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It feels more intimidating than it should, not only because of who he is—the forbiddenness of him—but also because this is the fourth floor. It’s an unwritten rule of Putnam that the fourth floor of the library is a space of sacred silence.
West grabs another book. He has to reach above his head to shelve it, which means his shirt lifts and I see he’s got a thick brown leather belt holding his jeans up. It doesn’t match. His boots are black, and so is his T-shirt. It’s got this big jagged orange seam sewn across the back, as though a shark came along and bit a giant rip in it and then he handed it over to a seven-year-old to fix.
I can’t imagine how such a T-shirt even happens. Or why anyone would wear it.
West’s clothes are sometimes like that. Just … random.
I kind of like it.
When he lowers down to his heels and bends over the cart, his shirt rides up again, exposing some of his lower back.
I clear my throat, but his music must be too loud, because he doesn’t turn toward me. I step closer. He’s got his head down, his hand reaching for a book on the lower shelf.
Crap. Now I’m so close that I’m bound to startle him when he finally figures out I’m here.
There’s nothing I can do to prevent it. I reach out, meaning to touch him just long enough to get his attention, but I end up pressing my palm flat against his lower spine instead.
It’s an accident. I’m almost sure it’s an accident.
Eighty percent sure.
He doesn’t jump. He just goes completely, utterly still. So still that I can hear the music playing over his earbuds. It’s loud, with angry vocals and an insistent, pounding beat that matches the sudden pulse between my legs.
Oh, I think.
Maybe it’s not an accident, after all.
West’s back is indecently hot beneath my palm. I stare at my fingers, ordering them to move for several long seconds before they actually obey. When I pull my hand away, it feels magnetized. Like there’s this drag, this force, tugging it back toward West.
I’m pretty sure the force is called lust.
West straightens and turns around, and I know even before he does it that I’ve miscalculated, and now I’m totally at his mercy, which means I’m doomed. I’m not sure he has mercy. He sure didn’t seem like he did when he was hitting Nate hard enough to make me physically ill.
He pulls out his earbuds, and I try to think something other than the word doomed. Doomed, doomed, doomed.
I try to remember what I was going to say to him—I had a whole speech planned—but I can’t. I can’t.
I stare at his belt instead. I think about grabbing it and yanking him closer. As if this is a thing I could do. A thing I have ever done, with anyone, much less West Leavitt.
Doooooomed.
“Hey,” he says.
Which isn’t fair, because it means I have to look up.
I do, eventually.
Our eyes meet. His pupils are huge, and there’s something so intense about the way he’s looking at me, it’s kind of scary. Only scary is the wrong word. I’ve felt a lot of scary in the past few weeks, and this is different.
This is scary like pausing at the top of the steepest hill on a roller coaster, bracing yourself for the drop.
“Hey,” I say back.
“What’s up?”
“Can I talk to you?”
He considers this request. “No. ”
