Chapter Ten
Anna
Maybe I’ve made a mistake letting Baylor into my home. It’s a personal thing, showing that part of myself, exchanging stories about our families. Maybe it was too much for him too. Or maybe the novelty has worn off, and he remembered that he dates perfect-looking jock groupies.
I don’t know. I miss decisive me, when it was easy to walk away. Now I’m stuck in class trying not to look over at Drew Baylor, who has been hunched in his seat for the past forty-five minutes.
Okay, so I might have been the one to send him packing after we had sex in my bed. But it had been intense, too intense, and I’d needed to collect myself in private. And, yes, I was the one who made it clear that I wouldn’t see him until our next philosophy class.
And though it’s probably safer if we don’t look at each other during class, his behavior now is odd. He’s withdrawn, not talking. By the time class is over, I’m convinced that we are too. It’s shocking how much this hurts.
Drew leaves first. I find myself following. I might be overreacting. How would I know anymore? My inner radar has gone AWOL. But I buck the fuck up and decide to find out.
He’s already out of the lecture hall and descending the wide front stairs.
“Baylor.” I don’t say it loud, but he hears.
His long stride stutters, and then he turns. And because I’m following him down the stairs, we both come to a halt at the same moment, face-to-face. I’m a step above him, which makes us almost even in height now. I hadn’t noticed it before, being a paranoid freak and all, but now that I get a good look, he’s pale beneath his tan, and his mouth is pinched and white around the edges.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You look terrible.”
His mouth flattens further. “I’m fine.” He glances toward the quad as if to find safety. And I go cold. He’s never looked to get away from me before.
“All right.” I move past him. “See you.”
I don’t get to take another step before he grabs my hand. “Anna...”
He lets me go when I look down at our hands, and instantly I want his back.
“I have a headache,” he grumbles.
My lips twitch, a strange aching relief pushing through my veins. “And big, strong men don’t admit to weakness?”
The corner of his mouth curls, but he won’t meet my eyes. “Something like that.” Then he goes so pale that I move closer.
“Hey,” I say softly, as I search his face. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”
He gives a bare nod. “Migraines. I get them.”
“I do too.” And they suck. I touch his arm, and the skin under his forearm is like silk. “You need to lie down. You shouldn’t have come to class.”
“I can’t skip class,” he says with a sigh. “And I can’t go home. I’ve got practice in an hour.”
“Practice? Drew—”
“It’s what I do.” He presses his fingers to his eyes. “Sometimes it sucks. But that’s part of the job. I’ve downed about ten ibuprofen, I’ll be okay.”
“You’re going to have guys slamming into you while you have a migraine?” I need to let this go, but my head hurts for him.
Instead of being annoyed, he gives me weak smile. “Feeling sorry for me yet? Because I think I can manage a tear or two.”
“Stop trying to deflect.” I take hold of his elbow. “Come with me.”
“I don’t know, Jones. As much as I want to, I don’t think I can perform at top level—”
“Drew, shut up.”
Meekly, he complies.
I could take him back to my place but there isn’t enough time. So I lead him toward the Student Union. The sun is high and bright as we walk across the quad.
“Put your sunglasses on,” I tell him as we walk.
“You want me incognito?” He’s already pulling them out and putting them on. And looking way too good wearing them.
“No, it’s for your eyes—” I shut up as I catch his grin. “Stop fucking with me.”
He laughs. “But fucking with you is fun, Jones.”
“Did you seriously just double entendre me?”
Another laugh. “I don’t think that question was grammatically correct, Jones, but yeah.” He slings an arm around my shoulders, hugging me close, and kisses my temple. I’m engulfed in his warmth, feel his affection.
Flustered, I pull free to open the door to the dining hall.
“What are we going to do here?” Drew asks, holding the door for me.
I don’t even need to duck under his outstretched arm. “Getting supplies.”
Despite his paleness, he wags his brows. “You’ve got my complete attention now.”
No. I’m not going to smile. Not even a little.
