Wild
Page 21
I took a breath, realizing I’d been in some kind of trance, my memory searching for a moment like that. His description had triggered that need in me. I’d never met a guy who talked like him. With mere words he fired a need in me to know that kind of peace.
“Yeah,” I admitted slowly. “I have.” When I held my guitar, I felt that way. Or rather, I had.
When it became clear I wasn’t going to elaborate, he continued, “If I’m lucky enough to make it to the majors, then great. But I have other interests, too . . . other things that bring that same feeling.”
And this struck me as wholly unfair. My fingers tightened around the curve of my knee. I looked away for a moment and bit the inside of my cheek, disturbed by this. Nothing inspired me the way he described except for something I couldn’t do, and he had multiple things that spoke to him?
“I’m actually interested in teaching.”
My attention snapped back to him. “As in becoming a teacher?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Like being a coach?”
He sent me a look that said I’m not just a dumb jock, you know. “No. English.”
“English?”
“What are you? A parrot? Yeah, English. Literature.” He made a flapping motion with his hands. “I’m into those things that open and have pages in the middle.”
I laughed awkwardly. “No, I didn’t know that about you. I didn’t know that you—”
“Read? Yes, I can read words and everything.”
I wadded up a napkin and tossed it at him.
He chuckled and caught it. “I actually read a lot. And write.”
I stared at him, not knowing what to do with this sudden new insight to him. He was a jock who . . . wrote? But, of course, it was believable. The way he used words. He didn’t just talk. He painted a picture with language.
He rubbed a hand up and down the back of his scalp and blew out a breath. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“Not even Rachel?” I blurted before I could help myself. Clearly they were close. How could she not know that he liked to write?
He shook his head, his eyebrows drawing tightly over his deep-set eyes. Like even he was confused that he had confessed this to me. “No. Actually I haven’t. When we talk it’s usually about . . . her . . .” He frowned like maybe this had just occurred to him.
I wet my lips. A fluttery feeling danced inside my too-tight chest as I stared at him. Maybe she thought she knew everything there was to know about him. Every moment I spent with him, I discovered another layer. I doubt there would ever be a time when this guy didn’t fascinate me. “I want to hear about your writing. What is it that you write?
“Fiction. Stories,” he provided.
“I’d like to read them . . . if you’d let me.”
He looked at me for a long moment and then smiled almost self-consciously. I blinked. Impossible. This guy never looked uncertain. “I’ve never let anyone read them before.”
“What?” I toyed with the tip of a pen. “You scared?”
He looked only halfway joking as he replied, “Yes.”
I grinned, continuing to play with the pen, rolling it between my fingers. His gaze followed the movement, making my skin pull tighter. “I’ll be gentle with you,” I teased. “Promise.”
He laughed, but his eyes deepened to that dark sea blue I was becoming familiar with. It was that blue that made me feel all funny inside. Like I was dipping down on a roller coaster. His gaze dropped to my mouth. The sexual tension was thick. Choking me. God. He was close. Just a small stretch of table between us. This proximity was killing me. My lungs hurt too much to even draw a full breath.
I rose suddenly, picking up our empty soda cans. “Yeah. You should email me something. Or bring it with you on your next shift.” Or on our next sleepover.
“Maybe I will.”
I glanced back at his face and grinned, shaking my head as I rinsed out the cans for the recycle bin. “No, you won’t.”
He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“Fine. I won’t push.”
“Hey, I’ll make a deal with you. When you play your guitar for me, I’ll let you read one of my stories.”
My smile slipped and a nervous prickle swept over me. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” he echoed, nodding, his expression so knowing and smug that I had to say back to him:
“Maybe I’ll do that then.” A bluff, and from the glint in his eyes he knew it.
“Great. I’m working on a story right now about this girl that wakes up from a coma to find the world gone. Friends. Family. It’s like they disappeared. Or never even existed.” His fingers made a poofing gesture. I leaned forward, riveted by the idea of a girl waking to find her world gone. “There’s only one other survivor . . . this guy. But she won’t accept that everything has changed . . . that they only have each other in this new life.”
I leaned back against the sink, staring at him, hypnotized by his deep voice. “She’s probably scared,” I heard myself saying, sucked into the world of his story.
He angled his head. “Oh, she’s terrified,” he agreed.
I narrowed my gaze at him sitting so calmly at the table. Why was he looking at me so pointedly? Was he saying I was that girl in his story? I bristled, not liking the implication that I was terrified. Or of the analogy of me as a recently comatose girl.
“Sounds interesting. How does it end?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
My fingers tapped agitatedly against the edge of the counter. “Hmm. You’ll have to let me know.”
“I’ll do that.”
I glanced at the clock above the microwave. “It’s late.” I walked across the loft and plucked the throw and pillow off my bed.
“You sure you don’t mind me staying here again?” He moved to the futon.
I shook my head, smiling tightly. “It’s like having a roommate again.” God. Had I just compared him to one of my former female roommates?
As his hand reached behind his neck and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one move, I swallowed a squeak and hurried from the kitchen to my bed. Yeah. There was no mistaking him for Em or Pepper.
Pulling back the covers on my bed, I couldn’t stop my gaze from straying to him again as he slid his jeans down his narrow hips, leaving him in snug boxer briefs, his male glory on display. He was a feast for the eyes. My hand dove for my lamp, twisting the knob and plunging us into darkness. I exhaled in relief. Out of sight if not out of mind.
