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“Seriously?” I perk up. “You think he’d do that?”
“You mean, do I think he would jump at any chance to play football?” She arches a brow in my direction. “Yeah, I think he would.” She mocks me with a coy wink of her own.
“You’d be okay with that?”
“It makes sense.” That’s about as close as she’ll ever get to saying she likes the idea, and I’m briefly overwhelmed. Though it’s a simple statement, it means she cares for me enough to set aside her conflicted feelings about her father for my benefit. I know what a big deal that is for her, though pointing it out would make her uncomfortable. I settle into the couch and turn my attention to the TV, happier than I should be about spending a quiet evening with Sawyer.
“Who would you pick?” She pulls my attention back to the show.
The Bachelor has two women left to choose from, and one of them is exactly who you’d expect, the vixen who’s caused most of the drama all season. The other isn’t as flashy, but she’s no less beautiful, especially if you take her personality into account. In my opinion, anyway.
“The one who’s real.”
“What does that mean?” The cute little freckles on her face pull together as she scrunches her nose.
“It means only one of those women has shown him who she really is, while the other is playing a game.”
“Games can be entertaining. Life of the party and all that.” She tilts her head as she studies the two women on the screen.
“Games aren’t real.”
“Real is boring.” She casts her eyes downward.
“Real is genuine. I couldn’t be with anyone who isn’t.” I’m not sure if it’s that comment, or the fact that I’m staring intently at her as I say it, but I’m pretty sure she suspects I’m not talking about The Bachelor anymore. She holds her breath and turns her attention back to the TV.
Shit. Maybe that admission went too far? I mean, there have been a lot of looks over the past few months, but neither of us has backed those up with words the way I just did. Although, maybe words are exactly the reality check we need to keep things from escalating.
I force my gaze to the show, which does little to ease the tension I feel. At this point, the dates are getting longer, and quite a bit more intimate. Not emotionally intimate, although there is that, but physically. What started as lingering glances at the beginning of the season has graduated to lingering touches, with fingers and lips, on shoulders, necks, and considerably lower. That’s something I hadn’t counted on when I sat down.
It’s awkward enough to sit next to a girl and watch two people making out, but when you’re attracted to that girl and you shouldn’t be, and her pulse is thumping like she feels the same, awkward doesn’t even put a dent into it.
I feel my body flush, my limbs start to tingle. The sensations make it hard to sit still, and movement would only draw attention to the fact that I’m getting turned on. Only, it’s not the couple on screen that’s causing this reaction. It’s the girl sitting next to me. The same girl who appears just as affected as I am.
From the corner of my eye, I see Sawyer’s chest rise and fall with each breath, but those breaths are too measured to be natural. She’s doing her damnedest to remain steady, though she can’t hide the gasp that escapes when the bachelor’s date moans, or her shaky exhale when he growls into a kiss and the screen fades to black. Her determination to stay still is cute, yet it only makes her arousal more evident. No one is that statue-like...and especially not her. She’s always fidgeting with her clothes or hair--anything to avoid the awkward silence.
What’s happening on the TV is hot, but what’s happening to Sawyer is even hotter. My body starts to react, and I hold my breath in a vain attempt to stop it before it becomes noticeable.
It doesn’t work. I reach for a throw pillow to cover the evidence, which causes Sawyer to take note of me, casting a quick glance in my direction. I force my eyes back to the TV.
The room is suddenly dripping with tension. Instead of two people sharing a familiar proximity, we’re two statues rooted in place.
Two statues who are afraid any movement will take us irrecoverably forward or backward, when only this moment is safe.
Two statues who are painfully aware of our arms resting side by side on the couch between us, inches apart, yet closer than they’ve ever been.
Just one slight shift and we’ll be skin to skin. That realization pushes all other thoughts from my mind, and my body practically vibrates with the need to brush my fingers against hers. That settles it. I don’t care if it’s just for tonight, I have to feel her skin against mine.
I let my pinky creep closer, testing to see if the subtle movement elicits a reaction.
It doesn’t.
I shift my hand again, bringing our fingers within an inch of each other. The current intensifies, radiating from my finger throughout my whole body. There’s no way she doesn’t feel it too. I’m dying to make contact, but I force myself to remain still, waiting to see how she responds.
She doesn’t move, not visibly, though I feel a crackle of electricity, so acute, I know without looking that she’s shifted her hand toward mine, so our pinkies are practically touching.
I stay still. I’m not sure if I’m waiting for her to change her mind or give me silent permission. When she doesn’t move, I stretch my pinky out, searching, and feel it brush against hers.
Once again, I freeze. She does nothing, letting our fingers rest comfortably next to each other, barely touching but joined all the same.
