Chapter 1 #2
That’s fair. A frat party isn’t for everyone. Feeling bad for the insinuation, I rush to bring the conversation back on track. “Well, tell me what it is then.”
“Music management.” He delivers this response with a smirk.
Well, shit. That’s not at all what I expected. English or history even, but not music management.
“But I did start off in accounting,” he admits, a sheepish grin pulling at one corner of his lips.
I lean over and poke him in the arm. “I knew it!”
He shrugs. “Numbers make sense to me. They create order out of chaos.” He pauses, trailing his eyes up and down, causing my skin to go all tight and hot under his perusal. “I bet yours is something with art.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“Am I right?” he asks.
“How’d you do that?”
“Your hands. They’re splattered in paint.” He glances at my hands which are dotted with shades of greens and blues from a landscape I’ve been working on and back up to my face. “Plus, you have a look. I could see you being an artist. And then there’s the hair…”
Well, I’m not sure what that means. So I choose to take it as a compliment.
He didn’t say it with disdain, merely an observation.
Instinctively, my hand goes to my long purple tresses.
Amanda and I went a little wild with a jar of Manic Panic the other night, coloring the entire bottom layer with the stuff.
Our university colors are purple and gold, so I wanted purple hair for graduation.
He picks up his book to resume reading, and I study him.
A straight nose and a jawline you could cut glass with.
The artist in me is dying to sketch the angle of his jawline and look for symmetry my pencil would love to recreate.
He has a five-o’clock shadow, and below the sleeves of his button-down, dark hair dusts his forearms. And there’s something else about him.
Something that feels older than our age.
Steady, like he’s already lived more life than most guys I know.
“You’re staring.”
My eyes dart to my hands, those paint splatters suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. “Was not.” I reach for my bottle of water for something to do, but realize it’s empty.
“Do you want something to drink?” he offers, setting his book down and standing.
I hesitate, looking from my empty water bottle and back to him.
“I’m heading down to grab myself something.”
“Alrighty then. I’ll take some punch, please,” I reply.
“That’s brave.”
I lift a shoulder. “Beer’s nasty and I don’t really want another water. I’m willing to take a chance on the punch. Sometimes it’s radioactive and sometimes it’s…well…less radioactive.”
He scrunches his face and heads to the door, leaving it slightly ajar.
Once I’m certain he’s gone, I sit eyeing his book.
What kind of reader is he? Does he highlight passages that stick out to him, like I do?
I really should mind my own business, but what would one little peek hurt? It’s just a book.
Before I can think, I grab his book, scanning the page he’s on.
Flipping through it, I notice underlined passages throughout, with notes in the margins written in precise handwriting.
Some pages even have creases where they’ve been dog-eared.
The nerve. Dog-ears! What kind of monster am I talking to right now?
My attention lands on one underlined passage with an exclamation mark written above it.
“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”
What about that passage spoke to him enough to not only underline it, but add the exclamation mark? I toss the book, guilt pricking at me for invading his privacy.
At least ten minutes pass, and if it wasn’t for his book, I’d think he abandoned me. But then I hear the door creak open.
He walks in, balancing two tall boys and a red Solo cup filled to the brim with red punch. With one foot, he gently kicks the door closed behind him.
“Ya think you got enough?” I ask, incredulous.
After setting the drinks down, he pulls two more beers from his back pockets, and I burst into giggles.
“I refuse to go back down there,” he responds with an eye roll. “It was very…people-y.”
He lowers next to me, hands me my punch, and cracks open a beer.
“You don’t like people?” I bring the cup to my lips but lower it at the last second. Thank goodness my brain is still functioning. What am I thinking, blowing right past my safety, letting a guy I barely know get me a drink?
“Wait, wait, wait. How do I know you didn’t slip me something?
” I squint an eye into the cup, like if he did slip me something I’d be able to see it.
Looking back up, I see he’s cocked a brow.
Undeterred, I barrel on. “I barged in here, interrupted your reading, and haven’t stopped talking.
For all I know, you could’ve drugged me just to have some peace and quiet. ”
He inclines his head in realization and takes the cup from my hand.
He doesn’t look affronted at my accusation.
No, the expression on his face is a challenge, determined to prove to me he’s not that type of guy.
Tipping the cup to his lips, he barely suppresses a grimace when he swallows the punch and hands the cup back to me.
Eyes locked on his, I give him a wink and place my lips to the same spot his were, letting them linger there for a second before I take a sip of my own. It’s literally gasoline. My eyes water, lids slamming shut as I choke back a cough.
He laugh-hums at my reaction. “To answer your first question, I prefer smaller crowds. Or no crowds. Like I said, this isn’t my scene.”
While talking he grabs a Koozie from the side table, attempting to squeeze his oversized beer into it.
“You know it’s not gonna fit. It’s too big.”
A flush spreads up his neck as his head drops, shoulders shaking and he rumbles out, “That’s what she said.”
I snort a laugh. “Did you make a that’s what she said joke?”
Our eyes connect when he looks back up.
“Yes. Yes, I did. Admit it, you left it wide open for me.”
“That’s what he said,” I quip back.
His face breaks into a smile, the widest one I’ve gained from him yet, might I add.
That’s when I spot the twin dimples stamping his cheeks.
I practically have to sit on my hands to stop myself from touching them.
His teeth are perfectly straight, and I imagine a seventh grade version of him, mouth full of metal, complete with head gear.
“My name’s Jo,” I say, sticking out my hand.
He sets his beer down and takes my hand in his. “Nice to meet you, Jo. I’m Tyler.”
The way he says my name churns butterflies in my stomach. The handshake lasts a beat longer than usual, an electric current running through me at the contact, a pop rocks feeling under my skin. Disappointed when he lets go, I find myself wanting his hand back in mine.
Steepling my fingers under my chin, I grin and say, “So, Tyler. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, let’s play a game.”
Tyler stills, midway to his beer, and looks at me, head tilted. “What kind of game?”
“Never Have I Ever.” He eyes me warily, so I go on. “You do know how to play, right?”
One shoulder lifts and he lets out a quick laugh through his nose. He’s ridiculously cute, in his innocent, nerdy way. It’s clear he’s introverted, yet he carries himself with confidence.
“Of course I know how to play. I’m trying to decide if it’s a bad idea.”
“Probably.” I waggle my eyebrows.
“Sure. Why the hell not?” Tyler throws one arm across the back of the couch, fingertips brushing my shoulder. Goose bumps scatter across my chest and down my arms. “How bad could it be?”