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“I saw. He’s already in bed.”
“I won’t be long,” I admit. “I’m exhausted.”
“I’m not staying long.”
I purse my lips because she straightens up immediately, and I notice that my sentence hasn’t come out at all the way I wanted it to.
“I don’t mind you, Scarlett, you can stay as long as you want.”
“I just came to give you back your bracelet.”
I look down at the fingers she holds out to me, from which my gold chain dangles. I smile and approach her. I trap her hand and retrieve my bracelet.
“You’re a sweetheart,” I say.
I place a hand on her neck and pull her towards me. My lips instinctively land on her forehead. My kiss is soft and fast, she shifts. My gesture is purely fraternal, yet a strange glow flashes in her eyes and I tell myself that I shouldperhapsavoid continuing to do this with her. I know she doesn’t consider it flirting or anything sexual. We’re almost from the same family, we grew up together, except that now she’s dating a guy who would certainly not appreciate this kind of gesture. Although I don’t give a damn about what he thinks, I tell myself thatshe might feel uncomfortable if I repeat this in public. Before, I had no problem with that, we were kids, I liked to touch her. It’s always been platonic, but I can feel her cringe, I feel like I surprised her. She looks down at her feet and I feel the atmosphere change. Something imperceptible that I can’t analyze, a bit like the other night on the sofa when I grabbed her foot and our eyes met. I touched her automatically, and usually she doesn’t mind.
But she’s been gone for a year, after all.
And she has changed.
My eyes slide over her body, instinctively focusing on her naked legs. I straighten my gaze immediately to stop on her face. She watches me, a pink tint on her cheeks.
“I’ll let you sleep.”
Then, without my adding anything, she quickly leaves my room.
Note to myself: physical contact needs to beintensifiedon the Scarlett-back-from-France, it doesn’t seem to please her at all. And I have to admit, I always do my best to piss her off.
I laugh and collapse on my bed, icepack pressed against my stomach.
I’m an asshole.
14
Scarlett
I leave my room with a backpack slung over my shoulder and nearly bump into Nolan’s chest, before stepping back with an apology.
“Where are you going?”
His husky voice makes me shiver, and I shift further away, trying to get away from the cloud of familiar scents that envelops me. His cologne, detergent, shower gel are a signature aromas at Nolan’s. Warm, musky, spicy smells.
Damn. Even his sweat smells good.
I bite the inside of my cheek and he examines me from head to toe, wincing at the bag I hold firmly against me.
“I’m not sleeping here tonight.”
He frowns, crossing his arms against his chest. His veins stick out, and I pause at the bulge they’re causing in his forearms.
“Does your brother know?”
“He’s the one who made the rule about guys in the apartment, so he should probably expect it.”
I walk around Nolan with a determined step, annoyed to see that he behaves as if he were my father. No one comments when he sleeps at Harriet’s for three days.
“And then I thought we’d talked about it,” I say, walking into the living room. “I do what I want.”
