“Just give me a minute, okay?” He turned and disappeared behind another door leading to a bedroom.
I stood there for a minute, legs not moving. Authors had used such constructions in books to show readers how the heroine was affected by the hero. Maybe a turning point when the character finally realized she wasn’t immune to the leading man after all. Her heart would race, and she’d feel pulled toward the man. I’d always thought it was fun, if maybe a bit cliché. Grinned at the heroine’s discomfort and embarrassment.
Now I knew better. It wasnotfun. It was downright mean.
Things once seen could not be unseen. And some things just shouldnotbe seen. No matter how nice they looked or how much one might want to take another peek. But friends should not see friends half clothed. It rocked the equilibrium of the universe. Hazed lines of the friend zone and made everything foggy.
I was nothing but a good friend, so I tried to think of something else, anything else—puppies, a field of sunflowers, a train wreck—but the only image that took shape in my head was the one burned into my brain like a branding iron. And the more that image flashed like neon lights, impossible to ignore, the more my neurons fired, sending ripples through my body like exposed wires.
Hinges creaked, and muted footsteps sounded on carpeted floor. “Are you going to stand out in the hall all night?”
Umm. Yeah, I very well might because my legs weren’t obeying my fixated brain, and I couldn’t imagine stepping across that threshold. How was I supposed to have a conversation with him when I kept imagining him with his shirt off? Maybe if I didn’t look at him. That might work, right?
I kept my gaze down as I took one step into his apartment.
“What’s with you?” Tate grabbed my arm and pulled me farther in, closing the door behind me.
The skin on my arm burned where he’d touched me. I’d never wished for the superpower of Flubber before. Not that Flubber was a superhero, but I couldn’t actually think of a real superhero with the powers of turning one’s self into a puddle and then slinking away through the crack under the door. I couldn’t think ofanything.No, that wasn’t true. I couldn’t think of anything else besides…that.
The paper in my hand quivered against my leg. I shoved it at him, my knuckles colliding with his stomach. My hand reached back, the paper fluttering to the floor.
Tate raised his brow at me but didn’t comment. He leaned down and retrieved the paper. “What’s this?”
I cleared my throat. “Your part of the bet.”
He stared at me, right brow still cocked. “You want me to play ‘See Me’?”
I crossed my arms over my chest and pressed my elbows down. Hands trapped, I couldn’t accidentally touch him again. “Why not? It’s a great song.”
His lips curved. “I’m glad you think so.” He looked down at the paper, flicked his gaze back at me. “I don’t think she’s quite ready yet.”
“She? I know boats areshes, but I’ve never heard of a song being ashe.”
Tate shrugged. “This one is.”
My arms fell, and I took a step closer, curious. “Why? What’s different about this song?” Besides it being incredible.
He reached out and pinched a tendril of hair hanging down the side of my cheek. Pulled down, then released it and watched it spring back up. I pushed his hand away, and he laughed.
“It’s a special song, Em. No one has heard it but you, and even then I was going to wait to play it for you.”
“Why?” Now that I’d heard it, I wished I had it on a playlist that I could put on repeat.
“I told you. She’s not quite ready yet.”
Our gazes locked, and a bit of the tension I’d felt between us earlier in the day returned. Only not really. Yes, it was tension, but it was different somehow. Not one heavy with discord that hung around me, threatening to crush me. This tension…well, it was like in books, that weighted moment, the seconds stretching between the two lead characters as they stared at each other, not saying anything but at the same time saying everything.
My breath roared in my ears as the space between my inhales and exhales shortened. I wished my life came with a narrator. Then maybe I could know what Tate was thinking. Why he was standing there, looking at me so intently. Maybe I could know whatIwas thinking. My thoughts were so muddled, mixed up in the flood of warmth pooling from my center.
I took a step back, and so did Tate. He pulled a hand through the hair at the back of his head and turned toward the kitchen. “Water?”
I blinked hard, refocusing. “I’d love some.”
The springs on the couch squeaked as I sat down on the edge. If only I could hit a Rewind button. Back up from before knocking on his door. Before I saw what I shouldn’t have seen and the electrical circuits in my brain went all haywire. We’d still be Tate and Emory, best friends. What were we now? Tate and the weird girl who couldn’t stop imagining things, whether they were looks with hidden meanings that weren’t there, feelings which were probably brought on by hormones (I was seriously going to check my calendar when I got home, figure out when Aunt Flow was going to visit—these weren’t her normal symptoms, but I wouldn’t put anything unusual past her), or, well,that(and bythatI mean Tate without a shirt, just to be clear).
I leaned forward and let my head fall to the coffee table. What.Whack. Is.Whack. Wrong.Whack. With. Whack. Me?
“Umm…what are you doing?”
