“You don’t think so?” With that question, Atticus stands.
“Well, I—I’m not… I haven’t really considered it.”
But I have, and I’ve already decided I won’t be participating in that. Only it feels embarrassing to say this to Atticus, whom I want to think I’m manly and appealing.
“It appears to me that you have,” he offers, taking a step toward me. “While she was rubbing against you like a cat in heat, you looked quite against the idea.”
A soft, startled sound leaves me.
I didn’t know I was so transparent that he could read me so well. Atticus doesn’t appear to be the kind of man who cares enough about others to dig into their reactions like that.
Fuck, is he judging me? Questioning? Does he have an inkling of my…problem?The one that requires a lot of deflection, avoidance, and denial?
“I just… she’s not my type.” I’m flailing, doing my best to cover my tracks and make sense of my own reactions.
“And whatisyour type, Cameron?”
“Oh, god,” I mutter, my eyes darting to the bedroom door. I crave escape, especially when he’s speaking my name like this.
“Look at me,” Atticus demands, and as I do, I notice he’s taken two more steps toward me. One more move forward, and I could reach out and touch him.
Touch him… I kind of want to…
“Good,” he murmurs, a small smile quirking his lips. “Now answer me. What is your type?”
“Uh,” I start. I’m sweating, nervous, and completely out of my element. I want to go back to watching him from a safe fucking distance. “I guess… I’m unsure. Maybe someone smart? And good-looking?”
Why am I beinghonest?!And why does Atticus look so amused?
“Someone,” he repeats. “Not a girl.Someone.”
“Or a girl,” I interject, my voice far too high-pitched for my liking.
“No,” Atticus says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Notspecificallya girl.”
What the hell is happening? What is he implying? There’s no way that he knows; that he can fuckingsmellit on me that I’m so confused that I hate myself.
“W-what are you…” I trail off as he takes another step toward me, daunting and beautiful as he looks at me.
His height and his wide shoulders make me feel small, which is insane, as I’m pretty built muscle-wise. I’m not used to feeling small.
“Whenever you look at me, you get nervous. Why is that? What are you thinking about, Cameron?”
“Nothing,” I whisper, practically shaking where I stand before him.
“You’re thinking of nothing? I find that hard to believe.”
As Atticus takes another step, entering my space, I stumble a step backward. This doesn’t discourage him; he takes another step.
“Please,” I practically beg. “I can’t… I’m unsure what is happening right now.”
Atticus grins, a full-blown grin. “Yes, you do. You’re smart. But just in case you’re too drunk, let me lay it out for you.”
Atticus takes one last step, his chest damn near touching mine, but this time I can’t seem to move away.
“Okay,” I breathe out.
“A guy follows you into a dark room at a party, and he locks the door behind himself. What does that mean, Cameron? What could he possibly want?”
