Four Years Later (13 page)

What a surprise.

The door creaks open and my gaze jerks to the door. There he stands, looking like complete male perfection, wearing a blue-and-red plaid flannel unbuttoned shirt over a white T-shirt and dark jeans with boots that are for whatever reason unlaced. His hair is a haphazard mess and that sexy golden-brown scruff still shadows his face.

My God, he’s just … devastating.

“Hey.” He pulls the door shut behind him with a quiet click, then leans against it. “How’s it going?”

Swallowing hard, I flip my hair back, exposing my bare shoulder and the pink bra strap. His gaze drops immediately to it and my skin warms as if he actually touched me. “It’s … going well.” I tug my neckline up but it immediately falls off my shoulder again. I should have worn a tank top.

“You look good,” he says as he pushes away from the door and slowly saunters toward me.

Oh
. I hadn’t expected such a quick compliment. Or any sort of compliment. “Thank you.” I clear my throat, pray for strength. Just like that, it comes to me. “You look good, too.”

He smiles crookedly, without revealing any teeth, as he approaches the table I’m standing next to. “So you’re talking to me.”

I have to tilt my head back when he stands so close so I can meet his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be talking to you?”

“Last time we met here, I think you might’ve said fifteen words to me, tops. And every one of them you had to force out.”

“You were counting?” And am I flirting? This is … so unlike me.

“I figured I pissed you—” He presses his lips together, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Made you mad.”

Really? When was I supposedly mad at him? Freaked out? Yes. Embarrassed? Oh yeah.

“You know, when I kept saying that one particular word to you.” It’s as though he can read my mind. Freaky. “You ran out of my house like your shoes were on fire, and then we met here the next day and you hardly talked to me.” His eyes seem to bore into mine. “I figured you might not show up today.”

“Oh, now I
am
offended. I never,
ever
ditch my tutoring appointments unless I’m sick. Like on-my-deathbed sick.” And even then, I’ve missed only one session since I started working. I take all of my jobs pretty seriously.

“You’re really offended?” He raises a brow and my heart trips.

I roll my eyes. “No. I think … we might’ve had a misunderstanding.”

“I think so, too.” His voice lowers and he shuffles closer to me. So close I can see tiny golden flecks in his green, green eyes. “So you’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not.” I shake my head. “Actually, I’m proud of you. You’ve completed all the assignments you needed to do so you could catch up in your English class. Right now, you have a solid B minus.”

He smirks, looking pretty proud of himself. “I have one more test to take. I bet I can bring that grade up to a B.”

“I bet you can, too. I also hear you’re going to get back on the football team within the next few days.”

Pulling out the chair he was holding onto, he indicates for me to sit with a wave of his fingers. I do so, consciously aware of his hands at the top of the chair, pushing it closer to the table. When he pulls them away, his fingers brush against the skin of my bare shoulder and a shiver moves through me.

If he can make me all shivery with an innocent touch, I’m in huge trouble. Imagine what might happen if we decide to take it further?

Keep dreaming, Chelsea.

“Where’d you hear that?” He pulls out the chair next to mine and settles in, just like he did that first day we met and he set me on edge by being so close.

I’m having a total repeat performance. Just like that, I’m on edge. If he nudges that thigh of his any closer, it’ll be brushing next to mine. Anticipation curls through me at the thought. “I had a meeting with your counselor this morning. She’s actually the counselor for a few of my students.”

“Are you talking about good ol’ Dolores?” He grins and shakes his head. “How old do you think she is, anyway?”

Poor Dolores. She’s a former chain smoker; her face is covered in wrinkles and her voice is so raspy I almost mistake her for a man when I talk to her on the phone. She’s sweet, but she probably should have retired about five years ago. “I don’t know. Fifty?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I really hope that was a joke.”

“Definitely.” I smile and zip open my backpack, reaching in to pull out his file so I can flip it open. “I hear she’s seventy-plus.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it if she was ninety-plus.” He flicks his chin toward the open file. “Why do you have that?”

