He doesn’t say anything, but he reaches over to pick up the cue, settling it in my hands. His warm palms cover mine for the second time tonight and I don’t know where to look. Should I stare at his hands, or should I turn to see his face? Both seem like bad options.
We’re so close like this that I can feel his heartbeat against my back, feel every place my body slots in with his. My assbrushes against his lap and I suck in a breath, my pulse hammering. I immediately feel lightheaded. I need to lie down or something.
“You’re gripping it too tight,” Evan whispers, his voice warm and soft against my neck. I’m not sure how I manage it, but I drop the cue into his waiting hands. He readjusts it in my hand, my grip looser, my right hand closer to the tip, while my other rests closer to the top.
He takes a step away from me, but it doesn’t do anything to relieve the tension, because I can still feel his handseverywhere. And just from his touch alone I can’t stop myself from imagining his hands elsewhere. On my neck. My collarbone. Both of his palms splayed across my stomach. And lower. And lower.
“Nope,” I mutter quietly to myself. I need to get myself under control. I am not thirsting over Evan Branson’s hands, for Christ’s sake. Or where I want them on my body. Not at all.What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m probably just worked up after the last hookup I had wasn’t fulfilling and now a mildly attractive man is behind me, he smells good, and—
His hand touches my back, and I amthisclose to caving. His palm slides across my lower back before he makes his way up my spine, the fabric of my shirt getting caught in his journey up and up until he applies some pressure to my back, leaning me forward. He’s only there for a second before he steps back again, but his touch lingers.
I focus on the task at hand, lining up my cue with the white ball.
I take my shot again, watching the balls rattle against each other. I don’t know what any of it means, or if it’s good or bad, but I find myself turning to Evan for an answer. For validation. For correction. For . . . anything. Anything that will make me feelthe way I did ten minutes ago when I beat him, not whatever this is.
I lick my lips, jerking my head in a motion as if to say,So?, and he grins evilly, like hewantsme to have an attitude with him. He waits a couple seconds, gives me nothing just because he knows it’ll torture me.
Eventually,finally, he leans closer to me and whispers, “Good job, Scarlett.”
The three words light a fire in my stomach. He’s not being teasing or mean. He’s being genuinely sincere, and all at once, I want him closer to me. I want him to whisper the praise into my skin until it’s the only thing I know. I want that stupid dimple back and I want it pressed against my stomach or my thighs.
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?
I need to pull it together.
He’s just a man.
A man I don’t evenlike.
Evan finally snaps me out of my thoughts, stepping back from me and prying the cue from my grip to put it back on the table. “The next game’s starting. We should probably head back.”
EVAN
I have a problem.
A very serious, should-probably-see-a-doctor kind of problem.
I am overwhelmed by the urge to be close to Scarlett. This isn’t like me. I don’t even like when my own clothes are touching me most of the time, and yet here I am, completely undone by her.
I need to get it under control and quick.
I want things to go back to the way they were. When I didn’t think about her this much. Even at the rehearsals in Boston last week, I messed up one of my solos because I spent more time thinking about her than I did on my piece.
I can’t want her like this. I know I can’t. Not only would our families murder each other but also because Scarlett doesn’t feel anything for me other than annoyance and hatred. She’s only just started getting used to spending time together outside of class, but would she want to be around me if we weren’t working on a project together? I doubt it.
I used to be good at removing myself from situations when things got too intense, but now I feel like I’m the one initiating them, some daring part of me always willing to see how far we’ll go. I know it’s stupid and it’s bound to get me in some very big trouble.
And because I’ve been checked out since what just happened at the pool table, my team is drawing against Wren, Kennedy, and Scarlett in beer pong. I’m on a team with Xavier and Miles, and neither of them is as good at this as I thought they’d be.
They’re lucky I even decided to come out tonight. When Miles told me about this party, my first instinct was to make up some dumb excuse about studying or going to visit my dad. It would’ve been so easy to pull out and disappear for a few hours, but I weirdlywantto be here.
I want to play dumb games with my friends and watch them do karaoke at random points during the night. I want to be around Scarlett and the girls and let them tease me, because it gives my brain something else to focus on for a second. It’s chaotic and loud, and I’m definitely going to have some regrets in the morning, but for now it’s good. Better than it has been in a while.
The last shot is down to Miles. If he gets this, we win the game; if he misses, we lose. Xavier stands beside him, rubbinghis shoulders as if he’s about to be thrown into a wrestling ring. I give him some of my own advice, telling him to focus and stay calm so we can win this round.
It’s not helping that he’s a lovesick puppy and his girlfriend is on the other side of the table purposely stretching her hands above her head to show off her stomach. I honestly don’t think it would take much more from Wren to distract him.