“Yeah,” I admitted slowly. “I have.” When I held my guitar, I felt that way. Or rather, I had.
When it became clear I wasn’t going to elaborate, he continued, “If I’m lucky enough to make it to the majors, then great. But I have other interests, too . . . other things that bring that same feeling.”
And this struck me as wholly unfair. My fingers tightened around the curve of my knee. I looked away for a moment and bit the inside of my cheek, disturbed by this. Nothing inspired me the way he described except for something I couldn’t do, and he had multiple things that spoke to him?
“I’m actually interested in teaching.”
My attention snapped back to him. “As in becoming a teacher?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Like being a coach?”
He sent me a look that said I’m not just a dumb jock, you know. “No. English.”
“English?”
“What are you? A parrot? Yeah, English. Literature.” He made a flapping motion with his hands. “I’m into those things that open and have pages in the middle.”
I laughed awkwardly. “No, I didn’t know that about you. I didn’t know that you—”
“Read? Yes, I can read words and everything.”
I wadded up a napkin and tossed it at him.
He chuckled and caught it. “I actually read a lot. And write.”
I stared at him, not knowing what to do with this sudden new insight to him. He was a jock who . . . wrote? But, of course, it was believable. The way he used words. He didn’t just talk. He painted a picture with language.
He rubbed a hand up and down the back of his scalp and blew out a breath. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“Not even Rachel?” I blurted before I could help myself. Clearly they were close. How could she not know that he liked to write?
He shook his head, his eyebrows drawing tightly over his deep-set eyes. Like even he was confused that he had confessed this to me. “No. Actually I haven’t. When we talk it’s usually about . . . her . . .” He frowned like maybe this had just occurred to him.
I wet my lips. A fluttery feeling danced inside my too-tight chest as I stared at him. Maybe she thought she knew everything there was to know about him. Every moment I spent with him, I discovered another layer. I doubt there would ever be a time when this guy didn’t fascinate me. “I want to hear about your writing. What is it that you write?
“Fiction. Stories,” he provided.
“I’d like to read them . . . if you’d let me.”
He looked at me for a long moment and then smiled almost self-consciously. I blinked. Impossible. This guy never looked uncertain. “I’ve never let anyone read them before.”
“What?” I toyed with the tip of a pen. “You scared?”
He looked only halfway joking as he replied, “Yes.”
I grinned, continuing to play with the pen, rolling it between my fingers. His gaze followed the movement, making my skin pull tighter. “I’ll be gentle with you,” I teased. “Promise.”
He laughed, but his eyes deepened to that dark sea blue I was becoming familiar with. It was that blue that made me feel all funny inside. Like I was dipping down on a roller coaster. His gaze dropped to my mouth. The sexual tension was thick. Choking me. God. He was close. Just a small stretch of table between us. This proximity was killing me. My lungs hurt too much to even draw a full breath.
I rose suddenly, picking up our empty soda cans. “Yeah. You should email me something. Or bring it with you on your next shift.” Or on our next sleepover.
“Maybe I will.”
I glanced back at his face and grinned, shaking my head as I rinsed out the cans for the recycle bin. “No, you won’t.”
He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“Fine. I won’t push.”
“Hey, I’ll make a deal with you. When you play your guitar for me, I’ll let you read one of my stories.”
My smile slipped and a nervous prickle swept over me. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” he echoed, nodding, his expression so knowing and smug that I had to say back to him:
“Maybe I’ll do that then.” A bluff, and from the glint in his eyes he knew it.
“Great. I’m working on a story right now about this girl that wakes up from a coma to find the world gone. Friends. Family. It’s like they disappeared. Or never even existed.” His fingers made a poofing gesture. I leaned forward, riveted by the idea of a girl waking to find her world gone. “There’s only one other survivor . . . this guy. But she won’t accept that everything has changed . . . that they only have each other in this new life.”
I leaned back against the sink, staring at him, hypnotized by his deep voice. “She’s probably scared,” I heard myself saying, sucked into the world of his story.
He angled his head. “Oh, she’s terrified,” he agreed.
I narrowed my gaze at him sitting so calmly at the table. Why was he looking at me so pointedly? Was he saying I was that girl in his story? I bristled, not liking the implication that I was terrified. Or of the analogy of me as a recently comatose girl.
“Sounds interesting. How does it end?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
My fingers tapped agitatedly against the edge of the counter. “Hmm. You’ll have to let me know.”
“I’ll do that.”
I glanced at the clock above the microwave. “It’s late.” I walked across the loft and plucked the throw and pillow off my bed.
“You sure you don’t mind me staying here again?” He moved to the futon.
I shook my head, smiling tightly. “It’s like having a roommate again.” God. Had I just compared him to one of my former female roommates?
As his hand reached behind his neck and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one move, I swallowed a squeak and hurried from the kitchen to my bed. Yeah. There was no mistaking him for Em or Pepper.
Pulling back the covers on my bed, I couldn’t stop my gaze from straying to him again as he slid his jeans down his narrow hips, leaving him in snug boxer briefs, his male glory on display. He was a feast for the eyes. My hand dove for my lamp, twisting the knob and plunging us into darkness. I exhaled in relief. Out of sight if not out of mind.