I smile. “You have a one-track mind.”
“Not true, Jones,” he says in a voice only for me. “I have a few choice tracks in regards to you. But yeah, they eventually lead to the same place.” The wicked look in his eyes tells me exactly where that place is. Not that I have any doubt.
Fighting a grin, I head toward the food court. Only to get inundated by people. That is, people swarm Drew. Honestly, I don’t know how he stands it. Sweat immediately prickles my lower back and my shoulders hunch. I’m jostled about as guys come up to slap Drew on the shoulder or give him a high five.
The brush of Drew’s fingers against mine tells me he’s trying to grab my hand. I evade him and step away. He doesn’t look happy about that, and I point toward the salad bar. “I’ll be there.”
I leave him frowning before he turns and talks to his fans.
At the salad bar, I find a small condiment container and fill it with olive oil.
“What’s with the olive oil?”
I almost drop the container at Drew’s question.
“For someone so big, you can sneak up on a person surprisingly well.” Now that he’s here, I feel the warmth and energy of him at my back. I pop on a lid. “And you’ll have to wait and see.”
He leans his head over my shoulder to peer down at me. “Your protests of innocence are wearing very thin at this point.” He says this lightly, but I hear the strain in his voice. Is he upset that I left him behind?
Those people didn’t come to see me. The back of my neck grows tighter. “All right. I’ve earned your skepticism. But you’ll soon be sorry for it.”
With slow care, he eases a lock of my hair back from where it dangles over my forehead. “I trust you, Jones.”
“Come on,” I say a bit too thickly. “We’re headed to the second floor.”
Drew’s expression goes flat and distant. And my heart skips a pained beat, but then I realize it’s not for me. He’s not even looking my way. He’s putting on a game face to get us out of here quickly. He strides forward, his hand just touching the small of my back, and not a soul comes forward. In truth, they part for him like the Red Sea.
“How do you do that?” I ask out of the side of my mouth. “It’s like a superpower.”
“You learn fairly quickly how to broadcast ‘back off’ when you need to.”
Unfortunately, some people are always going to be oblivious. And to my horror, a familiar face breaks from the crowd. I haven’t seen Whitney Summers since graduating high school. In truth, I didn’t know she went to this university. Not that I’d have cause to keep track of her whereabouts—we hate each other.
Thin, toned, and tan, with long blond hair that hangs in a thick sheet down the middle of her back, she’s always reminded me of Barbie. An unfortunate stereotype, but there you go. She beelines straight for Drew.
Having no option other than walking into her, Drew stops.
Whitney’s big blue eyes blink up at him. “Drew Baylor. I thought it was you.”
“You were correct,” Drew says.
She ignores me completely. Not surprising. She’d been a world-class bitch to me for years. Smiling wide, she offers Drew her hand. “Whitney Summers. I know your friend Thompson.” Her smile grows. “And Rolondo.” A giggle now. “And Simms.”
Jesus. Is she implying what I think she is? Drew and I exchange a look, and it’s clear he’s wondering the same thing. His mouth twitches. “Um. Yeah. Well, nice to meet you.”
He moves his weight onto the balls of his feet, as if he intends to walk around her, when she leans closer to him. “I just thought I’d introduce myself,” she says. “You know. Say hi.”
“Okay. Hi.”
Whitney flips a long length of her hair behind her shoulder and continues to smile at him. “Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee sometime.”
Great. Perfect. I get to witness Drew being propositioned in living color. I don’t dare look up at him. I don’t want to see his expression. I just can’t react. Not when Whitney treats me as though I’m not here.
Looking at her, I feel the same impotent rage as I did in high school. How was it that someone like this, someone petty, shallow, and boring could hold the student body in the palm of her hand? And what was so lacking in me that I had been shunned? I was never unattractive or a jerk.
In truth, I don’t understand how the world works the way it does. Grandpa Joe used to tell me that meanness never pays off. But I’m pretty sure whoever made up that saying never went to high school.
