Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Elliana
“Now remember. No funny business around here.” You would think Mom owns the house, the way she wags a finger in our faces while Paul finishes loading their luggage into the car he arranged to pick them up and take them to the airport.
“I think we can handle it.” I’m lying. I don’t have the first clue how we’re going to handle being alone in this house for two entire weeks while our parents frolic in Thailand. I don’t know what to expect from Carter.
After last night, I don’t know what to expect from myself, because there was a second or two when it seemed like a very good idea to let him do whatever he wanted, for as long as he wanted.
I wouldn’t be face-to-face with him now if it wasn’t for Mom shouting for me to come downstairs to say goodbye. I’m pretty sure they didn’t get home until around three o’clock this morning—Mom stumbled drunkenly in the hallway and woke me up with her laughter.
But nobody would ever know, looking at her now. I think she might still be drunk, actually, still riding high. She got what she wanted: the chance to show off in front of half the town and prove to them she’s just as good as they are.
“Don’t worry,” Carter offers. He’s being strangely charming toward her right now, which, to say the least, is a huge change. “I will keep her in line while you’re gone.”
“I’ll have to count on you, I guess.” She’s practically glowing, giggling as she swats his arm in a playful gesture. She turns away, but I don’t, meaning I get to see the way his mouth twists in a smirk.
Paul waves up at us. “You two okay? Do you think you can handle it while we’re gone?”
“We’ll be fine,” Carter calls out while I shake like a leaf inside. “Get out of here or you’ll miss your flight.”
“He’s right!” Mom trills, almost skipping in her mile-high sandals. “We better go. They won’t hold the plane for us, even though we are newlyweds.”
Don’t go . Right, like she would listen. It’s not like I actually want her to stay. I’m psyching myself out, that’s all. If anything, Carter and I are getting along better than we used to. I have nothing to worry about.
Other than myself. Can I trust myself around him? I can’t believe I have to ask that question.
We both wave as the car pulls down the driveway. As soon as it’s turned onto the street, rolling out of view, Carter releases a long breath. “Fuck. I need a drink.”
And here we go. Day one.
I would remind him it’s only ten o’clock in the morning, but then I don’t think he really means it. The less I say to him, the better. Just because he’s not actively going out of his way to make my life miserable right now doesn’t mean we have to spend a ton of time together. It’s safer if we don’t—no chance of me getting all caught up in my hormones and possibly throwing myself at him. The way I came close to doing last night.
And all because he was nice to me. Because he listened, because he seemed to care, because he kissed me in a way that said more than a thousand words ever could.
But then I had a lot of champagne, and so did he, and I was probably telling myself what I needed to believe.
I’m halfway to the stairs when he clears his throat. “Where do you think you’re going?”
What a wonderful way to start off our two weeks together. After taking a slow breath, I turn his way. “Up to my room. I was thinking about getting a little more sleep.”
“What, you mean your graceful mom woke you up too?” He snorts, then tips his head toward the living room. “Hang out with me.”
“I’m pretty tired. I won’t be any fun.”
Snorting, he retorts, “I don’t expect fun. Just somebody to hang out with.”
“Oh, that’s definitely the way to sweet-talk a girl into spending time with you.”
“Come on.” He scrubs a hand over his head, then yawns. “Just hang out with me. I don’t feel like being alone.”
Just when I think he’s showing me his human side, his decent side, he has to go and prove me wrong. “Unless you want me to show those photos around. They’re still on my phone, you know.”
This prick. He seems awfully comfortable blackmailing people into spending time with him. If I didn’t think he would make me sorry for it, I might say that out loud.
How can he be so concerned and almost caring one minute, then blackmail me like this? It can’t be because he actually wants to spend time with me—no way would I believe that. So what is it? Why should I even bother trying to figure it out? It’s a waste of time. He’s an enigma.
“Do you like Marvel movies?” he asks, flopping down on the sofa with the remote in hand.
Does he really want to watch an actual movie? “I’ve never watched any.”
“Seriously?” He looks up at me like he’s waiting for a punchline, like he genuinely can’t believe it. “Okay, we have to start from the beginning so you can catch up.”
When did I ever say I wanted to catch up with anything? “You can watch whatever you want. I won’t really care.”
“No. We’re watching Iron Man . That one came out first. I think you’ll like it,” he decides, pulling the movie up.
“I’ve heard of it.” In fact, I think I’ve seen a little bit. Well, at least he’s not asking me to do anything humiliating or disgusting. “Mind if I get something to eat? Do you want anything?”
