That sound bypassed every rational thought in my head and went straight to my cock.
Her eyes flew open and she pulled her feet away, tucking them beneath her on her side of the couch.
“I should get to bed,” she said in a rush. “I’ve got class in the morning and work tomorrow.”
“Yeah. We should call it a night.” My voice was rougher than intended.
I stood and held out my hand. She hesitated, then slid her fingers into mine.
Neither of us let go.
We walked down the hall together. Hand in hand, me slightly ahead of her to keep my shoulder from bumping the wall. The only sound was the hardwood under our feet.
I passed my room to hers, stopping at the open doorway and turning to face her.
“Thanks for tonight.” Her gaze was stuck on our joined hands. “It was fun.”
“Zadie.” I moved closer. “Look at me.”
Her head snapped up, gaze locking onto mine like a magnet, and my body fucking rejoiced at the connection.
“This wasn’t a date,” I said. “But it wasn’t nothing, either.”
“Caleb—”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
She pulled her hand from mine and pressed it flat against my chest. Not pushing me away, just resting there, her palm warm over the place where my heart was trying to beat its way through my ribs.
“Just friends,” she whispered. “Remember?”
I covered her hand with mine. “For now.”
Her fingers curled under mine before she pulled away. “Good night, Cal.”
“Good night, Zadie.”
She slipped into her room and closed the door.
I stood there a moment longer, then crossed the hall to my own. And as I lay in the dark, I could still feel her warmth branded on my chest.
She could close as many doors as she wanted. It wouldn’t change a thing.
Chapter Thirteen
Zadie
“It’s bad enough you refusin’ to come back home where you belong, Zadiebug. I don’t understand why you can’t at least come for a visit. It’s Thanksgiving, for goodness’ sake.”
My hair was wet and hanging in a giant tangle after a shower, and I had no energy to deal with it. It needed my usual leave-in conditioner, but where I’d left the bottle was anyone’s guess.
Instead of looking for it, I was stuck in a one-sided conversation with the woman who’d given me life and an ever-growing migraine.
My mother, Jenni Tillman-Overly, was a whiner, and it annoyed the shit out of me. Almost as much as her hyphenated name.
Tillman, I understood. It was her maiden name. But Overly? It belonged to a man she’d never married. She claimed he was the love of her life—she’d cheated on my father with him, after all—but she’d also left him over a decade ago.
“You stayin’ away so long makes me think I did somethin’ wrong. Like you don’t wanna see me.” Her sickeningly sweet, over-the-top fake Southern drawl was pushing the limits of my patience.
