mean, Sky.”

“You’re intense. I’m right about that, at least.”

“I may be intense, but I’m not mean.”

“Well, I’m not a slut.”

“I’m not a gay-bashing asshole.”

“So we’re all clear?”

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

It’s quiet for another moment until she inhales a long, deep breath. “I’m sorry, Holder.”

“I know, Sky,” I say. I didn’t come here for an apology. I don’t want her to feel guilty about her misconception. “I know.”

She doesn’t say anything else and we both continue to look up at the stars. I’m conflicted right now because we’re both on her bed and as much as I try to ignore my attraction for her, it’s sort of hard when I’m inches from her.

I’m curious if she finds me attractive at all. I’m almost positive she does based on the tiny things she does when I’m around her that she tries to hide. Like the times I’ve caught her staring at my chest when I ran with her. Or the way she sucks in a breath when I lean in to speak to her. Or how she always seems to be struggling not to smile when she’s trying so hard to be mad at me.

I’m not positive what she thinks about me or how she feels, but I know one thing . . . she definitely doesn’t act indifferent toward me like she does toward Grayson.

Thinking about that incident and how just a few hours ago she was kissing him makes me grimace. It may not be appropriate to ask her about it, but I sure as hell can’t stop thinking about how much I hate the thought of her kissing anyone, especially Grayson. And if there’s ever a chance that I’ll be the one kissing her, I need to know that she won’t be kissing him again.

Ever.

“I need to ask you something,” I say. I prepare myself to bring it up, knowing she more than likely doesn’t want to talk about it. But I have to know how she feels about him. I inhale a deep breath and roll over to face her. “Why were you letting Grayson do what he was doing to you in the parking lot?”

She winces and shakes her head ever so slightly. “I already told you. He’s not my boyfriend and he’s not the one who gave me the black eye.”

“I’m not asking because of any of that,” I say, even though I really am. “I’m asking because I saw how you reacted. You were irritated with him. You even looked a little bored. I just want to know why you allow him to do those things if you clearly don’t want him touching you.”

She’s quiet for a second. “My lack of interest was that obvious?”

“Yep. And from fifty yards away. I’m just surprised he didn’t take the hint.”

She immediately flips onto her side and props up on her elbow. “I know, right? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve turned him down but he just doesn’t stop. It’s really pathetic. And unattractive.”

I can’t even describe how good it feels to hear her say that.

“Then why do you let him do it?”

She keeps her eyes locked on mine, but she doesn’t answer me. We’re inches apart. On her bed. Her mouth is right here.

So close.

We both flip onto our backs almost simultaneously.

“It’s complicated,” she says. Her voice sounds sad and I definitely didn’t come here to make her feel sad.

“You don’t have to explain. I was just curious. It’s really not my business.”

She pulls her arms up behind her head and rests her head on her hands. “Have you ever had a serious girlfriend?”

I have no idea where she’s going with this, but at least she’s talking, so I go with it. “Yep,” I say. “But I hope you aren’t about to ask for details, because I don’t go there.”

“That’s not why I’m asking,” she says, shaking her head. “When you kissed her, what did you feel?”

I definitely don’t know where she’s going with this. But still, I indulge her. It’s the least I can do for showing up unannounced, then practically insulting her reputation before getting my point across.

“You want honesty, right?”

“That’s all I ever want,” she says, mimicking my own words.

I grin. “All right, then. I guess I felt . . . horny.”

When I say the word horny, I swear she sucks in a breath. She’s quick to recover, though. “So you get the butterflies and the sweaty palms and the rapid heartbeat and all that?” she asks.

“Yeah. Not with every girl I’ve been with, but most of them.”

She tilts her head toward me and arches an eyebrow, which makes me grin. “There weren’t that many,” I say. At least I don’t think there were that many. I’m not sure what number constitutes a lot at this point and even then, people measure things on different scales. “What’s your point?” I ask, relieved she isn’t asking me to clarify exactly how many there have been.

“My point is that I don’t. I don’t feel any of that. When I make out with guys, I don’t feel anything at all. Just numbness. So sometimes I let Grayson do what he does to me, not because I enjoy it, but because I like not feeling anything at all.”

I was absolutely not expecting that answer. I’m not sure that I like that answer. I mean, I like that she doesn’t actually feel anything for Grayson, but I hate that it hasn’t stopped her from letting him try to get what he wants.

I also don’t like that she admitted to never feeling anything, because I can honestly say when I’m around her, I’ve never felt so much.

“I know it doesn’t make sense, and no, I’m not a lesbian,” she says defensively. “I’ve just never been attracted to anyone before you and I don’t know why.”

I quickly turn and look at her, not sure that I heard her correctly. But based on her reaction and the way her arm comes up and immediately covers her face, I know for a fact I heard her correctly.

She’s attracted to me.

And she didn’t intend to admit that out loud.

And I’m pretty sure that accidental admission just made my entire year.

I reach over and slide my fingers around her wrist, pulling her arm away from her face. I know she’s embarrassed right now, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting this go.