Standing next to Drew, I grit my teeth and fight the urge to run away. Or smash my fist into Whitney’s nose. Maybe he’s aware of my annoyance, because he touches the small of my back. I feel it like a brand of heat along my spine.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he says to Whitney. “We have somewhere to be.”
Her smile falls flat. She catches my eyes, and a calculating look twists her face. “I know you.” Her head tilts as she peers at me. “I think.”
Oh, very nice. “You do. We went to high school together.” And junior high, and grade school, but whatever.
“Oh. Ann, right?” She laughs a little, like she’s embarrassed by her gaffe, but she isn’t fooling me. And she’s looking up at Drew, not me. “Some people aren’t as memorable as others.”
I tense, ready to lay into her. But Drew halts my response by draping an arm over my shoulder. The hold is proprietary and clearly marks us as a unit.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll forget you now.” His tone is not at all nice.
Not that Whitney notices his sarcasm. No, she beams.
Although I know Drew means well, I never wanted him to witness something like this. The way people react to us are as polar as true north and south.
Humiliating or not, this is my battle to fight. Heart hurting, I stand rigid in his embrace and stare down Whitney. “Considering you’ve called me Anna Banana–pants since the third grade,” I add coolly, “you’re either extremely dense or a liar.”
Her mouth falls open as color works over her face. She hadn’t expected honesty.
Drew gives my shoulder a light squeeze as he looks at me. “Weren’t we going somewhere?”
“Yep.”
He guides me around Whitney, neither of us saying goodbye to her. A muttered “bitch” follows us as we walk away, and Drew leans close, his breath buffeting my ear. “Kind of the pot calling the kettle, eh?”
A reluctant smile pulls at my lips, even as I step away from his hold. “You’d never convince her of that.”
“I’m sorry she was rude to you.” He frowns, concern darkening his eyes.
I shrug, as though I don’t feel too tight for my own skin. “Likely, she was flustered by your grand presence.”
His scowl grows. “Making excuses for her, Jones? She doesn’t deserve it.”
No, she doesn’t, but the alternative of telling him that she and everyone else I’ve known for most of my life behaved that way on a constant basis is unthinkable.
“Whitney was a cheerleader at my high school. She’s nuts for all things football.” I have no doubt she would have had her claws in Drew had he gone to our school.
Drew gives me a look, as if he knows all too well what I am thinking.
“I take it you don’t like cheerleaders?” he asks.
We sidestep a group of girls, all of whom eye Drew. Quiet giggles rise up as we walk by.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Last year, in my study group, there was a girl who is on the squad here. Laney. She was nice. Worked her ass off to succeed at her sport, and I admired her for it.”
“I know Laney. She goes out with my friend Marshall.”
Drew opens the door to the stairwell for me.
“Then there are cheerleaders like Whitney,” I go on, “who seem to have studied the handbook for stereotypical bitches everywhere.” I shrug, pulling free a thick lock of hair that’s caught beneath my bag strap. “Why they feel the need to act accordingly, I’ll never know.”
Drew’s eyes, bleary as they are, crinkle at the corners with tired humor. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to play a part.” He pauses, his hand on the banister. “Or maybe not. Nonconformist that you are.”
Praise never sits well with me. I make a face and force my voice to be light. “Bah. Nonconformity is a role too.”
“Maybe, but...” Drew flashes a quick smile, genuine but tight with pain, “‘Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.’”
“Throwing Emerson at me?” I shake my head as we make our way up the stairs. “Now you’re just showing off.”
“What can I say? My mom was an English lit professor. Emerson was her favorite. Other kids got Goodnight Moon before bed. I got that and an Emerson quote.”
“Leave it to you to pick the chauvinistic one out of the bunch.”
“What?” His brows rise in outrage. “There’s nothing chauvinistic about that quote.”
I repress a grin. He’s too easy. And if teasing distracts him from his pain, more the better. “Right. Whatever. ‘Whoso would be a man.’” I make quote gestures with my fingers for emphasis. “Why not ‘human’?”