“Just because you’re off the hook with English doesn’t mean you don’t still have work to do.” I tap the edge of the file with my index finger. “You have your creative writing portfolio to work on.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “About that. Can’t I just drop the class? Isn’t it an elective?”

“Well, you could, but it’s already kind of late. You pull out now, you’ll have a big, ugly W on your schedule and that’ll mess up your grade point average.” I pull the file closer to me and look over the list of assignments he still needs to complete for his portfolio. I decide to push him. “I thought you were a decent writer. A lot of this stuff you need to do isn’t too hard.”

He puffs out his chest. “I’m better than just a decent writer.”

“Prove it.” I push the assignment sheet toward him so he can read it over. “Write something. Like a poem or whatever.”

He glances at the list, then looks up at me. “Do you like to write poems?”

I wrinkle my nose. I’m not a flowery kind of girl. I prefer facts and figures. Math and history. Though I am strong at composition when I set my mind to it. Truly, I shouldn’t have been assigned to Owen. I’m not the perfect match for his tutoring needs, but I was one of the few people available and they chose me. “Not really.”

“I thought all girls liked to write about love and sadness.”

Is that what he writes about? I doubt it, but who knows? “I’m not like most girls.”

“I know.” His smile softens as his gaze roves over my face. “That’s what I like most about you.”

Oh.
I am so. Done for.

I’m racking my brain for a subject. I don’t normally write poems. Well, I used to, when I wanted to be just like Drew Callahan when I grew up, but nothing—and no one—inspired the supposed poet inside of me, so I gave it up near the end of my freshman year in high school.

I still can’t believe what I said to her. It’s as if I took some sort of truth serum before I showed up and I can’t help but be honest with her. Not that I mind. It’s kind of nice, saying what I want and not playing any games. What’s going on between Chelsea and me isn’t all about sex or a one-time thing. It’s almost like we’re friends.

Right.
I’m becoming friends with a girl I’d also really like to get naked with. That sweater she’s wearing is sexy as hell. It keeps slipping off her shoulder, revealing creamy pale skin and a lacy bra strap that just begs for my fingers to push it off. Kiss her there …

Shit.

“There must be something you want to write a poem about,” Chelsea says.

Glancing up, I find her watching me expectantly, her eyes sparkling, her smile infectious, and I smile back, feeling at a loss for words. I need a topic, and quick. And I’m thinking maybe she can provide it. “Tell me. What’s your middle name?”

She frowns. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Come on. Humor me.”

“Fine. It’s Rose.” She rolls her eyes. “I was named after my grandma.”

“Chelsea Rose.” The name rolls off my tongue easily. I like it.

“It’s lame, right?” She laughs, sounding uncomfortable, and I hate that. I don’t want her to feel that way around me. I wonder how many guys she’s gone out with.

I have a feeling the number is pretty small. That fact would normally send me running far, far away.

Instead, I’m sitting here thinking of all the things I could teach Chelsea. While we’re naked. In my bed.

“No, not at all,” I say. “I think it’s pretty.”

Her laughter dies. “Really?”

“Really,” I say firmly. Has no one ever showed her any sort of attention? She acts sort of starved for it sometimes. Not in a psycho-chick way, not even close. More like she’s a slowly blooming flower that grows brighter and even more beautiful the more you water it and talk to it …

Hmm
. My brain is churning.

I think of Drew’s tattoo for Fable. How he always wrote her little poems, spelling out words with the first letter of the first line. Crazy, sappy shit that used to drive Fable wild. Like make her cry and kiss Drew and tell him how wonderful he was.

Memories flood me … the time I punched Drew in the mouth, one of my favorite memories ever. Not because I punched Drew, but because I became this angry, almost inhuman thing who could think of nothing but defending his sister. That I knew I could jump to her defense without thinking twice and be her hero pumped me up. Made me feel strong.

Made me feel like a man.

Plus, I mean, come on—it was pretty damn epic, flattening Drew Callahan to the ground with one punch. I know I had the advantage since he hadn’t expected it, but still. I told everyone at school I knocked him out. Maybe 15 percent of them believed it happened, and I’m being generous with that figure. Everyone was skeptical.

