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God.
“Sure. Sorry,” I breathe out, trying to get my grip.
When he steps inside, I get a whiff of his scent. Freshly showered and delicious. I can't help but take my time to check him out while closing the door. He's not wearing jeans. He seems so much more casual just like I am, and I don’t know why, but that makes him even hotter. He has a faded t-shirt that reveals more of the tattoos on his arms. The grey sweatpants he's wearing is hanging low on his hips, giving me wicked ideas. The converses on his feet make me smile. He could be mistaken as a senior year with that look.
“How old are you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes do that sweep on my figure before he answers, “I better not answer that.”
I frown. “Why?”
His eyes fall to my chest, and he swallows. Is he as attracted to me as I am to him? Can that be true?
He shrugs. “Where is the kitchen?” he asks, changing the topic.
Suppressing the hope in my heart and the smile on my face, I walk ahead of him to show him the dining room.
“We eat here, but we can take our plates to the living room if that's what you prefer,” I murmur. I've never really had any guest in the house. As pathetic as it sounds, Elijah is the closest thing to sleepover I had in the house. I giggle with the thought.
What would he do if I bring nail polishes, I think, and it causes me to laugh harder.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I try to stop my laughter. "Nothing. I haven't really had many guests in the house, so I'm just weird."
He smiles with understanding and that tiny gesture transforms his face from hard and cold to young and carefree. His smile makes my insides warm.
And that just makes everything a little more complicated.
10
Elijah
I've never thought I'd see her like that. In an outfit that's similar to mine. At the bar last night, she looked like a woman I wanted to fuck and worship at the same time. At school, she looked like a dirty schoolgirl fantasy jumped right out of porn, but now she just looks like a teenager who can't wait to cuddle with her favorite book.
The dining room we're in should get my attention with the biggest table I’ve ever seen and lots of shiny decor around. But guessing the chairs weren’t full as often as they should’ve been, makes everything lose their value and fascination.
Everything, but her.
As the wealth around me tries to make me blind and hurt my eyes, my focus moves more and more to the girl who shines softly. She's like the moon in her graceful brightness; quiet, melancholic, and mysterious.
"So are you from Washington?" she asks when we busy ourselves with our dinner served by the maids. I don't know if this is something I can get used to.
“No. I'm from Montana. Moved to Seattle for college years ago.”
“And stayed in Washington ever since?”
“Yes.”
She smiles. “And how did you end up in a high school in this town?”
“I had to find a job to keep my belly full until I finish my book and find a publishing house to pay me enough. This school was the first opportunity I got.”
“And here you are,” she finishes for me, lifting her water glass like a toast.
With a chuckle, I click our glasses and repeat, “And here I am.”
“Is your book a fiction?” she asks. Her eagerness for the information about me dangerously strokes my ego. The male in me likes it too much to stop the conversation.
