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Nash passes me an iced coffee when he takes the seat next to mine, dropping a kiss to my head before Maisie slides onto his lap. “You good?”
“Yup.” I nod, thanking him.
“So, Mais,” Harlow calls, and I have to bite my lip to stop scowling at her using my nickname for my friend. I’m behaving like a child, I know I am, but still, I can’t stop myself. “Are we free tonight, or do you have a schedule planned for us all?”
“Actually, I wondered if you wanted to come hang with me and Bea tonight. Leave the boys behind for once and get all dolled up and do dinner and drinks?”
“Seriously?” Harlow asks, her eyes wide with what looks like excitement. I pinch the skin on my palms, annoyed at Maisie for putting me in the situation and myself for having preconceived notions about Harlow, all because of a guy. A guy who keeps glancing my way and burning holes into my profile as I refuse to look up at him.
“Yeah, we’d love to hang out, wouldn’t we, Bea?”
Trying to keep my expression blank, I turn to Maisie, pressing my lips together as I grit out, “Yup. We really would.” Maisie winks at me, giving me a thumbs-up as Harlow turns away. My eyes narrow, and she chuckles to herself, shaking her head before Nash whispers something in her ear, pulling her attention from me.
Sighing, I pick at the sandwich in front of me, fiddling with my phone on my lap to avoid being pulled into conversation with the group. By the time I’m grabbing my bag to head to my sociology class, my mood is bitter, and it doesn’t help that Maverick leaves the cafeteria with me, his body less than a meter from mine as he follows me out the double doors and into the hall.
“You lied to me,” he says, halting my footsteps before I can move away from him. “Why?”
“What?” I croak, swallowing over the lump in my throat.
“About why I was in your dorm? You lied.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re doing it again,” he accuses, stepping into me and cupping my chin before tipping my head up to meet his eyes. “You can’t look at me, and that’s your tell, along with that little wrinkle right there.”
He boops me on the nose, making his point, and I narrow my eyes, ignoring the swell of butterflies surging in my stomach at the intimate gesture. His lips twitch at one side, his eyes glittering with humor as he leans forward. How is it, even after all this time, he still knows me better than anyone else in this world?
“Why are you being nice?” I snap, needing to gain control of this situation before I go and do something stupid like try and hug him again. I try to step backward, but he bands his free arm around me, pulling me flush to his chest. “Shouldn’t you be pushing me into puddles or something? Plotting your next move?”
“Is that what you’d prefer?” he asks, his eyes boring into mine.
“I-uh.” I gulp, my throat suddenly dry when he licks his lower lip, my eyes following the movement of his tongue before it slips back into his mouth.
“I’ll let you think on that,” he says, his thumb sweeping over my cheek before he sets me free. His arm peels away, so fucking slowly that if it weren’t for the weight of it holding me upright, I fear I’d be on the floor, as my knees threaten to buckle with the sparks of electricity shooting through me. “See you around, Bumblebee.”
Chapter Seventeen
Beatrice
Brushingmyhandsovermy thighs, I face the mirror, twisting my body side to side. The black wide leg jumpsuit clings to my torso, accentuating the dip of my waist before falling straight to the floor.
With a halter neckline, my chest is covered, but when I turn around, flicking my head over my shoulders, my eyes are drawn to the expanse of skin on show due to the lack of material covering my back.
I grab my hairbrush, loosening my curls now that they’re fully set, before flicking through my closet and finding a pair of black strappy heeled pumps and a black purse to match.
Maisie waits in the kitchen, a glass of wine in her hand while she pours over a magazine on the counter. Dressed in a pair of high-waisted leather jeans and a white corset top, her hair spirals down her back, and her heels must be a good six inches.
“Will this do?” I ask, spinning on the spot as she lifts her head.
“Perfection,” she answers, beaming as she pushes away from the counter and grabs a second glass of wine. “You have approximately five minutes to drink up and then we have to go, the Uber is booked, and Harlow is meeting us downstairs. And did you speak to your therapist about drinking on your meds after last time?”
She holds the drink midair, waiting for my nod before handing it over to me. I had a panic attack after the first and only time I’ve gotten drunk. Tipsy, sure, that one time with Maisie and I’ve drank wine a few times with my mom but never have I gone overboard, so the headache and nausea I experienced the next day was new and having never done it before, stirred my anxiety the longer it dragged on. “She says it’s fine as long as I don’t A, overdo it on the regular and B, don’t use it as another coping mechanism. And if I find my anxiety is heightened with it, or feel super depressed the next day, then obviously I will stop. But I didn’t feel like that, so we should be good to go.”
“You’ll tell me if that changes, okay?”
“Promise,” I tell her, my heart warming at her thoughtfulness. For most eighteen-year-olds, worrying about their friends isn’t always at the forefront of their mind, but I lucked out with this one. “Now with the serious talk over, I need food and fun.”
“You know I’ve got you covered on both of those.”
