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The food court is emptying out, the mall nearing closing time. The metal feet of a chair scrape across the floor as James pulls a seat from a different table and places it across from me. He leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped, like a guidance counselor gearing up for a lecture.
“Why so glum? I thought shopping was sort of your thing?” He glances around us to the boutique storefronts.
“It was. Maybe it still is. I don’t know.” My mouth pulls in on one side, and on instinct I glance to the girls across the way, their phones still locked into position as they lean together and giggle. James follows my gaze then leans back, chuckling.
“You have fans,” he says.
“I have haters. Trust me.” I know the difference. Fans come over and ask to take photos or videos together. And nervous fans don’t video for that long; they get their photo and send a text to their friends, then move on. These are digital creators who are going to get a lot of play off of my image. Or more accurately,bashingmy image.
James grows quiet, and after several seconds I shift my gaze from my teenage critics back to him. He holds his thumbnail between his teeth, head tilted to one side as he studies me. A smirk plays at his lips.
“What?” My brow pulls in and my arms rush with goose bumps under his stare. This feeling is better than the other one—feeling sad and pathetic. But I’m still off my game and nervous.
“I don’t know much about this social media shit other than the funny videos I pass around with my friends and highlights from college football games and stuff, but it seems to me . . .”
He leans forward just then and grabs the base of my chair, pulling it toward him so our knees touch. A nervous laugh leaps from my chest, my yelp loud enough that it fills the food court area and draws a few more eyes our way.
“You get to control the narrative here,” James finishes, lips drawn tight into a playful smile. “If they want to fill their feeds with videos of you, why not show them how great it is to be Morgan Bentley and not them?”
His eyes dazzle with his words, and the way he’s looking at me hits me dead center in my chest. His hand moves toward my face, his fingers hooking a lock of hair and sweeping it behind my ear. His gaze slips past me to the girls who are now at my back, and while I’m drunk on his attention, I’m also very aware we have an audience. Only I don’t care about them as much as I did a moment ago.
“Are they still looking?” I ask.
His smile grows deeper into his cheeks just before his tongue tastes the center of his lips. My focus is locked on his face, every nuance of his expression from the creases caused by his smile to the flutter of his dark lashes as his gaze tracks our audience.
“Oh, yeah.” His words come out with a hint of arrogance and pride, and as his attention moves back to my face, his tongue takes another pass at his now parted lips. Without my permission, my tongue does the same, my lips numb from the fantasy of him grabbing my head and drawing me toward him for a kiss.
“How far do you think we should take this?” That’s how my question comes out, but what I mean is how far areyouwilling to take this?
“You know what gets clicks and views more than I do. What do people want to see?” His head leans to the right as his hands flirt with the frayed denim tears on my knees.
“Well, that . . .” I nod down to where his palms are now flat on my thighs. “Is probably something that has my haters gossiping.”
“Gossip, huh?”
His hands inch higher, now gripping the tops of my thighs, his thumbs toying with the seams along the insides of my legs. Rather than pulling away, I relax, letting my knees part a few inches more. I’m not wearing underwear—I normally don’t with low-riding pants—and the harsh material of my jeans pushes against my bare center. The lack of a barrier has my body overreacting to the slightest movement, and I’m dying to shift in my seat just a little to give myself some relief.
“People love a good story,” I force out through a sigh. I’m doing my best to pretend I’m not completely spellbound by his touch. I’m putting on the act of being in complete control, as if I am the one driving this spectacle. Because in the before? I was always the one in charge. I knew when phone cameras were filming me, and I gave the exact show I wanted seen. This time, though? I’m an understudy. I’m getting schooled by my director. I’m completely clueless about what comes next.
James leans in closer, lifting one hand and running it through my hair again, but this time leaving his palm against my cheek and drawing me closer. A needy breath slips from my mouth, my lips growing fatter, my tongue humming with nervous energy and the want to be kissed. James’s gaze blinks from my eyes to the world behind me as he urges me toward him until his mouth is nearly touching my ear. His weight on the palm still gripping my leg, I’m pinned to my seat, not that I would want to move from this spot if I had the chance.
“Hey, Morgan?” he breathes out.
“Yeah?” I whisper, my eyelids fluttering closed as literal electricity travels down my neck and spine into the pooling desire growing between my legs.
“Your haters are gone.”
My eyes blink back awake, and my chest explodes with a panic-like feeling. It’s strange, and the rush hits my skin down to my fingertips. Nobody is watching us. All of this was for nothing. I bet they left when I started to look happy. All they wanted was to fuel the conversation about what a miserable loser I am now. They missed the moment that someone was into me. They’ll never know. Nobody will. And if nobody knows, was any of this real?
James presses his lips softly against my temple and I’m snapped back to the present, away from the intrusive thoughts tearing this moment down.
“They left a long time ago,” he says softly against my cheek, our mouths inches apart, our gazes a mere head shift from locking. “I did that for me. And because I wanted to.”
James leans back, our eyes meeting midway, the faint smile on his lips lingering in question. I think he wants to know if that was okay. IfIwanted that, too. It’s pretty clear I did, but again, I’m not used to guys who give a shit about what I want and don’t want. I’m used to people who take.
“All right, kids! Who’s ready?” Brooklyn’s voice breaks through like thunder, and I wobble to my feet. My friend’s eyes dash between where I was sitting and James, clearly noting the tight quarters we were keeping.
“Took you long enough,” I say, faking frustration. In reality, I would be perfectly happy to sit here for hours in what I now realize is a completely empty food court. I would be okay with James simply running his fingertips along my bare kneecaps while whispering his literature homework into my ear.
