Page 67

I grab popcorn and the movie stack. He scoops blankets and the Scrabble box, and we head upstairs.

My room smells faintly like eucalyptus from the diffuser I always forget to turn off. The bedside lamp casts a warm, soft glow over the mismatched quilt Riley made me last Christmas. Books are stacked everywhere—on my dresser, under the window, next to my laundry basket. There’s a bright pink bra on top of the basket that I am praying he did not see. There’s a photo of Knox and me stuck in the corner of my mirror from the summer we were fourteen, both sunburned and grinning at the pond.

This was the first house I lived in where I felt like my room was mine. Cozy and safe. Stable. And suddenly, with Knox carrying blankets over the threshold like some domestic cowboy boyfriend…it feels intimate too.

We burrow under the blankets, the heater humming softly, Andie Anderson already arguing with Benjamin Barry on my TV. The Scrabble board sits between our legs like some neutral third-party referee to keep us close but just separated enough.

The room feels smaller somehow like this. Warmer. Knox’s knee keeps brushing mine under the quilt—it’s barely there, but enough to scatter my thoughts.

“Nice,” he says, studying his letters after I place down the word BUOYANT over his use of YAP.

“So…” He pretends to be casual, but I feel the tension coil between us. “Have you, uh, talked to that Cal guy since last night?”

“A little.” Why is my face suddenly boiling? “He asked if I wanted to go to this charity animal event thing in Birmingham. There’s a dress code and everything. His dad is going, too, and a few others. Rowen might go to support.”

Knox nods slowly. “That sounds like something you’d like.”

“I think so.” He places an E over my word to double his points, smug as ever. I pretend to focus on my own tiles. “It’s fancier than I’m used to. I have no clue what I’ll wear.”

“Ah, come on.” His eyes flick down to my pajamas. “You’d look great in anything.”

“Even these?” I tug the duck-print fabric between two fingers.

“Especially those.”

I want to laugh, but I have a feeling judging by his wide-eyed, stretched-pupils look, he’s not joking. Maybe not even a little bit.

“It feels funny,” I admit just to keep things moving. “Going out with someone for real this time.”

“Funny how?”

“Funny like…my stomach is curdling and I’m in over my head and I might spontaneously combust.”

Knox goes quiet, watching his letters, but his jaw ticks just once—barely there but enough for me. I have hopes he might be a hype man and give me a “you can do it” speech, but then he slams a P down over my COFFEE, and combined with the other letters on the board, it makes OPEY.

“What?” I laugh. “That is not a word.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Use it in a sentence.”

“I opey you.” He flicks his brows like it’s something very dirty.

“No.” My laughter is raspy, my voice weak, but I can’t keep it in.

“You’re just jealous because I always win.”

I gasp. “Because you always cheat.”

He gasps back. “I’d never.”

“I’m taking this.” I move the board to my nightstand and take his Scrabble letters with it. “The power has gone to your head.”

“Stop.” He tries to reach over me, the quilted blanket across us catching us in a knot and his arm goes directly across my eyes. “Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean I won’t fight you on this.”

I push the nightstand farther out of his reach, and he retaliates with nuclear force, my only kryptonite. Hands at my ribs, he digs his fingers into them, tickling viciously until the laughter that comes out of me is primal, a hyena on the bed. I gasp for air, and if I thought things felt warm and fuzzy before, now it’s like I’m in an alternate universe where tickling is used as a torture device.

“Stop, stop. That tickles.” I can’t stop laughing, and his smile is so big I really do think the power has gone to his head. “Knox!”