3. Hallie #2
Because Caius O'Connor is standing in front of me, shirtless, and I have definitely written fanfiction that started exactly like this. The wiry muscle, the tattoo on his ribs I never knew existed (since when does he have a tattoo?), the line of dark hair that disappears into his jeans.
"Sorry," he says, completely oblivious to my internal meltdown. "I've been under that Jeep all morning. I should probably not meet my fake girlfriend smelling like motor oil."
"Right. Yes. Clean clothes. That's,yeah, that's definitely a good call.
" I sound like a malfunctioning robot who's just been tasked with explaining human emotion while simultaneously experiencing a catastrophic systems failure.
My voice comes out higher than normal, slightly strangled, like I've forgotten how vocal cords are supposed to work. "Very practical. Hygiene is important."
Oh my God, did I just say hygiene is important while staring at Caius O'Connor's bare chest? This is how I die. This is my legacy. Hallie Miller, beloved librarian, perished from terminal awkwardness at age twenty-six.
He grabs a t-shirt from a duffel bag in the corner and pulls it on, which should make this easier but somehow doesn't because now I'm thinking about what's under the shirt.
I am going to hell. There is no other possible destination for someone whose brain is currently cataloging the precise way Caius's shoulder blades moved beneath that t-shirt, the small scar on his collarbone that I want to ask about but absolutely will not because that would require admitting I was looking that closely.
"So, Sunday dinner," he says, and I watch as he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it charmingly disheveled in a way that no human being should be able to pull off this effortlessly.
"Fair warning, Ma is going to ask invasive questions.
She has no boundaries whatsoever. Like, none.
Zero concept of personal space or appropriate dinner conversation. "
I focus on his words instead of the movement of his hands, the casualness of his posture, the fact that he's treating this like any normal conversation while I'm over here having a minor medical event. "What kind of questions?"
"How we met, which we've already covered.
What I like about you." He ticks items off on his fingers, and I definitely do not notice how long they are or how grease still lingers under his nails despite the shirt change.
"What our first kiss was like, how long I waited before I made a move, whether I've met your parents yet, the whole interrogation package.
" He pauses, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful.
"We should probably have an answer for that first kiss thing.
She'll definitely ask. It's like her favorite question. "
My brain stutters. "We haven't kissed yet. In our story, I mean."
"We've been dating for two weeks and haven't kissed?" He raises an eyebrow, and there's a challenge in it, something almost amused. "Ma will never believe that. She knows me better than that."
He has a point. An annoyingly valid point. "Okay. Fine. When was our first kiss?"
"Last week. I walked you to your car after dinner at The Greenhouse, that Italian place on Main. It was raining, and you were laughing about something, and I just... went for it."
The way he says it, soft and specific and almost tender, makes my breath catch in my throat. I can picture it so clearly it's almost like a memory—the rain, the streetlight haloing us, his hand cupping my face. "And I kissed you back," I manage, my voice a whisper.
"Obviously." His grin is back, that crooked slash of amusement that's been making my stomach flip since I was fifteen years old. "I'm an excellent kisser."
I roll my eyes despite the heat climbing up my neck. "Humble, too."
"One of my best qualities." He shifts his weight, taking a step closer, and suddenly the space shrinks to almost nothing, just inches of charged air that feels impossible to breathe through.
His expression changes, the teasing fading into something more serious, more intent. "We should probably practice."
"Practice kissing?" My voice comes out higher than normal, nearly squeaking on the last word, and I mentally curse myself for sounding like I've never been kissed before. Which, I mean, I have. Obviously. Just... not by him.
"We need to be convincing. If we're awkward about it, people will know something's up."
"That's..." I search for a logical argument and come up empty. "That makes sense, actually."
"See? I have good ideas." He's close enough now that I can smell him, clean cotton and something woodsy and uniquely Caius. "Only if you're comfortable."
I should say no. This is already complicated enough without adding kissing into the mix. But I'm also thinking about Kyle's face when he sees me with Caius, about proving to everyone, including myself, that I can be the kind of girl who gets the guy.
"Okay," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart in my ears.