A Kiss Like This (2 page)

Still, I remain seated, eyes riveted to what is guaranteed to be an entertaining—albeit dangerous—show. Swaying back and forth on the white wooden swing, I can’t help but wonder what it
is
about that place next door that has girls scurrying to escape, like panicked rats in a flood, weekend after weekend.

I mean, yes, it’s a fraternity house. That in itself automatically draws girls to the it, not just on the weekends, but sometimes even during the week. But it isn’t a house where I’d want my kid hanging out if I were a parent. The house is dirty, inside and out, in disrepair, and looks like a Halloween haunted house 365 days a year. It even has an old, rickety wrought-iron fence in the front yard.

Haunted house, rape house: take your pick.

Not to mention, the guys who live there are slobs. Fat, drunken, pot-head slobs. Alright, fine. To be fair, maybe I’m generalizing, but it’s still definitely not a top-tier frat. Word on campus is if you have breath in your lungs and beer in your gut, you’re Kappa material.

The house is everything fathers warn their daughters about, and if you need more proof than that, just take note of the insane slut trying to escape via the upstairs window.

Yeah, exactly.

I angle my head in thought, mentally calculating her distance from the upstairs window to the concrete ground below. “Shit.” There is no way in hell she’s going to make it down that pipe without hurting herself, and the last thing the university needs is yet another story in the news about some moron hurting themselves after an off-campus party.

So naturally, I can’t just sit here and watch her break her neck.

Sighing loudly to no one, I stand and stretch before setting down my orange juice bottle, adjust my ball cap so it’s riding down over my eyes, and pull the hood up of my baggy sweatshirt. Arms extended, I crack my knuckles a few times before sticking both hands inside the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie and begrudgingly shuffling in my flip-flops down the steps to the side of the house.

It only takes me a few moments to reach the side yard of the common shared driveway, and when I do, my mouth sets into a grim line. Tipping my head back, I immediately receive an eyeful of the girl’s denim-clad posterior.

I’m impressed. At this point, she’s managed to grab hold of the gutter guard and shimmy one foot on the metal strap, securing the pipe to the siding of the house. Those metal straps, by the way, are flat, two inches thick, and extremely flimsy. Attached with a flimsy nail and flush with the siding, the straps are in no way secure enough for a person to rest their foot on.

Or in this case, their black heeled boot.

I clear my throat. “Hey. What the fuck are you doing?” My voice comes out harsh and unrelenting. “Do you have a death wish or something?”

CHAPTER 2

Abby

I’m hanging.

I’m hanging, losing my hold, and am probably going to die.

It’s a veritable struggle-fest, and I’m in the center of it all. My stupid boot slips precariously from the metal thingy I’ve been perching it on, and I can hear the definitive creaking sound the gutter is making as it slowly releases itself from the side of the building.

Translation: it’s going to fall off, taking
me
along with it.

I tighten my grasp on the metal, one hand still on the windowsill. This does me no good whatsoever, because of the awkward positioning of my feet, and with both arms overextended like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stretch toy, there is no way I can crane my neck to look around for help.

Dear Lord, please forgive me. This was a horrible mistake… although, Lord, I would rather be hanging here than face the humiliation in the hallway upstairs. No I wouldn’t. Yes, I would. Guh! Those boys are terrible. Help! Please send help.

“T-Tyler,” I croak desperately in the direction of the open window.

The only response forthcoming is that damn curtain in his window, wafting up and down, lilting airily from the breeze inside the room.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” I mutter, anxiety deeply rooting itself into every cell in my body. What the heck made me think this would work? Why didn’t my stupid cousin stop me? “Okay, Abby. Think.” I bite my lip and squint my eyes shut, but no ideas pop into my brain. A brain that, at one point, I thought was filled with brilliant ideas, until the part where that brain decided it should convince me to dangle from the side of a dirty, dilapidated fraternity house.

“Hey. What the fuck are you doing?” From somewhere below, an angry voice booms up at me. “Do you have a death wish or something?” I loll my head, trying to determine the direction the voice is actually coming from. From my left? From my right?

Oh, thank you. Thank you, God. I knew you were listening
.

“Let go of the gutter and I’ll catch you,” the voice demands.

