Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
My eyes fly open in a panic.
The night before rushes back as I take stock of the situation. Wes’s room. Wes’s bed. Wes’s big body next to mine. And I’m freaking sweating.
There’s no question as to why I’m so overheated.
We must have shifted in the night because now I find myself lying on my back, and the length of Wes’s body is turned fully toward me.
Cheek resting against the top of my head, he’s holding me like a teddy bear, strong arms wrapped around my body as he tucks me close to his chest. I would laugh if I wasn’t so freaked out.
“Wes,” I whisper, careful not to blow my morning breath in his face. I try and fail to wiggle free of the heavy arm banded across my front.
He stirs only slightly at my movement, his grip on me tightening. “Mhm.”
Somehow, I manage to reach my hand up to shake his arm. “Wes, wake up.” Another sigh. I shake it harder. “Wes, wake up. I feel like I’m suffocating. God, you weigh a ton.”
I can’t tell if his eyes open, but he sighs again, and his hold on me finally loosens. “Oops,” he mumbles. “Sorry about that.”
The moment his arms drop away, I sit up, pulling at the collar of my sweatshirt to try to get some airflow.
I glance back at him to find him smiling sheepishly as he rolls onto his back and kicks off the blanket.
His eyes are still hooded from sleep, and his hair is sticking up every which way, but that’s not what catches my attention.
No. What catches my attention is the way his t-shirt is pushed up, revealing a perfect slab of taut abdominal muscles, with a deep V pointing straight down to the very prominent bulge in his sweatpants.
My face ignites, and I quickly face forward, my pulse jumping in my throat.
“Bathroom,” I mutter, practically lunging out of the bed.
And of course, in about the most graceless way possible, my foot tangles in the sheet, twisting me up and making me stumble like an absolute freak.
I manage to right myself before face-planting on his carpet, and my cheeks grow even hotter with embarrassment, my words coming out near incomprehensible. “I’llberightback.”
I think I hear his deep chuckle as I close the bathroom door, but it’s difficult to tell past the blood rushing in my ears.
Standing at the sink, I splash cold water over my face and tell my reflection to get a grip.
That’s what happens to guys in the morning.
Something about blood flow or testosterone or…
something. I don’t know. I’ve never spent the night with a guy before—for good reason—so how would I know?
It doesn’t mean…it doesn’t mean it was me who caused that to happen. Because I don’t want that. I don’t want that at all…
Of course you don’t!
Deep breaths. I take deep breaths. And once my face returns back to its natural color, I do my business and finger-comb my hair. Then, telling myself to relax, I step back out into the bedroom.
Wes is no longer sprawled across the bed, thank god.
He’s at the foot of the mattress, smoothing out the comforter and pulling down the sheet.
He smiles when he sees me, his eyes more awake than before, already bright with the possibilities of the day.
“Hey, you. Looks like the power’s back on.
How did you sleep? Weren’t too cold, I hope. ”
“Not at all,” I tell him, happy that my voice sounds more normal. “You’re, like, abnormally hot.”
He smirks. “I love a good compliment first thing in the morning.”
My mouth pops open, color rushing to my face. “You know what I mean,” I say, but Wes only snickers, and I shake my head at his antics.
“You should take some Advil before we ice your eye. How does it feel today?”
I shrug as I walk over to the window. “It hurts a little less than yesterday,” I say, peeking through the blinds. “Woah, it’s a winter wonderland out there.”
And it is. The world outside is covered in the most pristine, glistening white blanket, flurries still drifting down from the sky like something out of a snow globe.
Wes comes up behind me and peers over my head. “Guess we’re building a snowman.”
I snort and let the blinds fall shut, turning around to face him. “Wes, no.”
He juts out his bottom lip. “Why not?”
“Because! It’s cold and wet, and I don’t have boots. We can admire the snow from afar—oh, don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
I narrow my eyes at his innocent expression. “That look you do that gets you everything you want. With the charming smile and the twinkly eyes and the stupidly endearing dimples.”
He blinks at me. “It doesn’t get me everything I want.”
“So, you admit you have a look!”
He shrugs, smiling one of his stupid secret smiles, and takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I don’t even have time to process that we’re holding hands before he’s guiding me to the door.
