A Kiss Like This (9 page)

“Uh…”

“I want to see it,” I whisper. “Please.” Later, I’ll blame this all on alcohol.

“See
what
?” he croaks, eyes going wide and tilting his head to the side when I nudge it with the tip of my nose. I sniff him again, the skin under his ear soft against my lips, and
feel
him groan, a deep rumble vibrating against my chest. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to wiggle against him.

Maybe I
am
sexy.

The thought gives me courage.

“The gap in your teeth.”
Sheesh, what has gotten into me
? “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since you smiled at me the other day.”

“Really?” he asks, pulling his head back in surprise. “You’re shitting me, right?” He eyes me suspiciously, and out of habit, his tongue does that thing where it runs along the edge of his upper teeth.

That action alone has me looking away and biting my lip.

“How many beers have you had?” Caleb asks with an upturned eyebrow, raising his beer to take a drag. “And when did I smile at you?”

“At Wal-Mart,” I say matter-of-factly, powered by alcohol. “You know—when I was buying
tampons
.”

He spits out some of his beer, the spray of alcohol hitting my face and the front of my already damp shirt, and his shocked gaze roams the front of my chest. He jerks his wide, horrified expression away from the cleavage created by Jenna’s push-up bra. “Shit, Abby, I am so sorry.”

I cock my head to the side and plant a hand on my hip, gesturing to my shirt. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m already wet.”

And I swear to you, I didn’t mean for it to sound dirty; it just came out that way.

I swipe away the beer dripping down my left cheek.

Caleb removes his hand from his belt loop and runs it down the front of his flaming-red face. “Do you want to at least try and clean off a little in the bathroom?”

CHAPTER 10

Caleb

As I put my hand on Abby’s lower back to steer her toward the bathroom, the group behind us hoots and hollers like a bunch of jackasses, and I shoot a heated look over my shoulder. “Go give her the old Poke Check, Showtime!” shouts Cubby at the same time Stephan yells, “Bag it and tag it!”

“And here I thought
my
friends were bad.” Abby chuckles over her shoulder—or at least that’s what I
think
she’s saying. It’s pretty damn loud in here and hard to hear with the music pumping.

I guide her to the first-floor bathroom, which is off the kitchen near the pantry, but when we get there, there’s a line about seven girls deep.

Abby takes a spot at the end of the line, and I lean against the wall next to her as she faces straight ahead, fiddling with her hands. The bathroom door eventually opens, and four girls file out while another two stumble in.

Jesus Christ, it’s like Grand Central Station during Rush Hour.

Realizing this could take all night, I rationalize that it’s not my job to stand here keeping Abby company while she waits to clean off her wet shirt, even if I did spit beer in her face.

I can leave her here and return to our friends.

On one hand, girls are used to waiting in lines at parties, right? Aren’t the lines for the ladies’ bathrooms always twice as long as those for the guys’ bathrooms?

On the other hand…

A blonde in a purple camisole—or whatever you call those silky-looking pajama tank top things—stops in front of me, red lips parting as she devours me with her eyes. “You’re Caleb Lockhart, aren’t you?” Her smile is one I’ve seen before: smug, assured, self-confident, and meant to have me eating out of the palm of her hand.

Coldly, I gaze silently back at the blonde, my eyes flicking briefly to Abby, who’s taken a sudden interest in counting flowers on the wallpaper.

“Cat got your tongue?” the girl flirts, her bare arm reaching for the sleeve of my shirt and giving it a playful tug with her long fingertips.

“Don’t,” I mutter, the unfriendly tone reaching my eyes.

The blonde assesses me, not ready to give up the chase, and titters at me. “God. You’re even better looking up close.” She leans in, and just as she’s about to press her perky tits against the front of my shirt, one word crosses my lips.

“Abby.”

“Um, no.” The blonde gives her head a shake with a frown. “My name is Francesca.”

“Not you.
Her
.” After debating, I make a decision. Side-stepping the pretty co-ed, I give Abby a curt nod and demand, “Follow me.”

We move through the crush; classmates, teammates, and strangers greeting us as we make our way back through the living room, some of them sizing up Abby with open interest. Bodies are everywhere with little room to easily navigate, but it’s my damn house and I throw a few elbows as we weave our way through.

