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I hear, rather than see, him swallow. “Good.”
“Good.”
He pulls his hand back, and I miss it immediately. Before I can withdraw mine, I feel him turn his over, sliding it back under mine so our fingers can lace together loosely. He’s not holding my hand, but the feeling is just as nice. It makes me feel just as safe.
“I hated when Austin said he was going to stay in your room,” he whispers, his voice throaty.
“Why?”
He inhales sharply, but no answer comes. I can feel the weight of his stare in the darkness, practically hear the internal war he has going on.
“I wasn’t going to let him,” I say finally.
“He likes you, you know.”
“He likes everyone,” I say flatly. “And, for the record, he already tried to shoot his shot with me tonight, and I said no.”
I feel him tense. “Oh.”
“After the game,” I add. “He came outside to talk to me and said we should hook up.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, only that I have the desperate need to fill the silence somehow. “I said I’m not interested.” I start to mention that Mara likes him but barely find the will to stop myself in time.
He scoffs. “We finished the game on that little high note, and he still thought it was the perfect time to hit on you.”
“Well, to his credit, I think he’s been trying all weekend. On all of us, really. I just happened to be the one who was most available this evening, apparently. Besides, Austin isn’t…”
He moves half an inch closer to me, and I feel the warmth of his skin in the space between us. “Isn’t what?”
I had started to say Austin wasn’t the type to read a room but changed my thought midway through. “Isn’t my type,” I say instead.
“Your type?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And what is your type?” His fingers swipe over mine slowly, rhythmically.
A wave of heat passes over me, and I realize he’s moved even closer. His knee bumps against mine gently, and I see his hand move toward my waist, though he doesn’t actually touch me. It’s as if we’re being drawn together like magnets, neither of us capable of stopping it.
My ears burn as I stare up at him in the darkness, his features hardly readable, all shadows and sharp angles.
“Rich, clearly,” I say finally, forcing a joke that makes him laugh and breaks the tension at once. “And, remind me, yours is…wildly attractive and unemployed?”
He steps back with a laugh, the spell broken, and I miss him so much I hate it.
“Don’t forget an insomniac. Someone to keep me company at night.” He takes another step back and takes a sip of his coffee.
“While you reread boring books and make the faces the characters do? You know, if you stopped drinking coffee so much, you might actually be able to sleep.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he teases. “This is when I get all my reading done.”
“Well, I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“I’m not.” His voice comes out strangled, as if he hadn’t meant to say it, and tried to stop it halfway through.
“Good to know,” I say softly, taking another sip of my drink. I tap my fingers on the granite top of the island. “Who do you think wrote that creepy message in the game earlier?”
“Truth be told, I assumed it was Paulette.”
“Paulette?” My brows draw together. “Why?”