“Come on. We’ll revisit the snowman conversation after I cook you breakfast, where I will prove to you that I am more than just a one-trick horse. ”
“Pony,” I correct. “One-trick pony.”
“Nah, I’m definitely a horse. Actually, let’s go with stallion. That sounds even better.”
“The male ego is so fragile sometimes,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He snickers in response, still holding onto my hand as we descend the stairs.
He only releases me once we step into the kitchen, offering no explanation as to why he felt the need to grab it in the first place.
And though I try, I can’t deny that I liked the feel of my smaller hand being swallowed up in his bigger one.
He’s a good…hand holder, or whatever. Ugh.
I take a seat at the kitchen table and admire him as he works his magic on some waffles, gathering ingredients and mixing the batter from scratch. He hums quietly to himself as he pours it into the iron, and when the light turns green, they come out golden brown, fluffy, and perfect.
My plate stacked high and drizzled with enough syrup to cause a toothache, I take a bite and groan. “Oh my god. These are so good, Wes.”
His face lights up at the praise, dimples taking center stage, and I decide I might become addicted to making him smile like that. “I’ll make you waffles every damn day if you want. Just say the word.”
I brush off his offer with a smile, though there’s no denying the way my chest warms at the idea of him cooking me breakfast again.
After cleaning up, of which he lets me do little, we spend the rest of the morning doing homework at the kitchen table.
Wes expounds on his senior research project, and my eyebrows hike higher and higher up my forehead as he drops terms like “meta-analysis” and “disease pathology.” And when he explains how his research could help find a biomarker to identify cancer earlier in children, my mouth drops open.
“Wes,” I say slowly. “I’m studying complementary colors, and you’re curing children’s cancer?”
He laughs at my incredulity. “Not curing, Ives. I’m searching for common trends which could possibly help identify a signature molecule, ‘possibly’ being the key word here.”
“Still.” I shake my head in disbelief. “That’s…that’s incredible.”
He shrugs, a smile playing at his mouth. “Thanks. I think it will be, providing the data says so and a common trend even exists.”
“Wow,” I mutter to myself, studying the man across from me.
Kind. Attractive. Caring. Intelligent. He could be hanging out with anyone—anyone on this entire campus—and yet he’s sitting here, in his kitchen, doing schoolwork with me.
Me! I wonder when life will start making sense again because as of now, I can’t find an explanation for a lot of things.
Later in the afternoon, when the roads are plowed and the ice has melted, Wes reluctantly drives me back to my apartment. There’s a dull pressure in my chest as we weave through campus, melancholy growing the closer we near to the dorm.
Wes must feel it, too, because he glances over at me and asks, “Why can’t you stay at my place forever?” before jutting out his bottom lip in an overdramatic pout.
I can’t help but laugh a little at his expression. “Because. There are things I need at my apartment. And it will be nice to crash in my own bed tonight.”
The crease between his brows deepens. “Was mine not comfortable?”
His question makes my cheeks grow warm, and I can’t stop my brain from recalling the way we slept tangled together, heat and limbs intermingling. I clear my throat. “It was very, um, comfortable.”
That wipes away the frown. He grins at my blush, looking a little bit smug. “I told you it would be.”
Before I know it, we pull into the parking lot, and he cuts the engine with a forlorn sigh.
He seems genuinely upset that I’m going home, and once again, I can’t figure out why.
Shouldn’t he be thrilled to have his room back to himself?
Shouldn’t he be relieved not to have to worry about me and my eye and my speech? “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” I tell him.
“Tuesday’s far,” he pouts.
“Tuesday’s class is less than forty-eight hours away,” I point out, and then start to panic because that means The Speech is less than forty-eight hours away.
He instantly senses the shift in my demeanor, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. “Hey. You’re going to be amazing up there. Try not to get too in your head about it, and if you start freaking out, text me.” He grins. “Or, better yet, just come over.”
“I’ll text you,” I assure, smirking at his persistence.
“I’ll be waiting by the phone,” he tells me, earning himself an eye roll.
“You’re too much sometimes.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Back at the apartment, my room feels different. Smaller, somehow. And when I spend the rest of the day by myself, I find that the silence isn’t as comforting as it was before. It’s almost as if something’s missing. No. It’s as if I’m missing someone, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
Not sure at all.