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His expression sobers, like he cares if I believe him.
I do. Gabe’s a lot of things—egotistical, arrogant, cocky—but he’s never been mean.
“I have clothes in my room.” He pushes off the floor. Water trickles off the bottom of his track pants as he sloshes out of the bathroom, tracking wet footprints across the wood floor in the hall.
When he returns, he’s wearing a dry pair of basketball shorts that cling low on his hips—and nothing else. “For you.” He sets a folded towel on the dry part of the counter with a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt.
It’s getting harder to hide my irritating infatuation with his body. “Don’t you get tired of showing that off?” I make a sweeping gesture from abs to his pecs. Only my hand flings too close, and I smack him in the stomach. His very solid, very bronze, very defined stomach. My face heats while the rest of me disintegrates.
A teasing smirk spreads across his mouth. “If you want to touch, Escalator Girl, all you have to do is ask.” Stepping forward, he leans so close that my neck gets hot. “I’m kidding.” His voice slides into a suggestive whisper. “You don’t have to ask.”
Whatever’s keeping my spine straight liquefies. My blood heats like lava. Wishing for a casual comeback doesn’t make one appear. Instead, I stutter something incoherent and stumble back.
“We’ll work on that.” One of his eyebrows lifts, like it’s directly linked to the heat of my humiliation. Work on what? My middle-school awkwardness? “I’ll meet you in the laundry room across the hall. Bring your wet clothes.” He shuts the door behind him.
I get up and push in the lock on the doorknob. Peeling everything off, I dry off, and wrap the towel around me. Wringing out my tank and underwear barely leaves them on the right side of damp. The thought of putting them back on resurrects that slimy feeling from earlier.
I try not to overthink the commando-thing while I’m shimmying into Gabe’s pants without Victoria to cover my secrets. I roll the legs halfway to my calves so they don’t drag on the floor and soak up water, then double-knot the tie. The T-shirt’s more of a problem. You can totally tell I’m braless.
Underwear and tank stuffed inside the pocket of my sopping hoodie, I add the towel and my PJ pants to the pile, and arms crossed in front of my chest, go in search of Gabe.
The laundry room’s not hard to find. You could fit a whole laundromat inside. The washer and dryer are red industrial-size front-loaders built into a wall of dark cabinets and black countertops. The shiny digital displays on the monster machines look like they could power a launch sequence.
Gabe’s facing away from me on the other side of the room taking flowery socks out of the dryer and tossing them onto the counter. “I think my sister’s been doing laundry here.” He turns and reaches for my clothes.
Doesn’t matter that I just saw all that tanned skin and lean muscle less than two minutes ago, I still mentally stutter. “You have a sister?” The magazine didn’t mention that.
“A freshman at SMU. She’s living in the dorms.” He throws our dripping wet apparel into the dryer.
“You can’t dry them like that.”
“Why not?” He peeks over his shoulder.
“You have to run them through the washer’s spin cycle first.”
“You do laundry?” He sayslaundrylike it’s calculus.
“If I want clean clothes. I cook too.” If I want to eat.
“Well then, laundry goddess, make the magic happen.” Gabe switches the load to the washer and moves so there’s just enough space for me.
I study the complicated display panel. There’s three spin cycles to my one at home. After a quick round of under-my-breath eeny-meeny-miny-mo, I hit the second button.
The machine clicks and spins.
“That’s your secret?” He grins. “Catch a tiger by the toe? Is that how you make all your monumental decisions?” He playfully nudges my shoulder.
That’s when I realize the entire time I’ve been talking to him I haven’t crossed my arms. I do now, attracting his attention exactly where I don’t want it. I blush. All-freaking-over.
He clears his throat, then tilts his head. “I want to play your game.”
“Um...” His simmering eyes and deep voice are lethal to my ability to follow the conversation. “What game?” I press back into the counter.
“The one you played with the washer. If I win, you help me this week.” Lifting my hand, he points my index finger toward me. “Eeny.” Shifts my finger toward his bare chest. “Meeny.” And back to me. “Miny.” Then presses my hand over his chest, rocks toward me, and whispers, “Mo.”
His heartbeat pulses into my palm. The one arm I still have bolted over my chest is the only barrier between us. “I didn’t agree to your stupid game.” Deep breath, Jess. Don’t think about how hot his skin feels under your hand. Don’t get sucked into the way his voice curls inside you.
“It’s your stupid game.” His tone isn’t teasing anymore. It’s electric. “Hanging out together won’t be hard. We’re already doing it. We’ll hold hands.” He threads his fingers through mine. “People will take pictures. You’ll sell books.” He dangles the end of each sentence in a question mark like he’s asking, not telling. “Gretchen will stop trying to dig up the real reason I’m here.”
