He hands me the book, our eyes meeting, and the slow drag of my fingers across his sends a shiver like a release up my arm and then down my spine.
I swallow hard.What the hell just happened?
“I’m a little surprised to see you at the library on a Friday night,” I say, clearing my throat as I tuck the book under my arm. I take a small step away from Mac, trying not to be obvious. I look at almost anything but him—the shelves, my old Converse, the worn carpet, Mac’s stylish boots that kiss the hem of his straight-leg jeans.
“What else would I do on a Friday night?” he teases.
I bring my eyes back up to his to find his ever-present smirk painted on his face. It only annoys me a little bit.
“Racquetball?”
“Brody went home already for Thanksgiving.”
“You don’t play by yourself?”
“I prefer a partner.” He winks at me, and my cheeks heat.
“Well, Olsen is taken.” I read the name off the spine of the book I’m holding. I’m not bold enough to flirt back, so I sidestep the flirting but try to keep it playful.
“Olsen is a hot name. Maybe we could make it a group date?” His tone is suggestive, and the heat on my cheeks fails to cool.
“I could find you your own. I think Friedman, Burnbach, and Eisenhall are available.” I read off authors’ names from the email I sent to myself.
“I’d only really want to do a group thing if you were involved.”
Oh. My. God.
I avert my gaze again, trying to focus on the shelf in front of me, not really seeing anything. My sweater starts to feel like too much material, and Mac feels way too close even though he’s almost a full arm’s length away.
Maybe Jade was right. Maybe Mac does like me…like that.Who says something like that to someone they aren’t interested in?
“What are those names again?” Mac asks, his tone shifting from playful to curious. He cups his hand around mine, turning my phone screen toward him, and my heartbeat picks up pace. This close to him, I can smell the mint on his breath. I couldn’t turn my head without my nose hitting him, so I let my eyes drift over him and to our hands. His hand engulfs mine entirely, and my stomach isn’t in my stomach anymore; it’s in my throat.
“I need that book too, actually,” he says, leaning away from me. “Is this for your psych paper? What are you writing on?”
“The bystander effect.”
“Great minds,” he says with a smirk.
“Damn it,” I say, a rush of frustration bringing me back to reality.Of courseMac chose the same subject for his psychology paper. I spin on my heels and head back to my desk. I have to figure out a new topic now.
“Do you want me to choose a new topic? I don’t mind at all,” he offers.
“It’s fine.”
It’s not fine, but it’s also not worth my energy. I hadn’t started the paper yet.
He follows me all the way down the stairs and to my table, where I toss my now useless book. I guess Mac can use it. I swipe my finger over the trackpad to wake up my laptop.
“I’m just over there.” Mac points to the table next to me. “Can I sit with you? It’s more economical that way.”
“Right, because it’s practicallyThe Hunger Gamesin here for a table,” I mumble, but he still hears me. I don’t particularly want Mac to sit with me. I’m still annoyed with him.
“My kingdom for a table,” Mac says, his voice loud and booming.
A loud “Shhh!” comes from someone in another part of the library.
I duck, covering my face instinctively at the secondhand embarrassment. The blatant rule-breaking.
