He pulls out his phone and checks the screen. “Two twenty-two.”
My eyebrows fly up. “How long was I asleep?”
He shrugs and if I’m not mistaken a slight flush colors his cheeks. It’s hard to tell by the light of the fire but I’m fairly certain. Ryne fights his smile again and somehow that non-smile is one of the best smiles I’ve ever been on the receiving end of. My face breaks out into a sleepy grin, and then my breath catches when he reaches forward and gently pokes one of my dimples with his index finger.
I know he doesn’t ask for it and certainly doesn’t want it, but at this moment a little piece of my heart breaks free and skips precariously close to Ryne’s open hand as he draws it back to his side.
20
Dacen
He doesn’t know it, but Ryne’s wearing one of my favorite shirts today. It’s fitted and the kind of camo that is those little squares—sorry, digital camo, let me not commit a sin by not properly referring to it—and he has it in a few colors. Today’s color of choice is green. I may sound like a bit of a stalker right now but I like clothes and pay attention to them. Especially when they’re on such an attractive body. When he’s got one of these shirts on—hell’s freaking bells—it’s instant stirrings. I’ve gotten legit distracted in class when he wears them. Just last week I’d completely zoned out, chin propped up in my hand, staring at the way the fabric of his shirt stretched taut over his shapely muscles. As my eyes wandered over his triceps and down along his side to his lats, I’d become acutely aware of someone calling my name…
“Mr. Becker.”
My head turns to the side and Mr. Monroe stares down at me with a frown on his face.
“Nice of you to join us here on Earth, Mr. Becker. Now would you care to answer the question?”
Like a dummy, instead of asking him to repeat the question, I spew out the first fact that comes to mind.
“The only two non-silvery metals are copper and gold.”
Snickers and giggles break out around me and my face burns, the flush creeping up onto my ears and down my neck.
I mean, it’s a true fact about metal, which is great. Except we’d been in U.S. history, not in chemistry, where earlier that day Coach King had walked through a lesson on metal.
Facepalm.
Needless to say, I’ve tried to stay better focused in class since then.Triedbeing the operative word. I prop my head in my hand and my mind wanders into one of my recurring daydreams.
Wasting no time, he scoots down until he’s straddling my legs and tugs my pants down. His eyes darken as they eat up my body. Ryne leans forward and places the tip of his hot tongue on my—
I’m sadly jolted out of my fantasy by the slamming of a door. Mrs. Carter walks into the classroom and up to the small podium at the front. Right. Because I’m at school and speech class is about to get started, I’m not about to get it on somewhere with Ryne. I need to remember my resolution: pay attention and focus. I’m a great student, this isn’t usually a thing I need to remind myself to do. I swallow hard and look back over at Ryne.
Mrs. Carter is already droning on about our next assignment and I only catch snippets of it. I’ll have to ask Evie about it later because my ability to concentrate on the instructions is a lost cause right now. I fan my hands in front of my face as if a little cool air is going to stop the effects of a fantasy involving me and the camo-clad sex god that likes to frequent my dreams. The movement catches Ryne’s attention and he looks at me from the next row over, his brow raised. The last couple of days he’s been sitting directly beside me in the row to my left, rather than a few rows back. It’s an unspoken change, sitting closer to me. It seems he dislikes me less and less with each passing day. I’m afraid if I ask him about the seating change though, he’ll go back to sitting where he was before. I incrementally slow my hands down and then place them in my lap. Ryne gives me another look and faces forward again. Half a minute later my watch lights up with a text message, and I discreetly click on the notification and read it.
RYNE: WTF are you doing over there? Trying to fly away?
My first reaction is a total shock that Ryne didn’t burn my number from his phone at the end of camp. My second reaction is to roll my eyes and look over in his direction again. His brow crinkles and the corners of his lips turn up, then he gives me a pointed look, telling me without words to answer the damn question. I slowly type out a response as students chatter quietly around me. It’s hard as hell to swipe on a small watch screen with teenage man fingers. It doesn’t even cross my mind to pull my phone out and use it instead.
ME: Not trying to fly, but I was trying to reach new heights I suppose.
Reach new heights, as in climax, at least in my dreams. I snicker quietly to myself.
RYNE: You’re weird.
ME: You say weird, I say sexy badass soccer player. Tomato, tomato.
RYNE: tomato tomato?
ME: You’re supposed to read that like to-may-tow, to-mah-tow.
I hear people moving around me while I stare intently at my wrist, trying to will another text from Ryne to pop up. A chair scrapes against the floor and someone tosses their stuff on the table and plops down next to me.
“I don’t like tomatoes.”
Ryne’s deep voice cuts through my mental gymnastics and I look up from my watch. My face must betray my confusion at his relocation because he scoffs and shakes his head a little. He runs a hand along the back of his neck and gestures to the closed laptop he’s pulled out of his bag. The top is covered with faded Realtree stickers that match the logo on the bill of the baseball hat sticking out of his backpack.
