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My hand tingles in Creighton’s, or more like my finger that I reached out. That’s all he’s holding—or crushing in his palm. A mere finger.
He slides it away from his face and then drops it as if it’s an insignificant object. Beneath the apparent detachment, a much worse feeling lingers in his gaze—disgust.
A familiar clamping clenches my chest, followed by a subtle ache behind my rib cage.
Oblivious to the tremble in the finger he just threw, Creighton springs up to a sitting position. I have to step back to keep from colliding with him.
My Tchaikovsky.
He really needs to stop moving so suddenly.
Or maybe I’m the one who should move less jerkily.
Hugging my bag, I sit beside him and put on my best smile. “Hi! I didn’t see you at lunch, so I thought maybe you’d be hungry?”
He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. As much as I’ve tried to pull words out of him in the few weeks I’ve known him, I’ve come to the bitter realization that he just isn’t the talkative type.
Worse, he takes the silent treatment game to the next level that makes you feel less than the dirt on his designer shoes.
For the record, my pride is wounded. Usually, I’m able to befriend anyone. I tell them witty stories and smile and they fall for me, just like that.
The only exception is this six-foot-four wall of muscle.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give up.
So I dig into my bag and retrieve the purple container—not the one I ate from—and place it on his lap. “I made extra lunch, not salad; I know you don’t like those. Jer was starving this morning, so I fixed him some shrimp and there were leftovers.”
It’s actually the other way around, and my brother has the smallest portion—sorry, Jer—but Creighton doesn’t need to know that.
He stares at the container with that edge of his usual disapproval. Creighton has this permanent blank stare that makes it impossible to figure out what he’s feeling. It’s worse than any mask and more effective than any camouflage.
And whenever he looks at something, you never know if he’s considering touching it or flat-out murdering it with his bare hands.
My gaze strays to those hands that are hanging nonchalantly on his knees. So the thing is, Creighton made me unlock a new fetish—hands.
Or maybe I had that before and it just became more prominent when he came into the picture.
He has these big hands, long fingers, and veins. Lots of veins snake over the backs of his hands with the promise of something sinister.
I quickly derail my attention from them or else there will be an embarrassing event where I’ll start drooling.
Creighton is still staring at the container, serious lines etched in his forehead, and I think he’ll throw it away like he did my finger.
He doesn’t.
But he doesn’t open it either.
Just stares at it blankly. Then he grabs it, those veiny hands flexing on the lid, and starts to get up.
“You could’ve told me you were paying me a visit last night and I would’ve dressed up for the occasion. Unless…you wanted to see me half naked?”
He stops mid-rise, sits back down, and tilts his head in my direction. The blue of his eyes has subtly darkened and sharpened with a haunting edge.
I’m not used to this type of expression from Creighton. Indifference is the most I get from him, but this?
It’s like he’s picturing the best way to snap my neck.
Heat rises up my neck and to my ears, and I push down the tinge of fear that’s gnawing on my insides.