Just as I round the living room and charge into the foyer, I feel fingers graze the palm hanging at my hip and pause briefly to gape down as Abby slides her delicate hand into it mine.

“Is this okay?” she yells. “I just don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

Pleased, I give her delicate hand a squeeze. Latching on to the finial post at the bottom of the stairs, I give Abby a tug, pulling her tight against my side and propelling myself up the staircase.

“Move!” I thunder, paving a path for us to ease our way up, step by step, to the second story.

I stop in front of my bedroom, which is the master and the last room on the right, punch in the combination for my lock, and pull her through the door, flipping on the light switch before locking the door behind us. I point to the door in the far corner of the suite. “Bathroom’s over there.”

Real suave, I know.

Abby nods, her keen eyes taking in her surroundings: the dark forest-green walls that my parents painstakingly painted, with their pennants and hockey posters; the large oak desk and computer; the science-fiction book collection methodically arranged by height on a built in bookshelf.

She pauses before the bathroom door, biting her lip. “I’ll only be a minute.” Abby taps the doorframe twice, then walks through, shutting the door.

~ Abby ~

Bracing myself against the counter in Caleb’s bathroom, which is apparently the master suite, if the double vanity sinks, ginormous jetted bathtub, and spacious walk-in closet are any indication. Masculinity assaults my senses. The entire room smells like guy—aftershave or cologne or whatever guys use to smell amazing permeates the air, and a few bottles of Polo sit on the countertop.

I reach over and carefully pick up a blue bottle of cologne, lift the cap off, and close my eyes, inhaling its musky, outdoorsy scent. Very gingerly, so it doesn’t make a clanking sound, I replace the cap and set the cologne back in its rightful place.

Resting both hands on either side of the sink, I exhale and stare back at my reflection.

I’ll admit, I don’t exactly look terrible.

In fact, the alcohol-induced courage has added some much-needed luminosity to my skin, my eyes glowing vibrantly. Running my fingers through my hair, I fluff it a bit, tossing it over my shoulders.

A stack of clean green washcloths sit neatly arranged on a shelf, and I grab one, turning on the cold water to dampen it. I wring out the excess water, blotting the washcloth against my sticky skin—down my neck and into my décolletage.

You never really understand how sticky beer is until it gets spilled—or spit—directly on your skin and left there to dry. Well, I understand it now, and it’s freaking gross.

Studying myself in the mirror, I focus on my chest and the way it looks in the push-up bra I reluctantly put on under my shirt. Well, I’ll admit I didn’t really
need
a push-up bra, but it does display my perky, full b-cup breasts nicely within the deep neckline of the pale blue wrap shirt, and even though I’m embarrassed at having my boobs on exhibit, I can’t help acknowledging they look pretty darn good.

Actually, my boobs look
great
.

Encouraged, I turn this way and that, checking out my boobs and ass in the mirror. The dark-wash skinny-jean capris are a pair I haven’t worn in ages, so I was thrilled tonight after discovering they actually still fit my size five/six frame.

I didn’t even have to lie down on the bed to zip them up—
there is a God!

I’ve strapped on some nude summer wedges, the leather straps wrapping around my ankles and buckling with gold hardware in the front. Very sexy. Very cute.

You know—sexy-cute. (Wink.)

Once I’m done wiping myself down, I neatly fold the washcloth in half and drape it over the towel bar next to the bathtub. Spinning back toward the sink, a pair of glasses catches my eye. I move to pick them up, biting down on my lip as I inspect them.

Thick black Ray-Ban frames with prescription lenses.

I close my eyes for a second, trying to visualize Caleb’s pensive, dark-chocolate gaze framed by these glasses, and I give a little squeak, followed by a wistful sigh. I catalog
sexy black glasses,
mentally filing it in the same category as
gaps in teeth
under: Abby’s Kryptonite.

Setting the glasses back on the counter precisely where I found them, I take a calming breath and stare at the doorknob before inhaling and pulling the door open.

Squaring my shoulders, I walk back into Caleb’s bedroom. He’s lying across his bed, head resting on a ton of pillows—way more pillows than any guy should have and bordering on feminine—and feet hanging over the edge as he stares a hole through the bathroom door.

