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“Right.” He shakes his head. “It’s not a plan.” He stands, his arms falling back to his sides as he eyes the door behind me. “Are you going to show me your bedroom, Lark, or would you prefer to do what comes naturally out here?”
I laugh awkwardly, unsure how to go about this bedroom situation.
Do I present it like a game show host?
Do I open it and let him meander around, snooping through my stuff and just stand here while my whole world is exposed through old videos and books I love, to the color that seems to touch everything from wall to wall?
Did I make my bed? Put away my clothes that I was trying on earlier and got vetoed? Are my birth control pills displayed like candy on my nightstand?
He finally cups my face and looks deep into my eyes. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
“I . . . I don’t do this.” Another nervous laugh escapes.
“What are we doing?”
“I don’t have guys over like this.” My arms go out, and I press my palms to the wood door behind me. “There’s stuff in there that you might judge me for or think differently about me.”
Tapping the door above my head, he says, “There’s stuff in there that gives me better insight into who you are and what you like.”
“Okay, but—”
“No buts. Don’t worry. I’m not judging you, Lark. I mean, what’s the worst that could be in there? Stuffed unicorns covering the bed or blue covering every surface.”
“You don’t like blue?”
“Is it blue?” A smug grin appears, backing the accusation. When I don’t answer, he dips his head and whispers in my ear, “I fucking love blue, just like you.”
Oh my God. Did he just tell me he loves me? Or was he saying hefucking lovesblue like I love the color? Or does heloveme like hefucking lovesblue?
What do I say?
I feel very strongly for him, but it’s too soon—
“Hey, Lark?” My eyes find his and that sexy smirk of his. “I love the color. It’s too soon for other types of confessions.”
Falling back against the door, I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. “Phew because it’s way too soon for exchanging I love yous.”
And with that matter cleared up, I present my bedroom like a game show host and open the door.
His gaze slides over my shoulder as he straightens his back, peering in over my head.
What am I doing with him in my bedroom? Does inviting him in give the nonverbal go-ahead for sex? I wonder how he feels about making out?
He kisses me, reminding me exactly what I might want to be doing with him. Stepping aside, I take a breath and let him enter the room.
Wandering in, he looks around, keeping that grin firmly in place. He takes a stroll to the bookcase, bending down and eyeing up the titles I’ve displayed. “Darcy. Rochester. Heathcliff and Cullen.” He raises an eyebrow as he looks over at me through the corner of his eyes. “Questionable in their motives, but I can appreciate your love of a broody male.”
“In this room, those are the classics,” I reply with a shrug as if he asked me something. I move to the wall and lean against it, crossing my wrists and entwining my fingers.
His finger runs along the front of old DVDs on the next shelf, titles I keep for the memories. “Pretty in Pink.Casablanca.” He shoots a glance my way. “Pretty Woman. If this doesn’t reveal the heart of a romantic, I don’t know what does.”
“I haveFight ClubandGladiatoras well.” I don’t know why I feel the need to defend myself.
“A lover with a fighter’s heart. I can respect that.” Sitting on the end of the bed, he rests back on his hands and turns his attention on me like I’m the entertainment.
“So . . .” I let it linger, hoping to gauge the temperature of his mood.
Should I let him lead? Should I take control? Or do we spend the rest of the night looking at each other like we were forced to attend the ninth-grade dance by our parents?