“Oh, yeah. Let’s do that first.” He actually seems like he’s in a pretty good mood as we go to the kitchen. I figured he’d be pissed at me for running away from him last night, but he hasn’t brought it up. I’m not going to mention it if he’s willing to let it go. Maybe he’s growing up a little. A girl can dream.
It’s not long before we’re sitting down with glasses of cold brew, bagels, and yogurt. I’m still not sure what his motives are, but by the time we start the movie and I’m halfway through my bagel, I don’t feel entirely uneasy. I can even let myself sink into the story, which is a lot funnier and wittier than I expected.
Everything’s fine until I glance Carter’s way. He’s grinning, at peace as he watches the movie on the other end of the sofa. He looks younger, somehow. At ease.
But all I can think about is last night. There was something different in his kiss. The way he held me close. Even the briefest thought has my heart beating faster until I have to look away, back toward the TV. Staring at him is too dangerous.
But a few glances aren’t any better. I can’t help it. Every time he moves—stretching his legs out, crossing his ankles on the coffee table, folding his arms—it attracts my attention. I can’t help the impulse to study his muscular legs, visible thanks to the loose shorts he’s wearing. His arms, so thick, remind me of what a challenge it was to remove myself from his embrace.
My attention drifts to his crotch just when he glances my way at the worst possible time. Dammit . I look away, but my cheeks are hot. He has to know what I was thinking.
And he does, and of course, nothing’s going to stop him from rubbing it in my face. “See something you like?” he asks, sounding smug, like only he can.
“I was just looking over.” And now I’m staring at the TV, but of course, I’ve lost track of the story.
“Maybe you should come a little closer so you won’t have to look.” I scoff and roll my eyes. But he’s like a dog with a bone when he gets an idea in his head. “Come on. Sit over here in my lap.”
And there goes my whole body, going hot. “I’m comfortable over here.”
“It’s not an invitation. It’s an order.” He pauses, then adds, “Don’t forget, I have those pictures of you. I don’t think sitting in my lap is such a punishment. Unless you want everybody to see them?—”
“Okay, okay.” Really, he needs to get some new material. I hate having to do as he says, but I hate not trusting him even more. I can’t put anything past him.
And maybe, just maybe, I don’t hate the idea of sitting in his lap. But I’d rather bite off my own tongue than admit it.
He takes his feet off the coffee table and plants them on the floor, patting his thighs. I roll my eyes before climbing over and settling in—slowly, not all at once.
So of course, he has to make a big deal about it. “You’re so stiff.” There’s laughter in his voice because, of course, he’s enjoying making me as uncomfortable as possible. But he doesn’t take advantage the way I thought he immediately would. One of his arms is draped over the arm of the couch, while he rests the other on a throw pillow he tosses across my thighs. There’s no hint of trying to grope or tickle or anything like that.
I seriously wish I could make sense of him. I thought for sure he would find a way to get back at me for rejecting him last night, but right now, he’s being nicer to me than he ever has. Granted, he’s sort of forcing me into it, but not so he can be cruel or anything.
Slowly, I relax, leaning against him. By the time Tony Stark announces he’s Iron Man, I can laugh genuinely. “That was good! How many of those are there?”
“There are three Iron Man movies, but like more than thirty movies in the Marvel universe.”
I hope he doesn’t think that’s how we’re spending the next two weeks. “And you watched all of them?”
“A lot of people have.” When I can’t help but widen my eyes in surprise, he snickers. “What? Why is that so unbelievable?”
Because I can’t make this new image of him line up with the guy who throws naked parties when his dad’s out of town. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I think there are probably a lot of things you wouldn’t guess.” He winks with a smirk. “Like how not everybody’s out to hurt you all the time. It took you a little while to relax, but nothing bad happened, right?”
And there goes any goodwill that was built up today. With a sinking heart, I climb out of his lap and straighten my long- sleeved cardigan with trembling hands. For once, it’s not fear making me tremble.
“Thanks for throwing that in my face,” I whisper.
His head snaps back—can he genuinely be surprised? “I wasn’t trying to throw anything in your face.”
And yet somehow, he did. “Whatever. Thanks for the movie. I’m going up to my room now.”
It’s just safer this way. Better, easier.
I’m barely halfway up the stairs when he calls out from the sofa. “You can’t stay up there for two solid weeks, you know.”
We’ll see about that.