Unfortunately, Drew is too quick. His growing scowl suddenly breaks into a knowing smile. “‘Man’ is generic, and you know it.”
“It is also sexist,” I retort, having way too much fun.
“I highly doubt they viewed it as such in 1841, Jones.”
I’m about to rib him further, but then I take a good look at Drew. He’s getting paler, a light sweat breaking out on his high forehead. A pang centers in my chest.
“Come on.” I take him by the elbow and guide him down the hall. “Let’s get you settled, before you fall on your face.”
Upstairs we head for the campus radio station booth. It’s a large glassed-in area, manned by Floyd Hopkins most afternoons. He’s there now, taking a break by the looks of the sandwich and soda he has on the desk outside the inner DJ booth.
He sees me coming and breaks into a smile. Tall, thin, with a bushy dark blond halo of curls and a scraggly goatee, he’s a modern day Shaggy. But there’s no denying his charisma. There’s always been something charming about the way he carries himself. A lazy confidence.
Floyd was the guy who introduced me to weed sophomore year. We got high and had sex. It was that eventful. But we remained friends. Well, ‘friends’ is kind of stretching it. More like acquaintances with carnal knowledge. Not that this stops him from hugging me for a bit too long. Or maybe he does so because of Drew standing next to me; Floyd’s eyes stay on him for too long as well.
“Anna Jones, how you doing?”
I break free of Floyd. This was a bad idea. One of many. “Fine.”
“Yeah...” Floyd looks between Drew and me as if waiting for an explanation. Drew appears ready to flee.
“Look,” I say, “can I use your back room...” Horror has my voice fleeing, as Floyd’s instant creepy grin and Drew’s raised brows hit me like a brick, and it fully registers how my request sounds.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I snap, flushed and wanting to die.
Thankfully Floyd laughs. “I’m just messing with you, Anna. I know you’d be the last girl to ask to borrow my couch for sex.” He glances at Drew. “Even with Battle Baylor here. She’s too discreet, you know?”
Drew merely looks at him, and Floyd kind of deflates like a day-old balloon. As for me, I want to hit something. Floyd runs a finger along his hairy chin. “It’s cool. Go on and take your seven minutes.”
“We really need more like an hour...” Again, my voice dies on a gurgle.
Floyd’s grin erupts full force. At my side, Drew makes a smothered sound like he’s choking.
“God, just...” I tug Drew past Floyd and storm into the lounge, shutting the door on Floyd’s amusement.
Not on Drew’s. He bursts out laughing, even as he clutches his head. “Ow, shit.” He laughs again. “God, you should have seen your face.”
“Funny.” I’m pleased to find the lava lamp is already on. Yes, the room boasts one, which I found cheesy the time I visited, but it serves a purpose now.
“I mean, that was not very subtle, Jones.” His eyes are both bleary and twinkling. Bastard even looks good in pain.
“You’re going to be sorry you teased me.” I turn off the overhead light and plunge us into a darkened world of dreamy blue moving shadows. “And if you make a crack about sex one more time...”
“You’ll get very angry?” Drew asks as he plops down onto the couch. A sigh leaves him as he leans his head against the padded back. He’s hurting but he seems pleased. “Thank you for finding me a place to lie down. I needed this.”
Carefully, I sit next to him. “I’m just happy he didn’t notice the oil.”
Drew bursts out laughing again, but it ends with a groan. “Anna.”
The underlying emotion in the way he says my name makes my grip unsteady as I uncap the oil and rub a bit between my palms. “Give me your hand.”
Drew’s brows rise but he complies. Usually, his hands are warm, but his skin is now cold and clammy.
“Most people think a neck rub is the best thing for a headache,” I say, holding his hand between mine for a moment to warm it. “But we carry an enormous amount of tension in our hands. They have pressure points that link directly to headache pain.”
