I can feel the heat of his gaze. I don’t need to look at him to know he’s studying me as intently as I am him, only he’s being obvious about it which has me squirming in my seat.
“Like what you see?”
I roll my eyes and ignore the question.
Gabriel drops his legs to the floor and faces me. I don’t acknowledge him. A few guys call his name, waving him over to the empty seats beside them. He gives them a tight smile and a nod in greeting but doesn’t get up to join them. He keeps his gaze trained on me, like he’s worried I might disappear if he looks away.
If only it was that easy. Gabriel ignores their repeated attempts to persuade him, and I just ignore him entirely, refusing to fall into whatever trap this is.
“Cat got your tongue?” His voice lowers, but then his mouth curves to one side. He’s testing me. Seeing how I react.
I give him nothing. I’m not interested in whatever game he wants to play.
He clucks his tongue and reaches his hand out across the gap between our desks. Instinctively, I flinch back. Gabriel freezes, his eyes sharpening on me.
His hand hovers only inches away, not pulling back, but also not moving forward. I chance a look in his direction, giving up on my attempts at being discreet.
His eyes are dark, but he’s not looking at my face, it’s like he’s staring off into space, his gaze focused on the surface of my desk.
I give myself three seconds to take in his expression. His thick brows are furrowed and his jaw is locked. My eyes drop to his arm that still hovers between us and he shifts into motion, swiping the pen from my desk.
“Mind if I borrow this?” His voice is casual, any confusion or tension wiped clean from his face as if the last few seconds never happened.
A delayed gasp passes my lips and I stare mutely at him as he rolls my pen between his thumb and forefinger. What just happened?
Gabriel leans back in his seat, getting comfortable again as my mind struggles to form the words to his question, and for some strange reason, I blurt out the first stupid thing that pops into my head.
“Why don’t you have hair on your arms?” I realize how rude that is as soon as I say it, but it’s too late to take them back so I push on. “And no. You can’t have my pen.”
I reach out to grab it, but he drops it into his other hand, keeping it out of reach.
I huff out a breath and hold my hand out in silent demand.
He quirks a brow, a small smile curling the edge of his lips. “What was that?”
“My pen. Give it back.”
He shakes his head. “Before that. You asked …”
He trails off and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. I know what I asked but I didn’t mean to ask it. Not really. I’m not even sure why it jumped out at me, but now, it looks like he expects an answer.
I dip my chin down, indicating his forearm. “Your arms. You don’t have any hair.”
“I know.” The way he says it, like it’s the most normal thing, and I mean, it’s not, right? I know not all guys have chest hair. And some struggle to grow a beard. But last I checked, arm hair was pretty universal even for girls.
I exhale a small huff. “Whatever. Just give me back my pen.”
“I shave it, in case you were wondering.”
What?“Why?”
He shrugs, still not returning my pen. “I play soccer.” Like that answers anything.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I tell him. “Swimmers and cyclists shave their bodies, but there are studies that prove it can increase performance. What reasons do soccer players have to shave theirs?” Too late, I realize he’s drawn me into a conversation I never intended to have, and he still hasn’t given me my pen back.
I like that pen. It’s my favorite pen. Not too thick and not too thin. Its base is metal, not that cheap plastic crap, and it has this sort of mermaid ombre effect where the bottom is green and as you move up it transitions to blue, and then from blue to pink, and pink to purple until you reach the top. And it has a stylus tip. I don’t use it, but I like that it’s there. Dammit. Why won’t he give me my pen?
“I don’t shave my entire body.”
