Twenty Six #3
A faint blush creeps into her cheeks as she tries to hold back a smile. “Whatever, Icarus. You’re obnoxious.”
“And an amazingly good kisser.”
The blush deepens. She scoffs, crossing her arms like a shield. “Whatever you’re trying to pull, it isn’t going to happen again,” she says firmly.
I can’t help it. I smirk. “Well obviously. You’re drunk. But you weren’t when you kissed me like you wanted it to.”
“I—” She falters. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Repeats. Finally, she blows out a frustrated breath. “You know what? I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
I watch her nose scrunch in frustration. “No,” I say. “You absolutely don’t.”
She just bobs her head triumphantly, tipsily unaware of the thoughts running through my head. If she weren’t drunk, if I hadn’t agreed to that stupid game, perhaps we’d be back in the bathroom right now, her hands in my hair, my face between her thighs.
“What?” She frowns.
Oh, just thinking about eating you out until your legs collapse.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
She’s about to protest, her forehead wrinkling, eyes narrowing, but just as her lips part to speak, music floods the overhead speakers.
It’s a familiar sound, light percussion, a bouncing beat.
“Oh, Pretty Woman” fills the air, and before I can blink, Darcy starts to move.
Her shoulders sway first, then her hips, and soon enough, she’s on her feet, pulling me with her.
“Darcy,” I say, blinking as she tugs at my wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing it out,” she says simply.
I look around the diner. It’s not popping, by any means, but there are definitely a couple other customers, chowing away in their booths. Darcy didn’t even want to dance behind closed doors, and now, she’s climbing onto a table, hopping around to the song. I stare at her, completely taken aback.
If I let her do this, she’ll hate me in the morning.
But if I stop her, I’ll be depriving myself of this vision.
She spins around, tossing her hands up as she hums along to the song.
She’s clearly caught the attention of the other diners, some of them grinning as they watch, others flicking judgmental brows.
But Darcy either doesn’t see them or simply doesn’t care.
I really hope it’s the latter.
“Hey. Are you sure that’s a good idea? You’ve been in a lot of pain.”
She pauses, giving me a wry smile. “The alcohol helps.” She shrugs, tugging me upward.
“You said dancing it out was stupid,” I call, still watching in awe.
“It is.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
Her feet move offbeat, and when she smiles, revealing a little freckle on the inside of her bottom lip, my spine tingles. “Because you were right,” she says. “It works.”
I thought falling for someone was supposed to be subliminal, something you didn’t even realize was happening.
I thought you weren’t supposed to understand why that ache in your chest existed, why someone you hardly knew could take up so much of your attention.
But it’s not like that. In fact, it’s painfully, glaringly obvious.
There is no confusion. There is no mistaking it.
I am falling in love with Darcy Cole.
I step onto the chair, pulling myself onto the table alongside her.
That smile grows wider than I’ve ever seen, and as the music swells, I grab her hand, twirling her around, her purple jersey a blur of color.
She lets out a nervous squeal as the table tilts beneath us, and I quickly pull her back in, pressing my palm to the small of her back.
Darcy spends most days trying to blend into the background, hiding what she’s really going through. But right now, she’s taking up space, and I can’t get enough of it. She’s lost in her own little world, and for some reason, she’s letting me be a part of it. I want it to stay that way.
She lets out another bright laugh when I attempt a clumsy dip, her auburn hair flying as I pull her back up.
But the sound cracks a little at the end.
Her fingers clutch my sleeve a second longer than they should, and when I glance down, I see her jaw tighten, her breath catching as she steadies herself.
When the final notes fade out, Darcy carefully lowers one foot from the table.
She wipes her hands on her jersey, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if she just sprinted a mile.
Her other foot hits the ground with a muffled thud, and she stiffens, like the impact shot straight up her spine.
The moment both her sneakers are flat on the floor, she lets out a low, sharp exhale and presses a hand to her thigh.
“Okay,” she mutters, voice thin. “That was a really bad idea.”
I hop down, my brows knitting. “You alright?”
She nods, but it’s more of a wobble. “Yeah. I just … I need to lay down.”
I offer her my arm, and she takes it with a quiet sigh, leaning into me. Not barely. Fully. Letting herself need me as we walk out of the diner toward my car.
I don’t say it out loud, but I could get used to being the one she leans on.
If only she’d let me.