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I hold my ground as he approaches, my chin tipping up in defiance. “That’s all well and good, but like I told you last week, I’m still the same girl. If you didn’t want me then, why should I care that you suddenly want me now?”
I can practically hear a chorus of women cheering me on in my head. Yes! Go girl! Louder for the people in the back!
His attention falls to my mouth. My lips part on an inhalation. “In spite of what you think, you have changed. You’ve grown up. This conversation proves it.”
His hand curves around my waist. When it reaches the base of my spine, he tugs me toward him. I practically stumble. My hands hit his chest and he doesn’t budge, as sturdy as a brick wall.
His other hand reaches up to cradle my chin and then he bends low, tipping my head just enough so our lips can make contact.
Except they don’t. Derek stays there, frozen. My heart is in my throat. I’m breathing so hard, I sound like a crazed animal, pinned underneath a predator. It’s not a kiss at all, but my body is reacting like it is. I sag against him, breathing in his scent: the spiced confidence of a man I’ve wanted since I knew what it meant to want. I’ve imagined this moment for so long. It’s heady. I’m screaming out for a kiss in ways that don’t require words: my fingers dig into his shirt, my hips brush against his. I know he can feel it, and yet he doesn’t give in.
Finally, he speaks, and his lips barely graze mine as they move.
“I have a theory.”
The noise of anger I make is involuntary. Primal.
It makes his full lips curve into a cunning smile. He straightens and steps away. His contact with me ends so suddenly, I sway toward him. It’s as if he’s my spine now. Without him, I’ll collapse.
“I don’t think your feelings for me are purely past tense. I think you might be as crazy about me now as you were back then.”
I chew on my anger, taking my lip into my mouth.
How dare he?
HOW DARE HE!?
“You’re wrong.”
I fling the words at him angrily, but his eyes peel away my layers of pretense. I resist the urge to squirm, to cover myself as if I’m somehow bared.
“Am I?” he taunts.
It’s infuriating to realize I have no shield against him, no way to convince him I’m not an open book. I’m a diary, locked and hidden away. Or rather, I wish I were…
I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. No. Instead, I walk to my door, fling it open, and gesture that he can kindly leave.
“Now.”
His eyes narrow and he doesn’t move. His gaze spars with mine. Then finally, he walks over to retrieve his book and slides right past me, pressing the hardback against my chest on his way out.
Clearly, it’s a gift.
I stand there, catching my breath and regaining my composure. All the while, I keep that book pressed to my heart until I know Derek has had enough time to leave the dorm and get back into his car. I hover there, unmoving. It’s a mind game I’m playing with myself, as if I couldn’t care less about the book. Look at me, being patient. Not even looking at it. I push myself even more, convincing myself I need a shower more than anything. I set the book on my desk and grab my bathroom caddy. I rinse off slowly in the communal showers, standing under the hot water while I berate myself for wanting Derek to kiss me.
When I can’t stand the heated water for another second, I get out and dry off. Back in my dorm, I sit on the edge of my bed in my robe, brushing out my tangled hair while I stare at the book.
It looks old. The cover is a midnight blue that’s faded to a dull navy. It’s impossible to read the debossed script on the spine from across the room, though I think it’s inlaid with gold leaf.
Finally, with an impatient huff, I toss my hairbrush on my bed and stand, walking over to angle the book toward me. I trace the letters with my finger then immediately rear back once I realize what I’m touching.
It’s a first edition copy of The Enchantress, the 18th century French fairytale Cal says inspired him to develop Fairytale Kingdom.
On the worn title page, in black ink, someone has carefully written, You remind me of her.Chapter ElevenDerekI nearly forgot myself and kissed Whitney last night. It wasn’t part of my plan when I decided to wait for her outside her dorm. I wanted to talk, give her the book. She’s the one who invited me into her dorm. She’s the one who pulled me into her private sanctuary with her fluffy white bed. I saw it and imagined laying her down on those sheets, peeling her clothes off, unveiling perfectly bare skin. I would have taken my time trailing my hand along her stomach, navel, and then, lower.