His big hand is almost too much to manage. I concentrate at first on his wide palm, kneading my knuckles down the center of it. And Drew groans, letting his head fall to the side. His long fingers loosely curl, engulfing my smaller hand.
“My mom used to do this for me when I had migraines,” I say. “Aside from a shot, targeting pressure points is the fastest way to alleviate the pain.”
“You are a goddess,” he says on another groan. “A hand-rubbing goddess.”
“Flatterer.”
His forearm is carved oak beneath my fingers, his skin smooth and rapidly warming. “Only to you, babe.”
We’re quiet then.
“So, Floyd?” he says out of the blue.
My hands still for a second. “I’m supposed to answer that?”
He tilts his head, eyeing me. “Old boyfriend?”
I tug gently on one of his long fingers, squeezing at the end. “Not really.”
“You just leave a string of hook ups in your wake?”
Though it’s dark in here, he clearly sees too well. I stop and look him in the eye. “Like you can talk.”
His fingers thread through mine a second before I can pull away, and he holds firm.
“I’m jealous.” The light of the lava lamp casts his face in undulating blue. Lines deepen around his eyes, but he doesn’t look away. “Okay? I...” His lashes lower. “I don’t like seeing you with a guy who knows you that way.”
“Do you know how many girls I’ve seen hanging on you?” My heart is pounding far too hard. “How many ass slaps you’ve given outside our class?”
He frowns. “I’m a jock. We slap asses by way of affection. And just because I’m friendly to those girls doesn’t mean I’m having sex with them, you know.”
I make an unflattering sound of disbelief, and he gives my hand a small tug. “Fine, don’t believe me. The question is, did it bother you to see that?”
Trapped. By my own big mouth. I fiddle with the tip of his thumb, running the pad of my finger along his trimmed nail. “I wouldn’t like it now.”
He doesn’t say anything. Not for a long, excruciating minute. But I feel his gaze like a heated blanket. Then his thumb runs over my knuckles. “Well then,” he says gruff and stilted, “you can sympathize.”
A pang much like guilt shoots through me. “He was just a hook up.”
Drew waits a beat before answering softly, “So am I.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, but you’re the hook up that doesn’t seem to end.”
He smiles, but his grip tightens for a second. I ease it by pinching the fat pad between his thumb and forefinger where a world of tension hides. He grunts and slides further down on the couch, closing his eyes. “That’s good.”
“I know. Your hands are too tight.”
“Funny,” Drew murmurs. “That’s what Coach Johnson, my offensive coordinator, says. He’s always after me to stretch them more.”
The lines of his face are still tired and pinched, but there’s a smile hovering around his mouth. I set his hand gently down on his thigh and take his other one.
“You really love it, don’t you?” I ask.
His hand in mine jerks a little before he opens his eyes. “Football? Of course. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”
“I don’t know—” I shrug “—some people would. To please their parents, to fit in, for the attention. There’s plenty of reasons.”
“Yeah, well they aren’t going to get very far if they don’t love it. The pressure will topple you otherwise.”
“Does it get to you,” I ask softly. “The pressure?”
He goes so silent that I know he doesn’t want to answer. Though his reticence shouldn’t hurt me, it does.
“You don’t have to—”
“Sometimes it does,” he says in a low voice. “Sometimes...” He takes a deep breath. “I wake up on the verge of a scream. Like it’s all trying to bubble out of me when I let my guard down to sleep.”
I don’t know what to say, so I simply press the ball of my thumb deep into his palm and rub it in a small circle. The tension in his hand eases, as does his voice. “But you have to accept that as part of the life. Let it ride, then let it go.
“Every year, before the start of the season, my dad would ask, do you still want this?” Drew turns toward me. “Because he knew how hard it would be if I didn’t. He warned me that it would get to me, and that I’d have to find a way to deal with it.”
“Did your dad play?” I’m dying of curiosity about his parents.