Um, on second thought
…

I shake my head. “Nuh-uh. No. N-no way am I letting go of this gutter. Are you nuts?” My tearful voice is high pitched and frantic with worry.

“Hey, man, I’m not the one dangling from a window, so maybe you shouldn’t be arguing with me. Drop to the ground before you fall and get hurt. I’m strong. Promise I’ll catch you.”

My grip quickly becomes sweaty, and the thin metal gutter guard creaks again, this time shifting under my weight.

I gulp, fighting back the tears burning my eyes.

“Come on, come on, come on, be quick about it. I give you two minutes before the gutter gives out and you land on the concrete, probably splitting your head open,” the angry voice charitably points out. “But don’t take my word for it—it’s just a guess.”

“Would you shush? Please,” I plead down over my shoulder, polite to the core even as I dangle from the side of a house.

“Okay, it’s your funeral,” I hear the guy grumble. “Literally.”

Suddenly panicky, not wanting my lifeline to walk away, I gasp when the wooden siding creaks again. “Wait!” I shout with a tremble. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry! Just please, tell me what to do.”

“Alright, calm down. I’m going to come stand underneath you, and when I do, let your hands slide from the window ledge and I’ll catch you.” I can hear his feet kicking up the wobbly concrete somewhere beneath me.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I whine. “I can’t do this.”

I would rather shrivel up and die, then have my dead, lifeless body shrivel up and die again. I cannot do this.

“Yes you can. Stop being a little pansy. Ready? On my count of three, release your hands. Ready?”

No! No! No!

“One… twooo…”

At his count, I squeeze my eyes shut, release my hands from the side of the building, and fall faster than I can blink. I’m plummeting, dropping, landing with a thud. I think I’m tumbling to the ground, but I’m not. I-I’m lying on a huge, hulky, solid, warm-blooded male form.

A solid male form that’s now sprawled out on the pavement beneath me, spread eagle and muttering a curse. “What the everloving fuck was that? I said on the count of
three
!”

It takes me a few seconds to acclimate myself, and I lie there on top of this new source of warmth. My head goes down, and with the wind still knocked out of me, I rest my cheek on the stranger’s comfy sweatshirt, nuzzling the padded torso without thinking twice.

So, so comfy.

Like a big, comfy bear. Like the big, comfy teddy bears at Costco. Mmmm. Aren’t they only fifty dollars? I want one of those.

I hear a heart beating erratically, likely from the traumatic force of being knocked on one’s ass, and exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

A low, displeased rumble emits from deep within the stranger’s chest.

It’s enough to rouse me from my shell-shocked stupor. Lifting my drooping head from the broad, muscular body I’m lying limply on top of, my out-of-focus gaze searches out the face of the guy who could very well have just saved my life.

We lock eyes and I manage to blink.

Sweet Jesus is he scary.

And he’s glaring up at me.

~ Caleb ~

The girl and I lock eyes, but I finally manage to blink.

“Can you get off me?” I mutter, trying to pull myself up on my elbows—no easy task with this chick bedding down on top of me. She’s clearly delirious.

“Can you please get off me,” I repeat, giving her a nudge. “No offense, but you’re no lightweight.”

It’s a lie, but I want her off me, like, yesterday. She’s getting way too comfortable, feels way too soft and warm and pliant, and I’m beginning not to mind.

“I…
excuse
me. Oh my god.” The brunette stumbles over her words, a furious blush reddening her face. I suppress a laugh at how hastily she goes from snuggling on top of me in what’s obviously a confused, concussed haze, to pushing back on my chest—briefly cutting off my air supply, I might add—and rising to her feet, all within seconds.

She stumbles a bit then rights herself.

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” I challenge her with an arched brow, glaring up from under the brim of my hat, a whole catalog of first impressions imprinting themselves on my brain now that I’m getting a look at her.

First of all, she is adorable
.
Flushed. Embarrassed.

Pretty.

Her thick, dark coffee-colored hair, which had obviously been piled haphazardly on the top of her head at one point, is now in a messy rat’s nest. Huge chunks of soft waves have escaped the knot to rest lightly upon her slight shoulders and cascade loosely down her back.

