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My brows pinch together as I continue to stare, willing the image in front of me to melt away.
Wait a minute…did he drive me home from the party last night?
I try to tease the answer from my brain. For some reason, I distinctly remember Ryder shoving my arms through the sleeves of an oversized jacket and helping me to his pickup truck.
More memories roll through my head. I recall snuggling up against his hard chest. Did he carry me inside the building and up to the apartment?
A fresh wave of mortification crashes over me because yeah…
I’m pretty sure he did. The realization is actually more mortifying than when he stood off to the side and watched me hurl after that horrible ride.
That couldn’t be helped.
This, unfortunately, is completely my own fault.
I could deal with anyoneotherthan Ryder seeing me in that condition.
I drag a hand over my face and creep closer. His chest continues to steadily rise and fall. The soft fabric of his T-shirt is stretched taut across hard pectorals and the short sleeves are wrapped snugly around thick biceps. Even in his relaxed state, the muscles bulge.
What the heck size shirt is he wearing?
A smedium?
My mouth turns cottony, and I know damn well that it has nothing to do with the headache or persistent roiling that fills my belly and everything to do with the hot man sacked out in my room.
I wince at that internal thought.
As my gaze licks over every inch of him, I realize that I’ve spent the last eight years tricking myself into believing that I felt zilch for this guy when nothing could be further from the truth.
Unable to help myself from inspecting him while he’s unaware of my intense perusal, I sneak closer. Other than pouring over the photographs that appear online in the school or local paper, I’ve never gotten the opportunity to stare at him so openly.
In sleep, he appears younger. The tiny lines bracketing his eyes have magically disappeared. Lately, the grooves seem to be deeper, as if the weight of the world rests upon his broad shoulders.
There’ve been a few times when I’ve been tempted to reach out and smooth them away with my fingers.
Did I?
Of course not.
Are you kidding me?
The guy would probably think I’d lost my mind. That’s definitely not the kind of relationship we have.
It’s only when my attention resettles on his impressive chest that I notice the book splayed open against it.
What the hell?
My eyes widen until it’s possible they’ll fall out of my head and roll around on the carpet.
Was he actually reading the novel Carina gave me last night?
I’m vaguely aware of telling him about the sexy times in that particular book.
A tortured gurgle of embarrassment escapes from me.
When he stirs, shifting on the chair, I clap a hand over my mouth so that I don’t make another noise. I should retreat to the relative safety on the other side of the room. The last thing I want is for him to open his eyes and find me hovering like one of the many groupies who stalk him around campus.
Except…