He straightens hastily when I walk out, runs his palms up and down his upper thighs a few times, and scoots himself on the edge of the large king-sized bed. “All good?”

“Yup. All good…” I answer absentmindedly, my eyes once again scanning his room.

First thought: it’s much cleaner than I would have guessed. His bed has been made, a navy-blue duvet-covered comforter folded neatly at the foot of it. The many throw pillows of grays, blues, and greens are stacked in an orderly fashion at the headboard. On his nightstand is another pair of black-rimmed glasses, a water bottle, and a small stack of novels.

Silently, I read the titles from where I stand:
American Sniper, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Shit My Dad Says
, and… is that
Harry Potter
?

Talk about a diverse collection.

Secretly pleased, I give a furtive smile.

Caleb stands, smoothing down his jeans and rumpled shirt, but I’m not ready to walk out into the party mayhem—not just yet. He watches me intently as I walk over to the desk, trailing a fingertip along the solid wood, glancing up at him briefly from the corner of my eye, resting my hand on a hardcover copy of
Gone Girl
.

I pick it up, flipping through the pages, the familiar smell of freshly printed paper assaulting my senses. “I haven’t read an actual book for pleasure in months,” I say, twisting my wrist as I hold it toward him. “But I did read this one. What did you think of it?”

Caleb pauses, gathering his thoughts silently. “I think… the ending was fucked up.”

I laugh and set the book back down. “I guess I thought so too, although I wouldn’t have used
those
exact words.”

“Sorry.”

The dim light from his bedside lamp glows, casting a warm light in the cozy space.

“You’re really quiet. What are you thinking right now?” I ask, because I’m still tipsy and because I really want to know what he’s thinking.

“You’re not supposed to ask guys that,” comes his low reply.

“Why?”

“It’s basic Guy 101. Even
I
know that.” He’s quiet for a few more seconds, eyebrows furrowed, concentrating hard. “Besides… you probably wouldn’t like the answer.”

“But maybe that’s where you’d be wrong,” I say, walking idly over to the bookshelf and studying the titles so purposefully arranged there. I glance over my shoulder before adding, “Maybe I would.”

I hear him grunt, but he doesn’t reply, so I momentarily turn to face him.

“Well?”

His mouth opens, then closes, and I can sense his internal debate. Whatever is going on inside his beautiful head, he’s afraid to say it out loud. And here I thought
I
was the awkward one…

With my back still turned to him, I continue studying the shelf—the books, the collection of hockey trophies and medals, the random knickknacks and about a dozen framed photographs of himself in various states of hockey play. Photos with his parents at his high school graduation, a picture of him wakeboarding, and one with a gray-haired old lady that we’ll assume is his grandma.

Everything is lined up and displayed orderly.

I pick up a Wayne Gretzke bobble-head, give it a gentle shake, and watch the head bounce back and forth on the small spring inside the neck, then quietly set it back on the shelf. “Hmmm,” I mutter.

He hesitates. “Hmmm what?”

I chuckle as I continue my inspection. “Nothing. Just hmmm.”

Caleb crosses his arms and scowls with a pout. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Why did you say
hmmm
?”

I walk toward him—toward the door—and smile up into his frowning face.
So serious, this one
. “You probably wouldn’t like the answer.” I mimic his earlier response sarcastically, embarrassed to have even asked in the first place, and reach for the door handle.

I paste an uncertain smile on my face, and my long, lithe fingers slowly but deliberately turn the handle, then give the door a gentle tug. “We should probably get back to the party,” I state.

Suddenly, Caleb’s large calloused hand is on my upper arm, stopping me from turning the knob further, and I glance down, staring at the loose grip he has on my bicep but making no move to back away. Nevertheless, he yanks his hand back like I just singed him with a branding iron, and apologizes. “Shit, sorry.”

Just when I think maybe, just maybe
,
he is about to put the moves on me, he backs up to give me a wide berth, and I pull the door wide open. Music from the state-of-the-art sound system immediately pounds up the staircase, the bass vibrating the walls up and down the hall until it reaches his bedroom and assaults my eardrums—and probably his too.