But I know the truth.

“You should probably get to work,” she says, not sounding too thrilled by the prospect. I’m starting to think we might be on the same page more than I first realized. She points at my backpack, which I set by my feet. “Did you bring your laptop?”

“Well, yeah.” I reach down and unzip my backpack, pulling out my laptop and opening it. I bring up a Word doc and stare at the blank screen, at that damn blinking cursor I always want to sock in the face since it feels like it’s taunting me, and I start to type. I come up with something totally stupid.

Real

Open

Sexy

Extra pretty

Frowning, I delete it all. That’s Drew’s specialty, not mine. Besides, Chelsea’s not that open with me. Not yet.

So I try a different approach.

Prickly with thorns, pretty little rose.

She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.

I win her over with my touch.

Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens
…

Caressing her, I bring her close.

So close.

Until I’ve completely destroyed her.

Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.

All by my hand.

And now she’s become everything.

To me.

“So? What did you write?”

Her voice breaks into my thoughts and I glance up, startled to find her watching me, her expression open and hopeful. She’s got her elbow propped on the edge of the table, her chin resting on her fist, and she looks freaking gorgeous. Her pretty blue eyes sparkle like a clear summer sky and … yep, I see a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I wonder how many there are. I wonder if she’d let me get close enough to count them.

“I really hope you came up with something good. You’ve been working on it for almost a half hour,” she says.

“I have?” I’m shocked as I glance down at the clock on my computer screen to see that she’s right. “Uh … yeah, I came up with something. It’s sort of rough, though. Like, it still needs a lot of work.” More like I need to change the entire thing.

The poem is about sex. As in, I’m talking about fingering Chelsea and making her come.

Jesus.
What is wrong with me?

You want her. That’s what’s wrong with you.

“Can I read it?” She scoots her chair closer to mine, trying to catch a glimpse of the poem. I immediately slam the laptop shut and she rears back, her tempting mouth turned down in a frown. “Guess that’s a no.”

“It’s super rough.” I smile weakly and she stares at me, as if she’s attempting to penetrate my brain or something, and I hold her gaze. Trying my best to look completely neutral. “And sort of personal.”

“Oh.” She blinks and leans back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” I try to soften my rudeness by reaching out and grasping her hand in mine. Her fingers are slender and cold and I squeeze them, hoping I can warm them up. “I’m the one who should say sorry. It’s just … it’s a mess. I need to work on it some more.” Like trash it and start completely over.

“I bet it’s fine. Just add it to your portfolio. Don’t worry about it.” She tries to pull out of my grip but I won’t let her. “You have a printer, right?”

“Yeah, I have one.” This conversation has taken a strange turn. I just wrote about making Chelsea come and now we’re talking about printers and shit. I have to get this back on track. “Chelsea. Go out with me.”

“What?” Her jaw drops open and this time she does tug her hand out of mine, almost recoiling. Reminding me of that flower I described at the beginning of my poem. The one I had to gently coax open. “What do you mean?”

“Are you doing anything after this? Do you have to work later tonight?” I hate that stupid job she has at the diner. It makes me worry about her.

She slowly shakes her head. “No. I’m off tonight. Though I do have a paper I should start on.”

“When’s it due?” If she turns me down, I’m not asking her out again. A guy can take only so much humiliation, and I hadn’t been lying to Fable when I told her I thought I was beneath Chelsea. Her refusal would only prove my point.

“Right before Thanksgiving break,” she admits, and I chuckle.

“Chels. That’s weeks away,” I point out.

“I know. I just like to think ahead and be prepared.” Her voice drifts and she glances down, lifting that one bare shoulder, the one I’m dying to touch. Trace the pale pink lace of her bra, slip my finger beneath it and slowly tug the strap down her arm. “You think I’m a freak.”

“No, I think you’re kind of mean.” She lifts her head, her eyes so wide they look like they’re going to pop out of her head. “You’re leaving me hanging here, Chels. You want to do something with me tonight or what?”