He blinks, a slow sweep of his lashes. Maybe the ibuprofen and massage are kicking in. Or maybe I’ve hurt him with the questions. I hope it’s the former. I keep rubbing his hand, stroking up to his wrist then along the hard plank of his forearm.
“Not football,” Drew answers, watching my fingers. “He played baseball. Pitcher. Was recruited by MLB straight out of college. A torn rotator cuff during his last season kept him from going pro.” He flashes a smile. “Dad was my little league coach.”
“And yet you chose football? What, no good at baseball?”
His eyes flutter closed. “I kick ass in baseball, Jones. I could have played that instead. But football was always the one.”
“If you were good at both, how did you know?”
Drew’s long fingers twine with mine, holding me in a warm, engulfing clasp. He doesn’t open his eyes as he speaks. “Some things are like that. You just know.”
I clear my throat. “I envy you. I’ve never been totally sure of anything.”
Other than wanting Drew from the moment I laid eyes on him.
I untangle my hand from his, and he lets go as if he knows I need to get free.
“Don’t be too envious,” he says wryly. “Knowing what you want and having it are two different things.”
His eyes lock onto mine with a punch that I feel deep in my belly. “I’d rather have what I want than just know.”
I look away first, then shift over to the end of the couch and turn to sit cross-legged. “Lie down.”
He squints at me with a slight frown as if he doesn’t really want to move. “There’s more?”
Grabbing my coat, I bunch it on my lap and slap the spot. “Head here.”
Drew’s brows rise, his expression a mixture of confusion and weariness, and I laugh. “What do think I’m going to do to you?”
“I don’t know,” he says, as he eases down, unfolding his long length on the couch. “But I’m hoping for the best.”
“Where’s the trust?” I say with a dramatic sigh.
His head settles in the lee of my crossed legs. “I just told you something about me that no one else alive knows, Jones. I don’t think my trust in you could be more clear.”
I lean over him, our faces upside down from each other’s. He’s humbled me. My palms settle on his shoulders, pressing there gently to warm him, and my fingers find the leather cord he wears around his neck. I trace it, watching his skin prickle as I go. When I get to the pendant, I run a thumb over the polished wood.
He’s watching me, his gaze guarded, vulnerable. But when he speaks, it’s as if he’s leaving himself wide-open. “It’s a chunk of wood from the lintel on the front door of my parent’s house.” His lashes sweep down. “Figured that way I’d always carry a piece of my old home with me.”
Ah, Drew. He’s slowly carving his name into my heart. And it hurts. I want to curl over him and shelter him with my body. But his cheeks are flushed and his neck grows stiffer by the second, as if he’s regretting his confession.
I rest my palm over the pendant, holding the wood against the hard wall of his chest.
When I can speak without emotion clogging my words, I tell him, “I’m going to massage your face now.”
“My face?” he repeats as if I’ve offered to stick my finger up his nose.
I smother a laugh. “We hold even more tension in our face.”
Keeping my hands on him, I rub the tops of his shoulders before doing the same to his neck. He likes this and sinks down further into the couch.
His eyes flutter as if he wants to shut them. My hands ease up to his jaw then settle on his brow. “It’s okay. Close your eyes.”
When he does, I simply run my fingertips over his face, taking in his strong, clean bone structure. Strangely, I’ve always attributed Drew’s attractiveness to his inner light, the way he carries himself, and how his emotions shine through. But, God, he really is beautifully made.
Whereas my face is all curves, his is like a diamond, made up of dramatic angles and cut lines. His nose is high and straight, widening a bit in the middle, which only gives him more character. Prominent cheekbones veer down sharply toward his mouth, that gloriously mobile mouth that is always quick to smile. Relaxed now, it’s as if he’s pouting. His jawline is defined and in perfect symmetry with his cheeks.
With steady, firm pressure, my fingers ride over the ridges of his sweeping brows, following the tension. The slow, undulating light of the lava lamp casts deep blues and grays over his skin.
“Keep talking to me,” he whispers.
I pause. “Doesn’t noise hurt your head?”
