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The implication in his words fills me with warmth and relief: that there is something wrong with them. Not with me.
"So, no one was lucky enough to taste your lips," he says, and then does something that petrifies me. He runs his thumb over my upper lip, then my lower one. My thighs involuntarily press themselves together as heat billows between them. A whiff of breath rushes through my lips.
"We should go to class," I murmur.
"Sure." A smile plays on his lips all the way to the class. We attract stares, just as I predicted. This time, he does notice them. Leaning into me, Damon says, "You were right. They are looking at us, but I was right, too."
"What do you mean?"
"They’re convinced we spent the entire break making out. And if you continue to blush so deliciously, I'll wish we had."
***
Tuesday, I give in and ask Damon for help with Trig. He agrees instantly, and we decide to study on the rooftop, which is slowly becoming our designated meeting place. Hazel was supposed to study with us, but she came up with an excuse at the last moment. I suspect she wants us to be alone.
When we take a break from the exercises, I listen to Damon rant about how awful California is for five minutes before I can’t stand it anymore and interrupt him. "Why don't you focus on the fact that you are awesome at Trig?" I want to push him to see his strengths and play with them. It has an immediate effect on him; he straightens his shoulders as if a weight has been lifted. Unfortunately, this also makes the lines of his toned chest much more visible, which means I'll pay zero attention to Trig.
"Focusing on me is boring," he says with confidence.
"Let's focus on you." He pushes the books away, propping himself on an elbow, his green eyes scanning me intensely. "Tell me about you."
I swallow hard, peeling my eyes away from his body. I’m not used to talking about myself, not even with Hazel or James; though for some reason, opening myself up in front of Damon seems less daunting. “I’m more of a listener."
“Do things differently for a change." Leaning in to me, he whips my breath away. "I've told you enough about me. I want to know more about you. I'm listening."
Under his watchful gaze, words tumble out of my mouth without effort. “I like ice cream and chocolate. Christmas is my favorite holiday. I want to try bungee jumping on my birthday."
“See? That wasn't so hard." He pushes himself up on his forearms. “What's your favorite color?"
“Why do you want to know that?" I ask suspiciously.
“So I can paint a mental picture of you in a bikini." It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. When they do, there is nowhere to hide. I cover my arms, hoping I can hide the goose bumps on them, but I'm not fooling him. In fact, he relishes what he's doing to me, a grin cracking on his face. “Or maybe I want to buy you something in your favorite color. You'll never know if you don't tell me."
“I have two. White and red, but I don't wear red much. It feels like drawing attention to myself."
"So what?" His eyes widen all of a sudden.
"I don't feel comfortable when people look at me. I don't like being the center of attention."
"How about when I look at you?" He wiggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated move.
"I—well, I..." My words come out jumbled, so I decide it's best to shut my mouth. I now understand why the word ‘crush’ is so popular to describe these butterflies rumbling inside me. The feeling crushes everything in its way—including my ability to think. Let's hope it won't break my heart, too.
"I think you should put yourself in the center of attention,” Damon says. “Look at me; I do it all the time."
Drumming my fingers on the tiles, I can't help snapping, "You're the center of attention because you're a jerk to everyone."
"Not to you." He wiggles his eyebrows again, fixing me with his eyes.
"You have to stop doing this."
"What?" His tone is a little too innocent.
"You know what." My throat goes dry as my eyes wander to his lips. "Let's get back to Trig."
***
One and a half weeks later, Damon texts me to meet him in front of his locker before going to the first class. He waits for me propped against the metal door, wearing a smug look and keeping his hands behind his back.
