Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
And his face is turning red.
I stare at him.
Mouth going dry.
Why isn’t he saying anything? Why’s he just standing there? Why is he killing me with this white-hot silence right now?
I can’t stand it. “Thunderstorm room, huh?”
The question comes out choked. Not even in my voice. Like an alien took over and I’ve got no hope to shut my ass up.
He looks at me. “The what?”
I step inside. “Y’know … what you just called this room, the place to stand in during a thunderstorm.” I stop by a fancy couch, the kind you’d see in some 17th century palace. “I don’t see any big thunderstorm out there.”
“Don’t jinx it,” he warns. “My phone did show a 5% chance of precipitation tonight.”
“Would it be the worst thing?” I take a few steps closer.
“Um, yes? Cissy would have a … a conniption.” He’s starting to ramble nervously. “Do you realize how much planning went into tonight? She had to postpone the whole thing by three weekends because of the concert last month. Not sure why, but she did. She’s probably more messed up about her son leaving than she admits. Oh, and not to mention everyone got all dolled up tonight, and if it dares to start raining—”
“You got pretty dolled up yourself.”
He goes quiet.
Then looks at me again.
I’m closer. A lot closer.
His eyes drift down to the pretty flower he put on my chest, his pink boutonniere. “And you,” he says softly.
The way he’s looking at my chest.
The thoughts I’ve gotta assume he’s having.
Us playing footsy under his table again, ignoring his delicious soup, hearts fluttering all over the damned place.
I don’t know how much game I’ve got left.
I ain’t a flirt. I hate flirting. Not used to pursuing anyone. Guys in the past, they just happened. No conversation needed. One peek across the room. A look back. He’s into me. I’m into him. Done.
Whatever’s going on here, me and Wyatt, I don’t get.
Where this courage is coming from, it’s gotta be whatever I got at that bar and choked down before we left the table.
It’s all I’m running on now.
Liquid courage and not much else.
I’d normally laugh it off, tell him I’m kidding, or not go for the joke at all. We would already have moved on to the next room, forgetting thunderstorms and tall-ass curtained windows and this stupid couch I’m leaning against.
In the next breath, he reaches for my jacket.
I freeze, surprised by his action.
Until I realize he’s just fixing the flower on my lapel.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It went a little cockeyed.”
“Did it?”
His lip curls up at one corner. “The flower looked … tortured.”
“You’re torturing it right now.”
“No, I’m not. I’m fixing it.”
“You’re a master of torture.”
He pauses.
Eyes flicking up to mine.
It’s the liquid courage speaking. “Been torturing me all night,” I go on. Where are these words coming from? “Looking like that. Looking the way you do. Touching my jacket. Now the flower.”
He lets go. “I’m—I’m not …” He chuckles—and goes silent right away. “Just being a perfectionist. I wasn’t meaning to … to …” He leans against the back of the couch and turns toward the window, out of words.
For some reason, I ain’t done. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” he mutters, still staring at the window.
“What you’re doing.”
He crosses his arms, saying nothing.
After a second, I smirk and lean in closer to him. “It’s okay if you want to touch me.”
“I … I’m not …” He snorts and looks away even more. “I wasn’t trying to touch you. I was just—”
“I want you to touch me.”
That stops him. Mouth left open.
Breath held, too, I think.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax his arms. Just stands there like a rock. Staring at the window. Not really looking at anything.
He’s not ready.
He’s not making a move.
And I don’t push people.
If he isn’t into it. Or is too freaked out. Or just simply wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of a bunch of rich people rooms with no hurry to get back to the pavilion. Fine by me. I’ll just sit here and suffer, let my feelings eat themselves. They always do anyway.
“Alright,” I mumble, leaning against the back of the fancy-ass couch, too, crossing my arms, and saying nothing else.
Then his shoulder presses against mine.
Sidling up to me.
Gently.
I feel the weight of him against me before I register that he’s even gotten closer.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Barely enough that I can feel his breathing every few seconds.
Maybe I was wrong.
This room is doing something to us both. Something neither of us have noticed yet.
Is this permission? Is this what he’s telling me? Or have I been coming on too strong, and he doesn’t want his rejection to seem too harsh, so he’s rubbing up on my shoulder? You know, the way you pet a cat you just yelled at without meaning to.