Thick lashes cast shadows at the tops of his cheeks. “Your voice isn’t noise. It’s a song I want to hear over and over.”
Oh. My.
Taking a deep breath, I pinch along the underside of his brows, moving outward. Drew groans low.
“Is your full name Andrew?” Not the most brilliant of conversational openings, but I’m curious.
The full curve of his lips lifts a little. “Nope. I’m just Drew.” He talks low, barely over a murmur. “Mom didn’t like nicknames. She figured they would name me what they wanted to call me. So just Drew Baylor. No middle name either.”
“I kind of love your mom for that,” I say softly.
His eyes open and lock onto me. Pain still lingers in them, but there’s also a warmth that has me blushing. “She would have loved you too.”
No, she wouldn’t have. What mother would like a girl that uses her precious son for sex? None. I palm his face, effectively blocking his view, and run my thumbs down the sides of his nose and over his cheeks, digging in deep.
“Christ,” he breathes out. “That’s good.”
“I know.” I smile a little.
“What about you?” he asks. “You have a middle name?”
“Marie.” I stroke along his jaw. So much tension there.
“Anna Marie,” he intones. “I like that.”
He goes silent, and I gently hum, not a song, really, just a lilt that fills the silence. He sighs, his body easing more under my touch.
“When’s your birthday, Anna Marie?”
“You’re going to make me regret telling you my middle name.”
His smile is wobbly, as if weakened by pain. “Just answer the question.”
“Why?” I slip my hands under his neck, finding the base of his skull. His muscles are so dense here that my fingers barely make a dent. “You going to give me a present?”
“You put it that way...oh, God, that’s a spot...” His brows furrow on a wince. “God, do that some more, Jones.”
Heat flushes my skin, but I comply. He shudders, his long body twitching as it releases pain.
“You put it that way,” he says returning to the topic of presents, “and I kind of have to, now don’t I?”
“Stop tensing,” I murmur, running my fingers along the back of his skull, before answering him. “You set me up for that one, Baylor. When’s your birthday, then?”
Drew lets out a breath and moans as I find the tension spots plaguing him. He’s now lax, lying heavy on the couch. I’ve had my hands all over his fine body, and yet touching him to take his pain away is a gratification that I never expected.
His voice slurs with drowsiness. “November nineteenth.”
I pause. “It is not.”
He cracks open one eye. “Why would I lie?” Both eyes open. “When’s yours?”
I bite my lip. “November twentieth.”
Drew grins, his whole expression lightening. “We’re birthday buddies.” His smile turns smug. “Only I’m older.”
A small laugh escapes me. “You can keep that victory. I don’t know any girl who wants to be older than her—” My voice dies.
But it’s too late, because it’s obvious what I was going to say. Her boyfriend.
Satisfaction steals over his expression, but there’s something more. Something that has my heart racing in my chest, and my mouth going dry. An acknowledgement. As if he’s been waiting for this very slip.
His lashes are long and thick, framing his light brown eyes. Beneath my fingertips, his throat lifts on a swallow. “Anna.”
My chest tightens to the point of pain.
My mother always accused me of having an excess of pride. People think pride is something you should be able to control, that it’s something sinful, best used in small doses. And they’re right. But for most of my life, pride has been the only thing that’s kept my head up. Now it’s holding me back from Drew. I know this. Hell, I feel its hard hands upon me, clutching with a tightness that speaks of desperation. I know this, and yet I can’t break free. I’m not ready.
I snuggle back into its familiar hold. Safe there. And instead of acknowledging this growing thing between us, my hands move up to cup Drew’s cheeks.
“Sleep,” I say, running a thumb along his bottom lip. “You need it.”
Protest darkens his expression.
“Sleep,” I insist as if my throat isn’t closing in on itself. “I’ll wake you.”
He resists for a moment, watching me with those eyes that reveal too much. But then he does as I ask, putting himself in my keeping. I run my fingers through his silky hair and watch over him.