Straight nose. Full mouth with a slightly pouty bottom lip.

Her complexion is clear, and radiates a blush—either from her recent fall off the second story, or from being ashamed. Probably a bit of both.

Large, expressive blue eyes stare down at me from under perfectly arched eyebrows, and I quickly avoid her scrutiny by glancing up to the window from whence she emerged. For a moment, I’m envious of the Kappa Omega Chi fucktard who just spent the night with her, although quite frankly, she looks far too wholesome to be a quick lay.

Naïve. Innocent. No freaking way could she have been in that house having her brains screwed out all night.

I squash the thought back because facts are facts
,
and the indisputable proof stares down at me as I continue my appraisal.

Second, she’s not short.

Even from down on the ground, I can tell that when I stand, I might tower over her with my six foot three frame, but it won’t be by much. Her short-sleeved, fitted black tee shirt is tucked into belted skinny jeans, elongating a pair of long, athletic legs. Her tight, dark jeans are neatly tucked into a pair of tall, shiny equestrian boots all the girls are wearing these days.

She begins tapping the toe of those black boots nervously on the paved driveway, regarding me warily, an internal debate making her mouth turn down in a frown and her perfect eyebrows crease. It’s obvious she wants to bolt and leave me lying here in a heap but is too polite to actually
do
it.

I mean, I probably just saved her careless neck, and she damn well knows it.

Takin a deep breath of courage before exhaling, her full pink lips emit a long
pppuh
of air before she cautiously bends toward me with her palm extended.

She’s shaking.

I stare blankly at that unsteady hand a few seconds before grasping it, wrapping my large fingers around her slender ones, and resisting the urge to squeeze. Or pull her back down on top of me.

Her bones are delicate, petite, and feel fragile compared to my rough mammoth palms. I’m overly conscientious of the scraps and callouses marring my battered skin.

The unnamed brunette tugs on my arm, heavy and lifeless, unable to budge me. Biting her quivering lower lip, she yanks at me again before extending a leg and planting her booted heel in the ground to gain better leverage.

She heaves and puffs, inhaling a loud gulp of air, holds it, lets out a out a huff, and eyes me skeptically. “Do you even
need
my help?”

Withholding a grin, I shake her hand off and lift myself to my feet in one easy motion, unassisted. “Nope.”

All her timid restraint flies out the window in that moment. Crossing her arms and glaring, the brunette purses her rosy-pink lips for the second time. “You! Y-you made me go through all that trouble when you could have gotten up yourself? You are a… a jerk.”

Can’t deny that.

I snort, amused. “Whoa. A
jerk
? Trust me, I’ve been called worse.” Jamming my hands inside my hoodie, I shrug. “Besides
.
You had to at least try to help me up…”
since I just saved your ass.

The implication hangs between us, unspoken.

“I already said thank you. What more do you require?”

“What more do I
require
?” Seriously, who talks like that? “And actually, no, you didn’t say thank you.”

“I—” She opens her mouth to argue, then clamps it shut. Her almond-shaped eyes go wide for a few seconds, and she takes another calming breath to steady her breathing. I can see her pretty brain counting to ten. “Thank you.”

Behind us, vulgar voices float from inside the house as my friends stir to life from within. Pretty soon guys are going to start filtering out to leave for work, or time on the ice.

“Listen, I’d
love
to stand here and chat with you, but…” My sarcastic remark trails off as I dust off my gray athletic pants, glancing around to survey the street, which is mostly void of any parked vehicles. I scowl. “Wait. Do you have a car around here?”

She waves a hand airily and bites her lower lip. “No, but I don’t live far. I can walk.”

“Ah, I’ll call you Walk of Shame. It suits you.”

The brunette gasps, dismayed, and pleads, wide eyes darting to the Kappa O house. “
Please
don’t call me that.” She takes another deep, calming breath. “For your information, the room I climbed out of was my cousin’s.”

“Seriously? That was your cousin’s room? Wow, that makes the story even better. So very… backwoods Appalachia of you.”

“Backwoods Appalachia! That’s… we’re not… are you implying what I think you are…?” She pauses expectantly.

“Caleb.”

“Your name is
Caleb
?” she blurts out in surprise, changing the subject.