“You’re attracted to me?”

“Oh, God,” she groans. “That’s the last thing you need for your ego.”

“That’s probably true,” I admit, laughing. “Better hurry up and insult me before my ego gets as big as yours.”

“You need a haircut,” she blurts out. “Really bad. It gets in your eyes and you squint and you’re constantly moving it out of the way like you’re Justin Bieber and it’s really distracting.”

I know she doesn’t have access to technology, so I let it slide that Justin Bieber cut his hair off a long time ago. I’m disappointed that I even know that. I tug at my hair with my fingers and fall back against my pillow. “Man. That really hurt. It seems like you’ve thought that one out for a while.”

“Just since Monday,” she says.

“You met me on Monday. So technically, you’ve been thinking about how much you hate my hair since the moment we met?”

“Not every moment.”

I laugh. I wonder if it’s possible for people to fall in love with a person one characteristic at a time, or if you fall for the entire person at once. Because I think I just fell in love with her wit. And her bluntness. And maybe even her mouth, but I won’t allow myself to stare at it long enough to confirm.

Shit. That’s already three characteristics and I’ve only been here an hour.

“I can’t believe you think I’m hot,” I say, breaking the silence.

“Shut up.”

“You probably faked passing out the other day, just so you could be carried in my hot, sweaty, manly arms.”

“Shut up,” she says again.

“I’ll bet you fantasize about me at night, right here in this bed.”

“Shut up, Holder.”

“You probably even . . .”

She slaps her hand over my mouth. “You’re way hotter when you aren’t speaking.”

I shut up, but only because I want to revel in the fact that this night has already turned out better than I ever anticipated. Every second I’m with her I like her more and more. I like her sense of humor and I like that she gets my sense of humor. She’s the first girl besides Les to ever actually give me a run for my money and I can’t seem to get enough of it.

“I’m bored,” I say, hoping she’ll suggest an interesting make-out session in lieu of staring at her ceiling. Although, if my options are limited to staring at her ceiling all night or going home, I’ll gladly stare at her ceiling.

“So go home.”

“I don’t want to,” I say resolutely. I’m having way too much fun to go home. “What do you do when you’re bored? You don’t have internet or TV. Do you just sit around all day and think about how hot I am?”

“I read,” she says. “A lot. Sometimes I bake. Sometimes I run.”

“Read, bake, and run. And fantasize about me. What a riveting life you lead.”

“I like my life.”

“I sort of like it, too,” I say. And I do like it. We already have the running in common. And she may not realize it, but we also have the fantasizing in common. I don’t bake, but I do like her baking.

That leaves reading. I read when I need to, which isn’t a lot. But I suddenly want to know everything about everything that interests her and if reading interests her, it interests me too. I reach over and pick up the book from her nightstand. “Here, read this.”

“You want me to read it out loud? You’re that bored?”

“Pretty damn bored.”

“It’s a romance.” She says it like it’s a warning.

“Like I said. Pretty damn bored. Read.”

She shrugs and adjusts her pillow, then begins reading.

“I was almost three days old before the hospital forced them to decide. They agreed to take the first three letters of both names and compromised on Layken . . .”

She continues to read and I continue to let her. After several chapters, I can’t tell if my rapid-fire pulse is a result of listening to her voice for so long or if it’s from the sexual tension in the book. Maybe both of them coupled together is what’s doing it. Sky should really think about a career in voiceovers or audiobooks or some shit like that because her voice is . . .

“He glides across the room . . .”

Her voice is trailing off.

“. . . and bends down, snatching up the . . .”

And . . . she’s out. The book falls against her chest and I laugh quietly, but I don’t get up. because the fact that she fell asleep doesn’t mean I’m ready to leave.

I lie with her for about half an hour, confirming the fact that yes, I’m definitely in love with her mouth. I watch her sleep until my phone chimes. I scoot her away from me and onto her back, then pull my phone out of my pocket.

Dude. It’s Daniel, me. Val is f’ng crazy n I think I’m at that Burker Ging and come get me I can’t drive. I drank and I hate her.

I text him back immediately.

Good idea. Stay put. Be there in thirty.

I slide the phone back in my pocket, but it sounds off again with an incoming text.

Holder?

I shake my head and shoot a text back that says, Yeah? He replies immediately.

Oh, good. Just mak’n sure it was u, man.

Jeez. He’s more than just drunk.

I stand up and take the book out of her hands, then set it on the nightstand and mark the page she stopped at so I’ll have an excuse to come back over here tomorrow. I walk to the kitchen and spend the next ten minutes cleaning up her mess. I swear you would think she harbored resentment toward flour considering the amount I have to wipe up. After all the food is wrapped in Saran Wrap (minus the few cookies I might have swiped), I walk back to her bedroom, then sit down on the edge of her bed.

She’s snoring.

I love it.

Shit. That’s four things already.

I really need to leave.

Before standing up to leave, I slowly lean forward, hesitating, not wanting to wake her. But I can’t leave here without a little preview. I continue inching toward her until my mouth grazes her lips, and I kiss her.