“You wish.” She shoves her candies into her bag, sighing. “Besides, that poor guy probably wasted his time asking for my number. I don’t think I even have time for that this semester.”
I hum. “Living the celibate life, I see.”
“You’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you?”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Comeon, Branson. You’re way too uptight to have regular sex. You probably schedule it in your diary for once every three months just so your dick doesn’t explode,” she says, laughing to herself.
“Is that right?” I mock.
My chest tightens slightly and Scarlett steps into me, the toes of our shoes just coming short of each other. She lifts her chin, defiant as always, and I don’t back down. She’s a lot to handle close up. Too much to see. Dark-brown eyes. Perfect arched eyebrows. Faint freckles that are fading without the summer sun. Reddish-pink lips that tilt up into a sly grin.
One of her hands comes out to reach the bottom hem of my shirt and I forget how to exist entirely. She twists a small piece of the fabric in her hand, eyes still on mine as she says, “Yep. A good fuck might straighten you out.”
I swallow hard. “Are you volunteering?”
“I would rather die.”
Something tells me that isn’t completely true. She wouldn’t be this close to me if that were the case. Or maybe this is another one of our games. Another thing we do to get on each other’s nerves.
Sometimes I forget to breathe when I look at her. Mostly because my brain is too busy working on some insult to fire back that I forget to fill my lungs with air. Other times it’s because I remember the photo shoot she did for Voss Couture last year that was plastered all over my feed. It was the first time I had ever seen her be anything other than this snarky, confident, rich girl with an attitude problem, and it threw me off guard.
I didn’t speak to her for a week after that.
After that moment of weakness, I’ve tried my hardest to stop spending time with her as much. I know myself too well. And I know her enough to know that nothing good would come of it.
I step back from her abruptly and she jerks her head back in confusion. I smooth out my shirt with one hand, desperately wishing I had a tie on just so I could fix it. I shift my weight on one foot and then the other, smoothing out my shirt again.
Everything feels off. Maybe it’s just me that can sense it, but it’s there, swarming in my stomach, slowly making its way up to my throat and getting stuck there.
This isn’t a big deal. I know it’s not. But my body is having a hard time believing that’s true.
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse when I say, “I’m going to head home early. Tell Miles I’ll see him later. Say bye to the girls.”
“Seriously? There’s an entire period left,” Scarlett says, clearly taken aback. I blink at her. “Since when couldn’t you handle a bit of teasing?”
Since I realized how much of a bad fucking idea it is.
“I’ll see you at the library next week, Scarlett.”
CHAPTER SEVEN: SCARLETT
“You’re doing it wrong.”
I glare at my mom through the screen of my phone. “I thought you said you’re not supposed to help me.” I run my hands under cold water again, so I don’t melt the butter in the pastry I’m handling. It seems to keep happening anyway, but I have avoided many a meltdown so far.
“I can’tnothelp you,tesoro. You’re hopeless.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.” I dry my hands with a kitchen towel, looking down at the mess I’ve made. “You liked the cookies I made for you the other week.”
“Your dad threw them out as soon as you left,” she says nonchalantly.
“Great.”
I knew it was a bad idea calling my mom while I attempted one of the easier things on the list.
She’s said multiple times that she or my brothers can’t help me, but no one else can help me not only read Nonna’s handwriting on the recipe card but then translate it into English. I only got a couple of years with my nonna before she passed, and she was the best person I knew. She was kind and smart and so funny. My dad says I get all my humor from her and that we would’ve been as thick as thieves if she was around for longer. I just wish I’d known her long enough to understand her handwriting.
