27. THE ONE WITH THE LIST #2
“So much. Thank you for making that easy on me.” His dimpled smile kills me, making me want to melt into the cushion beneath me.
I think I want to melt into West instead. “If you wanted to see me in your clothes again, all you had to do was say that.”
Without missing a beat, West says, “I don’t wanna see you in my clothes. I wanna see you naked spread out on this swing.”
My body flushes, going cold as all the blood disappears from inside it.
I know he feels me shudder by the way his eyes react. They go from wide and playful to downright dirty in a millisecond. “I’ve learned so much about you today, Joey baby.” His voice is a purr and before I know it, he’s in my bubble.
Wait… No.
I’m in his bubble.
When did I lean so far in?
I realize the hat he’d been wearing all night was knocked off during our scuffle. His hair’s ruffled with some of the longer strands falling across his forehead.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt whatever this is between me and West, and I’ve definitely never been one to say the thing that comes out of my mouth next. “Oh yeah? What else do you wanna know?”
The intensity of his stare doesn’t waver, but I can see the gears turning in his mind, like he’s searching for the perfect question to ask. “What are you thinking? Right now.”
Fuck, I want to kiss him. My eyes fall to his lips, and I think he knows what I want.
I didn’t drink tonight, not trusting whatever was being poured at this party.
I’m high, but that doesn’t affect my logical thinking.
West’s drunk though… Not hammered or sloppy, but I can see the glaze over his eyes. He doesn’t want me because he’s drunk. He wants me because I’m what he can’t have, or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. And with the way he’s looking at me, I need all the reminding I can get.
There are at least fifty girls inside who would happily give him exactly what he wants tonight, and yet, here he is, staring at me like I’m the only one who matters.
I could see myself falling for his charm, but the reminder in my phone beeps like an alarm in my mind.
Don’t fall for West.
I can’t let myself get burned.
“How did you tear your ACL?” I ask, instead of begging him to kiss me like I want.
It takes a second for the question to register. I follow the line of West’s sight, knowing he’s looking at the lips he doesn’t get to kiss.
He hesitantly leans back and takes a breath, repositioning himself with both feet on the ground. We’re no longer touching, and every time this happens, I lose the warm buzz my body gets from him.
“You know how to keep a guy on his toes,” he drawls.
I smile and scrunch my nose as an apology.
West sighs and runs a hand through his hair, slipping the hat he'd been wearing all day back on.
I groan internally when he puts it on the wrong way. Why? Why are backwards hats so hot?
Thankfully, West starts talking, and it’s the distraction I need to compose myself. “It was my junior year of college, and Michigan made it to the Frozen Four.”
I don’t know a lot about hockey, but I know enough to get me by.
“We were up by three with low time on the clock, and the other team knew they were about to lose. They started doing whatever they could to get under our skin, looking to piss us off.” West fidgets with one of the rings he wears.
“Our goalie took a purposeful hit, and in hockey, that’s the equivalent to talking about someone’s mom.
Totally off limits. I took off to defend him and another one of their players hit me skating full speed at the wrong angle. And pop!”
I shiver from the mimicked sound.
“We won the game, and I was rushed to the emergency room with what we all knew was an ACL tear. We lost the final game the next day, but I was hopeful, as were my coaches, that I’d be back on the ice for my senior season.”
I never played sports. Hell, I’ve never competed for anything that wasn’t academic in my entire life. I have a fear of balls flying towards my face at a high speed…
“You said you tore it twice. Did you re-injure it when you went back?” I ask, hoping his answer isn’t that he didn’t get to play his senior year.
Something shifts in West, his eyes losing the life in them. I almost think he won’t answer, but then he starts to. “No, I was in a c—”
“West!” Megan’s voice echoes over the lawn. “West, are you out here?”
I try to stay still like she won’t be able to find us if we don’t move, but West doesn’t do that. He lurches forward, sending the swing flying back. We tip off and I tumble to the ground, falling on top of him.
He puts his hand on the back of my head, pulling it against his chest seconds before the swing would have knocked me out. “What are you doing?” I hiss, putting my arm up to stop the bench from swaying.
“Shhhh,” he puts his hand over my mouth, and on instinct I bite. Not hard, but enough for him to slide down to my jaw and yank my face to his. My lips are inches from his. “I bite back, Joey baby.”
A chill runs down my spine.
“West, is that you?” Megan’s voice is closer now.
“Go, run,” he whisper shouts, helping me off him.
“What about Enzo and Kell?” I grab my bag and hat, West’s arm already slipping around my back to force my feet into moving.
“They’re big boys! They can find their way back.” West doesn’t even look over his shoulder as we dart around the side of the house, the loud music from within masking the sound of our footsteps against the crunchy leaves. When we reach the sidewalk, West goes right, and I go left.
Immediately, we turn around and bump into each other.
We laugh, and I rub my forehead. West looks frantic in a playful way. I can tell he’s having fun by the way his eyes light up under the streetlight. “Which way is the apartment?” He’s given up on talking quietly.
I slip my hand in his, lacing our fingers together, tugging him in the direction I was going.
The apartment is only a ten-minute walk, and I don’t realize I’m still holding West’s hand until about halfway. There’s no one around, only a few passing faces here and there. I don’t let go until we’re back inside the apartment building.
We kick our shoes off at the front door, and West heads for the kitchen. “Kell’s gonna need something to eat. Do you want anything?” he asks, opening the pantry we stocked with some groceries for our stay this weekend.
I shake my head, feeling energized and exhausted at the same time. “I think I’m gonna call it a night.” Because if I don’t, I’m afraid we’ll put ourselves in another situation like we had on the swing—seconds from breaking the stupid contract I put in place.
Ugh, morals!
West nods once, putting the box of mac and cheese down. “Okay.” There’s disappointment in his voice, and even though he gives me a smile, I know it’s not a real one.
I can tell the difference now.
It’s been one week to the day since we met, and every day I find myself wanting West just a little bit more than I did the day before.
Lying to myself is easiest—I know the feeling will go away.
“Okay,” I mimic. “Well.” I pause, unable to get my feet to move. “Night.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but the rest of his body is still. “Night, Jo.”
Oh, no. I hate that.
Jo’s what everyone else calls me. Not West…
On instinct, when I recognize the feeling in my chest, I pivot, spinning quickly in my socks and head towards my room.
“Hey,” West calls.
His voice is like a rope, tugging me to a stop. I turn around slowly this time, swallowing the lump in my throat.
He stares at me, and a long pause stretches between us before he finally chuckles. “I know we got close to breaking your rules tonight”—your rules, he says. Not mine, he means—“but Jo didn’t feel right when I said it.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, no, don’t ever call me that again.”
He puffs a laugh through his nose, followed by a real, warm West smile. “Night, Joey.”
I don’t say another word to him before tucking myself inside my room and closing the door.
The heat spreading through my chest doesn’t subside, if anything, it’s close to sparking and setting this whole place ablaze. Instead of grabbing a fire extinguisher to protect myself, I fall asleep in West’s hoodie, surrounded by the warm smell of an autumn campfire.
The last thing I remember before I drift off is wondering why I was even afraid of getting burned in the first place.